Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The flashing red lights made her head pound. Or was it the bass vibrating through the soles of her feet? She couldn’t tell at this point.
She had been invited to a party at Supreme’s mansion in Buckhead, a gigantic estate hidden behind an iron gate.
Earlier that evening, Tate had told her he needed to handle some business, leaving her alone in the house.
He was most likely at the casino, chasing a thrill that no longer seemed to include her.
Finesse had texted her shortly after, and she accepted, telling him she would meet him there.
Clouds of smoke enveloped her as she sank into the white decorative leather sofa. The house was massive, a monument of concrete and glass. Everything in sight was modern and perfect.
Too perfect.
Her mother always told her to be cautious around people who lived in homes that didn’t look lived-in. There were no signs of human warmth. It felt like a high-end gallery or a waiting room for the damned.
She tightened her grip on a red cup of lukewarm cranberry juice, keeping her eyes fixed on the room. She still hadn’t run into Finesse yet.
“You wanna hit this, girl?”
A white girl with dramatic, surgically enhanced features and vacant eyes leaned over the back of the couch, offering a neatly rolled dollar bill. On the glass table in front of them, she had been snorting white lines off a silver-framed vanity mirror.
“No, um… excuse me.” Zena forced a tight smile and got up from the couch, heading toward what she hoped was the kitchen.
She had smoked a little weed in high school, but she didn’t touch hard drugs. The room’s casual drug use made her skin crawl.
She searched the shifting crowd for a familiar face but gave up after a few agonizing minutes. The party was a blur of high-profile athletes and industry hopefuls, each masking their desperation with expensive clothes.
Suddenly, a cluster of loud laughter erupted behind her.
A heavy-set Black man ran through the corridor like a sports mascot, completely naked.
His beady eyes were bloodshot red, completely detached from reality, clearly out of his mind on some substance.
No one stopped him. Some people laughed while others looked on nonchalantly, as if this were normal.
Nearby, another woman she recognized from a movie was hunched over a trash can, throwing up while a friend casually held back her long weave, scrolling through her phone with her free hand.
Zena felt like a fish out of water, struggling to breathe, stuck in a room full of people yet utterly alone. Everyone here was vibrating on an entirely different frequency. She had been to club appearances and industry mixers before, but this was something else entirely.
Dark energy filled this mansion. It felt parasitic, as if the house itself were feeding on the people inside.
She wanted to call Tate to beg him to come pick her up, but security had confiscated her phone at the front gate, sealing it in a lockbox as part of Supreme’s strict non-disclosure policy. She couldn’t even call an Uber. She was trapped.
Desperate for fresh air, Zena scanned the perimeter for an exit, settling on a sliding glass door facing the outdoor pool area. She stepped through the threshold, hoping the night air would clear her head.
Outside, the foolishness continued. The Olympic-sized pool was illuminated by neon lights. People were swimming, some clothed, some nude.
Wanting to escape the noise, she ventured toward the pool house at the end of the property, hoping to find where her phone might be hidden.
The pool house door was unlatched. When she pushed it open, Zena froze, her eyes widening in horror.
The room was dim, lit only by a single red neon light in the center, casting a glow over a couch. Through the dimness, she made out movement in the corner of the room.
A man was thrusting into someone from behind, his hands gripping the couch. A few low grunts and muffled moans cut through the music filtering in from the main mansion.
Then, the man turned his head slightly into the red light.
Her stomach soured. The realization of who they were and what she was witnessing hit her like a physical blow. She wasn't supposed to be seeing this.
J-Rock stopped thrusting and from her view she saw Finesse turned his head in her direction.
Panic seizing her chest, she quickly shut the door, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Backing away from the pool house door in a daze, Zena took two steps into the grass before a pair of cold hands suddenly clamped onto her shoulders.
She gasped, her throat tightening, ready to scream.
Looking back, her eyes met a familiar face. It was Camila.
“Come with me,” Camila hissed under her breath.
Before Zena could answer, Camila grabbed her by the forearm, dragging her around the perimeter of the pool house and through a side entrance into a guest bathroom.
She pulled Zena inside, slammed the wooden door, and locked it.
“I managed to get your phone from the front desk,” Camila whispered, her voice trembling as she reached into her bag and pulled out Zena’s phone. “But you need to leave. Like, right fucking now!”
