Chapter 27
JASMINE MILLER
I decided to follow my intuition for once and skip seeing my parents. One look at me at my mother would’ve immediately clocked that something was off. She had this look she got whenever she was sniffing out bullshit—lips pursed, eyes squinted. I’d fold in seconds.
Nobody else needed to be dragged into this mess.
So I told Marcus I changed my mind and braced myself for another tantrum. Instead, he surprised me by calmly handing me his black Amex and told me Amber could take me shopping for the gala. I was going regardless whether I’d taken him up on his stupid-ass excuse of an olive branch.
Seeing Cash the other night gave me a little bit of hope. He was somewhere in the city working on a solution. Until then, I had to keep it cute and play along. But if the nigga put his hands on me again, I was definitely swinging back. Even if it got me killed.
Amber and I drifted through Saks, like we were two besties on a carefree shopping trip and not that I was a hostage in broad daylight. I tried on dresses and cracked jokes, but the whole thing felt surreal. It was as if I were watching all of it happen outside of myself.
“You tryna stay in Atlanta?” she asked as we headed to the shoe department.
I shrugged. “Who knows. My contract with Peachtree is almost up, but I’ve been MIA for damn near a week. Pretty sure they fired me. Then Cash and I just got serious and now…” I waved a hand. “This whole mess. Chile, maybe I need to go back to square niggas.”
Amber snorted as she picked up a pair of heels. “You don’t even believe that.”
I let out a short laugh. “You right.”
Atlanta was supposed to be a temporary chapter. But being with Cash had me wondering—what if it wasn’t?
He made me curious in a way I hadn’t let myself be in a long time. Curious about what life would look like if I stayed and built something real with him.
Because, despite how wild this all was, I liked Cash. A lot. He made it damn near impossible not to.
He wasn’t bluffing when he said I could quit my job.
Most women would’ve jumped at that without a second thought.
I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s rare to find a man who wants to give you ease with no strings.
He didn’t offer it to control me—he just wanted to give me peace.
At his core, that man was a protector and provider. His showing up in New York proved it.
Being with him felt almost too good—but not in some fake fairytale way. More like an answer to a prayer I didn’t even know I'd sent up.
Cash was who Marcus thought he was—who he thought his money and power made him. But Marcus was trying to force me to love him by demanding my obedience. My submission. Cash just wanted me.
Was it love? Or was I dickmatized and under duress?
Honestly… probably a little bit of both.
* * *
I was still in bed when I heard the door creak open the next morning.
Marcus walked in with a breakfast tray, still acting like we were playing house—eggs, a bagel, and a glass of orange juice, all arranged perfectly.
“You should eat,” he said, setting it on the nightstand.
I just stared at him. He usually left the tray outside the door. If he was in here, it’s because he wanted something.
He walked over to the window and opened the curtains. “Big night tonight. Excited?”
I flipped him off behind his back, then climbed out of bed without a word and headed for the bathroom.
I took my sweet time brushing my teeth, washing my face, purposefully moving slowly in the hope that he’d be gone when I came out.
But there he was—perched on the edge of the bed with an envelope next to him.
“Here,” he said as he stood, holding it out to me.
I narrowed my eyes. “What is it?”
“Just look.”
My gut already knew it was going to be some bullshit. I snatched it from him and opened it.
State of New York Marriage License.
His name. His signature.
My name.
A signature that was supposed to be mine—except it looked like it had been signed by a drunk toddler.
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, fury crawling up the back of my neck.
“We’re married now?”
He smiled and nodded. “You’re officially Mrs. Marcus Stokes.”
I laughed because it was the only thing keeping me from breaking the breakfast tray over his head.
“This doesn’t mean shit, Marcus.”
I ripped the paper in half.
Then again. And again. Until it was just scraps in my hand.
“Fuck you,” I gritted as I tossed it in his face.
His nostrils flared as he snatched the glass of orange juice off the tray and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a loud crack, sending juice and glass everywhere.
My heart was pounding, but I didn’t flinch. I refused to let him break me.
I let out a bored yawn. “You done?”
He ran his tongue along his teeth and looked away, chuckling. “I’m making big moves with important people in this city. It looks better when you’re married. You need to stop trying me and get with the fucking program. It’s been days, no one's coming to save you.”
