Chapter -7- #2
Denz’s eyes dart to one of the Post-its hanging from his desktop monitor. The neon orange one. In his big handwriting: sign venue contract .
“Fuuuck.” Bile races up his throat. “W-we’ll fix that. I’ll email—”
“It was due yesterday,” Eric says, far too calm.
No. Denz remembers reviewing the document. Highlighting where his initials went. Double-checking the date. There was nothing more important than—
“Fucking fuck!”
Yesterday. Crema. Spending entirely too long creating a list of rules for a fake relationship. Taking that stupid photo for social media. Walking away with a cheek-aching smile.
Denz sucks in a shaky breath. “What can I do?”
He’s messed up before. He’s also found quick solutions. But this isn’t replacing a cake with dozens of cupcakes. It’s not forgetting a memory stick with the slideshow of the happy couple’s dead grandparents for an anniversary dinner. He doesn’t have a way out of this.
Eric folds his arms. “You could tell your d—”
“Not happening.”
Getting his dad involved effectively proves Denz isn’t ready for the CEO position.
Eric exhales, thinking. “How about someone as connected as your dad? Someone who’s been in close contact with every client on his behalf?”
Denz doesn’t like where this is going. “Not her,” he says.
“She’s your best chance.”
“There has to be a better option.”
“Love that positive energy,” Eric deadpans. “Like it or not, she’s all you got.”
Denz swallows a scream. Fucking fuckity fuck of all the fucks ever given. Is this really how his dream dies? Over one stupid Post-it?
He drops his head into his hands, defeated. “Promise me, whoever inherits this office next, you won’t let them hang one of those silly ‘Keep Calm and Party On’ neon signs on the wall.”
Eric snorts. “Quit being dramatic.”
Denz comes prepared. He’s ordered a slice of raspberry truffle cheesecake from his favorite Michelin-star restaurant. Slipped on a cashmere sweater over his button-up. Meditated for five minutes to get rid of any bad energy. Put on a brave face even though he’s close to shitting his boxers.
He’s ready when Auntie Cheryl emerges from her office, Jimmy Choo clutch bag in hand, swiftly strutting toward the elevators.
He jogs to catch up. “Auntie!”
“I’m done for the day, nephew,” she says, heels clicking on the floor. “Run your new Insta-Snap-Tok idea or whatever by your dad.”
“No, it’s about—”
“Not interested.”
“But—”
“Goodbye, Denzel!”
“I have cheesecake,” he gets out before her finger can hit the down button. “Raspberry swirl and truffle sauce. Your favorite.”
Cheryl’s shoulders lower as she rotates around. She scrutinizes the paper bag in his hand, then his face. “What did you do ?”
“Nothing,” he answers.
“Quit the games,” she says, jaw tight. “It’s been a long day, these shoes are cute but painful, and I’m going to be late.”
Denz takes her in. Her braids are woven into an elegant bun. Vintage pearl earrings complementing her understated makeup. A forest-green pencil dress under her wrap coat.
“Meeting with a client?”
“Date night with my husband,” she replies sharply. “Your Uncle O got us tickets for the opening of Chicago . We’re having dinner at Garden and Wine first.”
Denz nods, impressed. Orlando is the art director for the Fox Theatre.
It’s not that Tevin is incapable of planning romantic nights out.
But between his studio commitments and traveling to support all his Billboard-topping artists, he rarely has time for anything above a minimal-effort gesture. Cheryl never complains.
“Spill,” she sighs, annoyed, “or go away.”
“I fucked up.”
Her face remains expressionless, as if she’s not the least bit shocked by this revelation.
“I forgot to sign the contract for the Rigel,” he admits.
Cheryl studies him. Then, she laughs. It’s more disbelief than mocking, but it stings just the same. “Nephew,” she says mid-guffaw, “you’ve had some slipups before, but this truly drags the bar straight to hell.”
“I know.” He squares his shoulders. “I need your help.”
“You need Jesus .”
He expected that response. The aunties never play favorites. They’re equally critical of Denz and his sisters. But Cheryl’s already shown her allegiance to Team Kami. Still, he’s not giving up.
“I can’t tell my dad what happened.”
“Clearly,” she agrees.
“I made an error.”
“A critical error.” Cheryl rests her hands on her hips. “Denzel, you’ve earned your spot here. Mostly. But things like this can’t happen if you’re the CEO. You can’t forget to sign off on payroll. To hand out IOUs while your staff’s bills, mortgage, and childcare go unpaid.”
“I wouldn’t forget.”
“Current evidence says otherwise,” she counters.
Denz wants to fight back. He’s no longer that ten-year-old boy being scolded for using his auntie’s favorite Versace bathroom towel as a cape to play superheroes with Jordan.
But his mom’s in his head. Her unbreakable rule.
