CHAPTER THIRTY- ONE
JACKIE
Jackie arrived at Najee’s office with a bouquet in her lap… feeling like a damn simp.
Old Jackie would’ve chucked these bitches out the window the moment they crossed Broad Street.
But she didn’t because they were beautiful…
annoyingly beautiful. She could see the intention and craftsmanship it took to create something so breath-taking, and for that reason alone she couldn’t bring herself to trash them.
Jackie hated she wasn’t the no-limit soldier she used to be.
And as much as she wanted to stand on business and act unbothered, deep down she was just a girl…
a girl who wished she was home. Naked. With just the flowers.
Standing in her full-length mirror flicking it up on some Miss Jackie if you nasty shit, with a caption that read: Just what the doctor ordered.
But nah. Here she was—ass too hot from a seat warmer she didn’t know how to turn off, getting dropped off in bougie-ass Rittenhouse with the prettiest flowers she’d ever seen in her life.
Unable to fully appreciate them because she felt played.
Not in the obvious way because Najee had never promised her anything.
But in that quieter, more humiliating way.
The kind that whispered, maybe I made all that shit up in my head.
She told herself to put that night out of her mind and keep it “P.”
Fortunately, Jackie Brown was no stranger to compartmentalizing.
She arrived a few minutes before ten, and for half a second, she considered telling Brother Malcolm to take her ass back to North Philly.
She thought she could handle this. But the moment she saw the sign, Dr. Nigel Amin-Rashid, MD— Board-Certified Psychiatrist mounted on the front of that big-ass brownstone, her heart skipped.
That’s when she stepped out of the car, pulled her jacket tighter, and took a steadying breath.
Jackie had lived in Philly her whole life and never been to Rittenhouse Square.
The shit looked like a screensaver. Giant oak trees.
Million-dollar listings. Victorian era brownstones.
The quiet beauty of the park unfolding right in front of her.
She felt like Carrie Bradshaw standing outside his place.
Because of course his office was a brownstone, very on brand for him.
It was in that moment, she looked up and there he was.
Najee. Standing in the enormous bay window staring down at her.
Their eyes met for the first time in what felt like weeks.
Jackie pulled her gaze away, breath catching, grounding herself with one sharp inhale.
Its only forty minutes, Jackie reminded herself.
You can do anything for forty minutes including this.
With that Jackie squared her shoulders, tucked the bouquet tight against her ribs, and climbed the steps.
Najee’s block was quiet in that old-money way—no trash, no yelling neighbors, no SEPTA bus roaring past. Just the calm of the square.
She pressed the doorbell and barely lifted her finger before the door opened.
Two Muslim Sista’s stood behind a sleek reception desk.
One older, wrapped in a black abaya with a face that said she missed nothing, and a younger one with fresh braces and bright eyes peeking from under her hijab.
“As-salamu alaykum. You must be Ms. Brown,” the older woman said.
“Wa alaikum salaam,” Jackie replied automatically. The younger woman smiled.
“You can come in. Najee—” She stopped herself.
“I mean, Dr. Amin-Rashid will be right with you.”
Jackie stepped inside and had to steady her breath. The reception area was regal and thoughtfully designed. Expensive without being loud. Pearl-gray walls. Soft golden lighting. Afro-minimalist art hung like museum pieces. The whole place smelled like cedarwood, bergamot, and something citrusy.
Then she saw it. A side table laid out like a brunch spread, pastries, croissants, bagels, apple cider, matcha, coffee.
Little plates. Real silverware. Jackie blinked.
There was so much food she damn near looked around for a conference room.
Ain’t no way all that was for her. Jackie’s stomach had been cussing her the fuck out all morning.
She knew it was half nerves, and half hunger.
But she couldn’t front, looking at that spread now?
Made her want to sit her ass down, tear into some fried chicken, grab an apple cider donut, sip her matcha, and say fuck the session altogether.
But she didn’t move. Because she came in here with a plan.
Najee was to get nothing from her. No warmth.
No softness. No extra energy. Just enough presence to get through the session without crashing the fuck out.
And that plan had already been tested. First with the car he sent.
