Chauncey
The hospital room is dim—too quiet, too still—until Simmy’s phone lights up. He shouldn’t show it; he knows better, but it’s already everywhere.
“Damn…” True mutters under his breath. I cut my eyes over to True.
“What?” No one answers, and that’s how he knows it’s bad.
“Let me see that shit,” I snapped, snatching the phone before Simmy could stop me.
The video is already playing—bass shaking the speakers, lights flashing, the crowd screaming—and there she is.
Rhy. Standing in the middle of it all like she owns the night.
Hair done, skin glowing, jewelry dancing in the lights—my money dripping off her like water.
And she’s smiling. Not that soft smile, not that “that’s my man” smile—this one is cold, free, unbothered.
The caption hits next: RHYAN BENYEIR JUST CLEARED 1M IN ONE DAY AND TURNED THE CITY UPSIDE DOWN. Swipe. Receipts. Car purchase. Bentley. Jewelry. Spa. Designer racks stacked like trophies. Every transaction hits my phone like gunfire.
My phone buzzes again?—
CHASE ALERT:
$187,420.00
APPROVED.
Then another.
CHASE ALERT:
$96,300.00
APPROVED.
Back-to-back, as if she’s not spending money—she’s sending a fucking message.
“Turn that shit off,” Coop mutters, but it’s too late. The next clip plays. Different angle. Bar cam footage. Clear—too clear. A nigga steps up to her, leans in, and says something low. Rhy tilts her head… listens…, and then she smiles.
That’s it. That’s all it takes. The phone cracks in my hand, plastic splitting, screen shattering. His chest rises too fast.
“Who the fuck is that?” Nobody answers. Because nobody wants to say it—she looks happy.
“I asked a fucking question!” My voice shakes the room, machines spiking, a nurse freezing outside the door.
Simmy steps forward. “It doesn’t matter who he is.”
“It matters to me,” I growl, eyes locked on that image in my head.
“She’s outside,” True says quietly. “She is living.”
That word hits different. Living. Without me. I let out a hollow laugh.
“Yeah… she’s living real good on my fucking money.”
His phone buzzes again—unknown number. He answers.
“Boss… you might wanna tighten up. The feds have been asking questions. Too many big transactions, too fast. They are watching accounts tied to you.”
Silence drops heavy.
I exhale slowly—not panicked, worse—focused.
“Let ’em watch,” I say coldly. “Because I’m watching too.”
I hang up, look at Simmy, then at the door. “She thinks this shit is a game.” My voice is calm now—too calm.
“She out there glowing… spending… laughing… while I’m in here bleeding?”
Nobody answers, because there’s nothing safe to say. I lean back slowly against the pillows, eyes dark, mind moving.
“Aiight… let her have the night.”
It should sound like surrender—but it doesn’t. “When I get out of this bed… I’m taking everything back.”
Across the city, Palisades is still alive. Rhy’s section is louder now—bottles popping, lights flashing, her girls are laughing, spending my money like I ain’t fucking watching. But I am. I see, the phone’s up. Stories posting.