He’s only going to win this war by showing Cheryl respect, even when she’s not offering him the same.
“What’s in it for me? If I help?” Cheryl asks.
Denz lifts the cheesecake bag higher. She looks unimpressed.
Plan B it is .
“Braylon’s coming to the mayor’s gala.”
She crooks an eyebrow up as if to say, And?
“I’ll make sure you get to talk to him.” He inhales deeply. “Alone. Before Auntie Eva.”
There it is . Intrigue lights up her brown eyes. Jordan inherited his mom’s incredibly competitive nature. Any opportunity to have an edge over her sister, Cheryl happily takes.
When they were dating, Denz kept Braylon away from his extended family. There was never a formal introduction. A Meet the Aunties over dinner. Is it his fault that when they came home for summer, Eva was vacationing with Orlando in Paris? Or during holiday breaks, Cheryl was visiting Jordan?
It was a coincidence. He didn’t plan it that way… is the story he’s been telling for years.
Cheryl’s mouth twitches. “I can ask him anything I want?”
“Within reason,” Denz bargains.
This is a dangerous game. Offering Cheryl the chance to conduct her own TMZ interview with his fake boyfriend. But he’s desperate.
Cheryl pretends to consider. A minute passes before she opens her clutch. Two clicks later, her phone’s to her ear.
“Dahlia? Hey, girl. It’s Cheryl Carter over at—Yes. I’m fine. How are the kids?” She paces in a small circle while talking. “I need a favor.”
Denz peeks over his shoulder. God, he hopes no one else is around to hear this. Especially not his dad.
“I know it’s a”—Cheryl’s eyes cut to him—“ foolish, rookie mistake. If you help us out, I can promise a certain Grammy-winning R and B artist’s son will host his sweet sixteen at the Rigel this year. Yes, Usher. You know Tevin’s producing his comeback album.”
Denz cringes. Great. Now he’s going to owe Uncle Tevin too.
“Just have him digitally sign?” Cheryl snaps her fingers at Denz. “You’re emailing him right now ? Thank you. You’re the best. Kiss those beautiful babies for me. Bye.”
“Um…” Denz waits.
Cheryl’s lips purse. “It’s done. Anything else?”
“N-no.” He can barely stand upright. “We got the space again?”
“ I got the space,” she tuts. “Sign the contract. You’re in the clear. For now.”
The pinch behind Denz’s ribs finally subsides. “Thank you, Auntie.”
“Mm-hmm.” She snatches the cheesecake bag from his loose grip. “I’m leaving now. Goodbye, nephew.”
When the elevator doors slide open, she adds, “I hope your boyfriend’s ready for me” before stepping inside.
“Me too,” Denz whispers to no one. As he stumbles back to his office, his eyes are drawn to a glow. The light in Kami’s office is still on.
On a quiet street, in the heart of Decatur, is the bungalow Denz spent his early adolescence in.
A charming three-bedroom with creaky hardwood floors and a finished basement where he and his sisters would play hide-and-seek-in-the-dark for hours.
It was chilly in the winter. Too hot in the summer.
But he had his own room with Danny Phantom and Teen Titans posters.
He loved it there.
Then came the overnight buzz from Marvelous Weddings . A more upscale clientele meant the Carters becoming a brand. The expectations of living that followed way too soon.
Now, his parents own a home on nearly seven acres, deep in the suburbs of Druid Hills. Denz loves it here too. Fresh lilies in the foyer. The walls and furniture are in neutral colors. Seven bedrooms, a private backyard where he can dip his feet in the heated pool, watch the sunset.
It’s made the cover of Atlanta Homes & Lifestyles multiple times. But there are moments where he misses the modesty of that bungalow. The magic of simple.
On a late Sunday afternoon, he stands inside his parents’ massive kitchen, waiting for commentary on the rose-colored Canali suit jacket he’s wearing. The mayor’s gala is less than two weeks away. Auntie Eva took one look at his proposed outfit options and demanded an emergency makeover.
“We’re not fumbling the bag because you have no style.”
Now, his career aspirations have become a group project. He’s confident Eva cares more about beating Cheryl than what’s at stake. Still, this is his fourth outfit in the last hour.
“What’s wrong with my own clothes?” he says.
“You have the wardrobe of the forgettable best friend in a rom-com,” comments Jamie as he smooths Denz’s black lapels. “Your clothes are the Kevin of outfit choices.”
“The who ?”
“Exactly.”
Jamie’s fully invested in this Project Runway transformation. A needed distraction. Dinner with his parents was, of course, a trash fire.
From the living room, where she’s putting together his next ensemble, Eva yells, “You can’t show up wearing—God forbid—something off the rack . You need to look like a boss.”
“That’s my default mode, Auntie.”
“Aww,” Nic says from his left. “It’s adorable how much you really believe that.”