Then the flowers. Now this. Not just food—her favorite food.
Fried chicken from Federal Donuts. Apple cider donuts from Reading Terminal Market.
Banana pudding matcha from On Bended Bean.
This didn’t happen by accident. It required asking questions.
Remembering answers and paying attention.
Jackie hated that she noticed. Hated that some part of her registered the care before she could shut it down.
This wasn’t generic hospitality. This was consideration, laid out neat and intentional.
Jackie lifted her chin, kept her eyes forward, and refused to lean in.
Refused to let sugar and grease soften her stance.
Whatever he was trying to say without saying, it wasn’t moving her.
She hugged the bouquet tighter instead. “I’m okay, thank you,” she said quickly when the younger woman gestured toward the table.
The older woman nodded. “Dr. Amin-Rashid will call you in shortly. You can have a seat.”
Jackie sat, legs crossed, bouquet resting across her lap like a shield.
Her heart was hammering harder than she wanted to admit.
Then she felt it. A shift in the air behind her, quiet, controlled, and familiar.
Jackie didn’t have to turn around to know he was there.
Najee. Standing at the far end of the hallway.
Tall. Composed. Dressed in a charcoal cardigan, fitted slacks, thin black readers perched low on his nose.
His eyes landed on her, steady and unyielding.
They didn’t soften or roam, instead they pinned.
Not in a hungry, curious way, but more poignant.
Focused like she was the only thing in the room worth registering.
Jackie’s spine straightened before she could stop it.
Her shoulders pulled back on instinct, bouquet tightening against her ribs as if her body recognized the scrutiny before her mind caught up.
It wasn’t sexual. It was worse. It was the kind of look that said I see you…
all of you. Her pulse jumped. Once. Hard.
Najee adjusted his glasses, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact before he spoke.
“Ms. Brown.” Not Jackie, and not with the voice he used that night.
This wasn’t Najee…this was that Dr. Amin-Rashid muthafucka.
The distance in his tone landed before anything else did—cool, clinical, and closed-off.
Jackie clocked it immediately. So that’s how today was going to go.
Bet. She pulled in a breath, steadying herself for whatever fuckery awaited her in that session.
His tone alone told her everything she needed to know.
This is about Max, not you, so tighten the fuck up, she reminded herself, forcing another measured exhale as she shifted in her seat.
“You can leave your flowers here if you’d like,” the younger woman offered.
“I can put them in water.” Jackie almost said yes. Almost. But something stubborn rose in her chest instead, tight, instinctive and bruised. Jackie kept her grip on the bouquet and lifted her chin.
“I’ll hold them.”
The younger woman nodded and turned, guiding Jackie down the hallway where Najee stood.
Jackie followed, boots clicking softly against the hardwood.
The hallway was warm, softly lit, lined with abstract cultural art and historical photography.
When they reached his office, Najee stepped aside, giving her room to walk in first. She did—slow and deliberate, roses clutched to her chest like armor.
His office was a whole vibe: deep earthy tones, books stacked heavy on the shelves, big plants.
A velvet sofa and two deep armchairs. His desk on the other hand was pushed off to the side, angled toward the massive bay window that gave him an unobstructed view of the park.
He closed the door behind them with a soft click.
The air shifted instantly and condensed into something she didn’t have the energy to unpack.
He moved toward the armchairs, gesturing toward the one facing him.
“You can sit there.” Jackie did, slowly, still holding the bouquet like she was bracing for impact.
Najee settled into his chair across from her, posture perfect, expression controlled.
That clinical wall was up again, high, thick, and deliberate. Jackie felt the vibes immediately and tried her best to match his energy. He glanced at the roses again, then met her eyes.
“You didn’t have to bring those inside.”
“You told your driver to make sure I did,” she shot back before she could stop herself.
Najee’s expression didn’t crack, but his eyes did just barely.
“I wanted to make sure you received them.” Jackie’s heart kicked.
But her face didn’t move. She leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs, bouquet still resting in her lap like a statement.
“Oh,” she said lightly. “Well. I received them.”
More silence passed between them. But this time, it wasn’t cold…it was thick and loaded.