3. Serena #2
I didn’t need to be liked . That’s what I told myself. That was what people like Laurene were for. I was the mind, not the heart. I didn’t need the room to love me—just to follow my lead.
“It was tough.” Her eyes softened. “It was a struggle, but Lush was always home, even when I fought it.”
“But it’s always been a breeze for you,” I said. “After you left, Mama made me go to the galas and parties, but I couldn’t do it right. You always made these parties so much fun. All the guys wanted to dance with you, and the girls wanted to be like you.”
“It might’ve seemed like that,” she said. “Didn’t mean I was happy then.”
“But at least people noticed and cared about you,” I replied softly.
Laurene turned to me, her expression shifting—not defensive, not dismissive, just watchful .
“Serena.” Her voice was quieter now. “What’s going on with you?”
I chose my words carefully. “It’s just…everything’s shifted.”
“Shifted?”
No. No. Immediately, I felt the resistance coil inside me, instinctual and unshakable. I didn’t do this. I didn’t share. I dealt with my emotions, neatly packaged them away, and kept moving forward.
“This is your baby shower. We shouldn’t be talking about this.” I wasn’t about to steal her shine.
“Hey,” Laurene said softly. “It’s okay. We can talk about it. I’m here for you, no matter what.”
I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass. The words were heavy, stuck in my throat. Admitting uncertainty felt like relinquishing the last bit of control I had left.
“I’ve just…lost sight of who I am, or who I thought I was supposed to be,” I said. “It’s scary, it’s not like me.”
“Are you sure it’s about knowing who you are? Or is it about being scared to finally choose for yourself?” She sighed when I didn’t reply. “You’ve always been the most disciplined out of all of us. The most controlled. But sometimes, Serena, control is just another way of following orders.”
I hated how easily she could see it—how fast she cut through the layers I’d spent years perfecting.
That meant other people could see through me.
I wasn’t supposed to be this tired. This angry. This…brittle. And yet, every win felt emptier than the last. Every headline, every closed deal, every fake smile at another industry gala—it all felt like feeding a machine that never noticed I was the one keeping it running.
“I chose this,” I said, more to myself than her. “No one forced me.”
Laurene didn’t argue. She just looked at me like she knew better.
“Anyway,” I said, voice cooler now, steadier, “none of that matters. I’m fine.”
It was a lie. But if I said it enough times, maybe I could still believe it.
Laurene sighed and shook her head. “I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize you built an empire for her , not for yourself. I think you’re scared of disappointing her, of disappointing us because you aren’t what we expect. Do you even know who you are?”
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“I think you’re great at what you do ,” Laurene said simply. “I just don’t know if you ever stopped to ask if it’s what you want , or if you’re just eliminating competition, because that’s how Mama raised us to survive.”
The words hit deep, scraping against something I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. “You’re pregnant and suddenly full of wisdom, huh?”
“Motherhood does that to you.”
Regret, regret, regret. It was beating in my heart and mind like a steel drum, and I couldn’t silence it.
Because the truth was, I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t winning. I didn’t know what I offered if I wasn’t delivering results. If I stopped being useful—stopped being her —what was left?
Who would stay?
All of a sudden, the doors flew open, and the room immediately went silent.
“Why…why are they here?” I was so shocked, the words came out before I could stop them.
Miles Whitmore had entered the room.
Damn him.
He stood tall, all lean muscle and quiet arrogance.
Built like a swimmer. His shirt clung to a chest I once clawed at.
Tattoos peeked from his right sleeve, ink curling down the forearm that had once pinned mine to silk sheets.
Slacks rested low on narrow hips, hinting at a body I knew far too well.
His skin—golden brown, sun-kissed—held the warmth of summer, of long afternoons spent outside, of a man who never truly stayed still.
His braids were pulled tight, framing the sharp lines of his face.
That beard, trimmed just enough, only emphasized those full lips.
The ones that used to say my name like a promise.
Then his eyes found mine—dark, unreadable, burning.
Mama’s gasp cut through the room, snapping my attention to her.
“What the hell are they doing here?” she hissed through gritted teeth as she came over to us, fixing her glare squarely on Laurene. “They shouldn’t be here!”
“I asked them to come.” Laurene didn’t look back at us as she squeezed my arm before letting it go, turning to go greet Miles and his family.
The room around us seemed to hold its breath as Mama’s gaze remained locked on Laurene’s retreating figure, her expression an open battlefield of emotions—anger burned brightest, but beneath it, there were traces of something harder to define. Pain? Regret?
I kept my eyes on Laurene as she greeted Audrey with a wide, bright smile and a warm hug, Reese quickly joining them with an equally cheerful smile. She was now talking with Miles, his face open and unguarded in a way that I hadn’t seen in years.
He still hadn’t looked at me.
“We can’t just let it go,” Mama said again, quieter this time but no less pointed. “Right, Serena?”
My pulse ticked under my skin as I stared straight at him. He tilted his head back, the sun catching on his skin as he let out a low, unbothered laugh at whatever Laurene said. That smile—lazy, cocky, boyish—curled at the edge of his mouth like he didn’t just crash my damn party.
I couldn’t stop staring at his lips.
God, I remembered the way they felt against my neck. The way they moved when he called me baby in that voice low enough to crawl under my skin and stay there.
I hated him.
“Serena!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded instantly.
Daddy appeared. He moved with quiet authority, his warm gaze landing on me first before flickering over to the Whitmores. The color drained from his brown skin.
“Serena,” he said gently, placing a steady hand on my shoulder when he got to us. “You holding up okay?”
“I’m fine, Daddy.”
“Vincent,” Mama hissed. “This is exactly what I didn’t want.”
“I know, Vonnie,” he said, his tone steady but firm. “But we need to handle this carefully. You, Laurene, and Serena put so much into this event, and the last thing we need is a scene. Today is about Laurene and our future granddaughter. Let’s focus on that.”
Mama seemed to deflate. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. With that, Daddy gently guided Mama and me toward the Whitmores and Laurene.
“Vince. Miss Yvonne.” Miles gave a smile so smooth it nearly slid off his face. “Well, damn. Y’all still look allergic to joy.”
Nobody laughed, and I narrowed my gaze. “Still with the same bad jokes, huh?”
“Still uptight, I see,” he snapped back.
Reese tried to reduce some of the tension. “Thanks for coming and bringing a gift. Please tell me it’s that baby saddle I wanted.”
Miles made everything a joke—because that’s what feelings were to him. Punchlines. Deflections.
But that’s what made us work, wasn’t it?