He turned on his heels and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
The tears came soon after. I slid down to the floor and folded in on myself as the sobs tore loose. I cried until my throat burned and exhaustion wrapped itself around me like a weighted blanket. Eventually, my body gave out, and I passed out right there on the floor.
When I woke up, the sun was dipping low behind the skyline, casting the room in a haze of golden light. A sticky patch of dried orange juice clung to the floor near my food, and the untouched breakfast tray was still on the nightstand.
I got up slowly myself to my feet and started cleaning—wiping the wall and floor, picking up the glass as best I could since there was no broom. I was practically done when a sharp knock at the door made me jump.
Before I could answer, it swung open, and two Black women walked in carrying kits. They looked like they were on a mission.
“We’re here to get you ready,” one said.
“I’m Dyamond,” said the thicker one with a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Hair.”
”I’m Keisha,” the other added, wheeling her case into the center of the room. “Marcus said we need you done by six.”
I stood there, hair a tangled mess, eyes puffy, still holding a crumpled paper towel. “I need a minute,” I mumbled and headed into the bathroom to shower.
“Get it together,” I whispered to myself as I stepped under the water.
My chest ached, another wave of helplessness crashing over me.
I hated feeling so small. So fucking pathetic because there was nothing I could do but wait this out.
A fresh set of tears ran down my face as I pressed my forehead against the tile.
Marriage?
I choked back another sob. “Cash, where are you?”
By the time I stepped out and wrapped myself in my robe, my hands had stopped shaking, and my eyes were… less red. I practiced a smile in the mirror—fake, but good enough to pass if they didn’t press me too hard.
In the bedroom, Dyamond had her tools laid out across the dresser, curling irons already heated up. Keisha was scrolling through her phone, her makeup case flipped open and ready. Both of them had a calm, non-nonsense vibe, like they’d see it all and then some.
“You good?” Dyamond asked as I slid into the chair.
“Yep,” I said, forcing some cheer into my voice. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“What we doin’ with your hair?” she asked.
“Honestly, I don’t care. Do your best or worst, I’m at your mercy,” I joked.
“Nah, sis, you gotta give me more than that!” she said, planting her hands on my shoulders. “Councilman Dorsey’s galas are like that! And your man’s getting honored. Girl!” She patted me lightly. “Don’t worry, by the time I’m done, that man’s gonna be on his knees.”
I almost threw up at the thought.
Keisha walked over to the garment bag hanging on the closet door. “This the dress?”
I nodded, unzipping it to show her. I’d settled on a v-neck, sequined gown, with a high slit. She studied it for a few seconds before nodding confidently. “Bet. I got you.”
For the next three hours, they worked their magic.
Keisha brought out her mini Bluetooth player and queued up her “Bad Bitch” playlist. We jammed to Meg the Stallion and Latto, and at some point, a bottle of champagne appeared, which I gladly sipped on to calm my nerves.
Dyamond and Keisha were funny and easy to talk to, and neither pried too much into my personal life.
It was the first real interaction I’d had outside of Amber, and it felt good.
“Voila!” Dyamond stepped back and handed me a large hand mirror.
I gasped at my reflection. She’d given me a quick weave styled in long Hollywood waves that fell perfectly down the middle of my back. Keisha did her thing with my makeup—a soft, matte brown smoky eye, and a sexy nude lip.
“Damn, y'all are good,” I murmured.
Keisha smiled. “You’re gonna have them gagged tonight. You’re already gorgeous, girl! All we did was make you a badder bitch.”
“Marcus ain’t gonna be able to keep his hands off you,” Dyamond laughed.
I let out a weak laugh, but shuddered internally. They didn’t need to know that I’d rather fling myself off the roof before that happened again.
Once they left, I slipped into the dress and YSL heels I’d bought with Amber.
Standing in front of the bedroom’s full-length mirror, I took in the complete transformation.
I looked good, really good. Damn sure didn’t look like what I’d been through.
If I was a weaker bitch, it’d be easy to get sucked into this delusion he was forcing on me.
“Wow.”
I turned as Marcus stepped into the room.
As much as I wanted to two-piece him, I couldn’t deny that the man was undeniably handsome.
He’d come a long way from the Timbs and baggy jeans he used to wear.
The tux he wore looked custom, and his long locs were braided into an intricate fishtail braid down his back.
“You look incredible,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied flatly, ignoring the adoration in his eyes.