Jada called two days ago and I blurted out that we were back together. She hadn’t even been surprised.
“Girl,” she’d laughed, “I could have told you that already.”
I wanted to be embarrassed. I should’ve been. But I wasn’t. Not when I could still feel the imprint of his mouth on my skin. Not when I could still hear the sound he made when I wrapped my legs around him and held tight while he sank deep—slow, sure, impaling me like he knew exactly where I kept my secrets.
He made me feel wanted, worshipped. Claimed.
And even though we hadn’t made any grand declarations, I felt the shift in my bones. Whatever wall he’d built between us back then—grief, guilt, fear—it was gone now. Our differences had melted. The silence was no longer a barrier. We spoke through breath, through touches, through heat and ache and reverence.
I felt like his. Again. Maybe more than I ever had before.
I stepped into my office and closed the door behind me, still tasting that memory like sugar on my tongue.
“Morning, Sanaa,” Livia called from behind her desk, her signature gloss shimmering even in the soft lighting of the studio suite.
“You’ve got the Norcross revisions,” she continued, sliding a folder across her desk. “Ezra’s team confirmed measurements. And Asha left you a voice memo that sounded like a threat disguised as love.”
That made me laugh.
Asha and I had been texting in bursts all week—half updates, half nonsense—but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. We needed a long dinner, wine, and the kind of conversation that unraveled hours without noticing.
Soon,I promised myself.
“Also,” Livia added, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “you’re smiling at nothing again.”
“I am not.”
“You are. It’s very rom-com. Should I block your afternoon so you can go buy something dramatic and unnecessary?”
I paused.
Because that had, in fact, been exactly what I was planning.
“…Already ahead of you,” I admitted.
She beamed. “See? Promotion-worthy instincts.”
“Thank you, Liv,” I smiled, dropping my bag and sunglasses on the leather chaise beside the entry console. “You’re a goddess.”
She winked and clicked away on her keyboard. “Obviously.”
Tariq had been stripping me with his eyes every time we were in the same room. Then with his hands. His mouth. His body. That man had no patience when it came to my clothes. Always in a rush to unfasten, slide, peel. As if fabric dared to get in the way of his desire.
And I loved it.
But today, I wanted him to see me in something just as intentional. Something chosen just for him.
The boutiquein Squirrel Hill had been my secret for years.
Tucked between an artisan stationery shop and an espresso bar that roasted their own beans, the storefront had no flashy signage—just warm pink lighting and gilded script on the glass:Lune Noire.
The boutique had always understood women like me.
No loud signage. No bright displays. Just quiet confidence and fabrics that felt like secrets waiting to be told.
Inside, everything was texture and glow. Silk. Chainwork. Mesh so fine it looked like breath held in place.
I took my time.