“Why?” Zena asked, her voice cracking as she took the phone. “What is going on? What did I just see out there?”
Camila rubbed her temples. “Lil’ girl. Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered. Just grab your stuff and go.”
“But Tate—”
“Tate isn’t coming for you, Zena!” Camila snapped, her grip tightening on Zena’s shoulders. She softened her tone slightly. “Things get weird… really weird if you’re around at this time. The people who stay past 3:00 AM don't…Just go.”
“What’s going on?” Zena pleaded, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.
Camila closed her eyes, took a deep, shaky breath, and exhaled slowly. “You don’t even wanna know. Look, I managed to get an Uber to accept a pickup here before they blocked off the gates. I used my account. I’ll text you the driver’s details. Just take this.”
Camila stripped off her oversized denim jacket and threw it over Zena’s shivering shoulders. “Wait at the very edge of the driveway, past the security kiosk, and don’t talk to anyone. Text me as soon as you get home. Do you hear me?”
Before Zena could nod, Camila unlocked the door and shoved her into the hallway so hard that Zena nearly stumbled onto the polished marble floor. Without wasting another moment, Zena hurried down the long hallway.
Following the muffled thump of the bass, she bypassed the main party entirely, found a side door, turned the knob, and burst out into the cool night air.
Minutes later, Zena sat on a curb at the end of the long, winding driveway, wrapping Camila’s denim jacket tightly around herself. She was shivering, though it wasn't entirely from the cold.
Her mind spun in chaotic circles. J Rock was fucking Finesse.
Was this what Camila had meant all those months ago when she dropped hints about the parties?
She had heard that things could get wild.
She expected people to have sex, to drink too much, to indulge.
That was normal adult stuff in Hollywood and Atlanta.
This wasn’t that. This felt ritualistic.
Growing impatient and terrified of the security guards patrolling the perimeter with assault rifles, Zena tapped her phone screen, texting Camila to see if she had an update on the driver.
“Zena? What are you doing out here?”
The voice cut through the darkness. Zena jumped, turning to see Lisa sitting in the driver’s seat of a pristine black Rolls-Royce inching slowly down the driveway.
“Umm… just waiting for my Uber,” Zena stammered, her hands visibly trembling as she tucked her phone away.
“An Uber this late? Girl, come get in this car,” Lisa said, popping the door lock from the inside. “It’s freezing out here, and this neighborhood gets creepy at night. Come on, I can take you home.”
Zena hesitated. The security guards at the gate were starting to stare at her. She looked up and down the dark, tree-lined block, then checked her phone one last time. Still no text update from Camila.
With no other viable options and desperate to escape the energy of Supreme’s mansion, she slid into the leather-scented passenger side of the car. The door closed with a thud, cutting off the distant sound of the party. The car peeled off into the darkness.
“Your house is beautiful!” Zena called out, her voice echoing into the night as she stepped out onto a private glass-walled terrace.
The view was breathtaking, a panoramic, unobstructed skyline of downtown Atlanta. The weather had cooled significantly from the afternoon high in the 90s, now resting at a crisp 60 degrees.
She knew Lisa had money, but she hadn't realized it was to this extent. Everything about Lisa’s lifestyle was luxurious.
The penthouse boasted floor-to-ceiling windows, soaring double-height ceilings, multi-million-dollar contemporary art on the stark white walls, and a private elevator with valet parking below.
This was exactly the home Zena had always dreamed of having one day.
Lisa strutted out onto the terrace to join her with her heels clicking rhythmically against the expensive Italian marble floors.
By all accounts, Zena should have been home in her own bed.
But when they arrived at the penthouse, Zena got her dead phone onto a charger, only to find a devastating lack of notifications.
Not a single text from Tate. Not one missed call.
He hadn't even noticed she was gone. She had vented her frustrations to Lisa, who had listened with a sympathetic ear and convinced her to stay the night.
“Your house is forty minutes away, and mine is right here,” Lisa had reasoned. “Stay here, let him wonder where you are. It’ll give him time to miss you.”
“Make yourself comfortable, babe,” Lisa said, holding out two crystal champagne flutes filled to the brim with a bubbling golden liquid.