Chapter One
Tatiana Sterling
Ten years later…
They say death repeats itself in an endless cycle because grief won’t let you forget. I am living proof of that truth. Standing at my husband’s grave, I felt the same sickness I felt two years ago.
Karim and I never got along. In fact, I hated him when we first met.
He was arrogant, overly confident, and swore he was God’s gift to the world.
At first, I resented his existence, thinking that if he had never been born, I wouldn’t have been forced to marry him.
Despite my heartbreak, I had to push through and do what was best for the family’s greater good.
College was my escape from my life in Greenwich, but after Nazir left me, it never felt the same.
I didn’t have time to drown in my feelings, though.
No, I had a wedding to attend––my own wedding.
I was forced to stand before God, exchanging vows with a man I didn’t want or love.
But God proved to me that I was a liar because here I was––standing at Karim’s grave and mourning him on what would have been his 35th birthday.
No candles. No celebration. Only me left to pick up the broken pieces of our marriage.
I never thought I would fall in love with him.
Our fathers wanted this union, not me, and I swore to myself I would never give Karim my heart.
Honestly, my heart was already broken. So I figured, why not marry the rich man’s son and go along with the plot for my life?
But somewhere along the way, that plot twisted and turned into eight years of loving and respecting each other.
And it ended with the doctor telling me he didn’t make it.
Now, I stood heartbroken, still asking the same question I had back then: God, why take me through all of this only to leave me broken in the end?
“Babes, you have lunch with your father at Miller’s Pointe,” Yaya, my assistant, reminded me as I stared at the onyx gravestone engraved with the words: Son, husband, father, and friend until the end.
Picking up a nearby rock, I brushed away some dirt from the headstone and placed it on top. All I could think about was all the wasted time during our first two years of marriage––those two years we spent hating everything about each other.
Shoving my hands into the pockets of my Mackage trench coat, I walked through the cemetery until I made it back to the black-tinted SUV my father had sent for me. Visiting Karim on his birthday was a priority for me, so I didn’t care about making him wait.
Yaya quickly rounded the truck to her side as the driver held the door open for me to get in. As I settled into my seat, I pulled my vibrating phone out of my pocket. A smile spread across my face as I looked at the incoming FaceTime call.
“Hi, baby. How was school today?”
She smiled, mirroring my own expression. “It was cool, Mom. Um, how happy are you right now?”
I narrowed my eyes at my daughter as she sheepishly smiled, knowing she was about to tell me something that wouldn’t make me happy. “Why, Nazira?”
She huffed into the phone. “I lost my lunchbox again,” she said, then quickly added, “I promise I’m going to find it tomorrow.”
This was her third lunchbox this school year.
Every time she promised to find it, but she never did, because it was, in fact, lost. Nazira was a free-spirited child who reminded me of myself once upon a time.
As much as she was a free spirit, she was also determined, diligent, and responsible.
Well, she was responsible except when it came to keeping up with her lunchbox.
“Zira, you said that last time, and we had to buy another one. How does someone keep losing their lunchbox?”
She sighed loudly before running down the story of what happened again, being very theatrical because she was a theater kid. We used to see shows on Broadway at least once a month. After we lost Karim, we went more often to lift our spirits.
“...And that’s how I lost my lunchbox.”
“Nazira, I’m starting to think you’re losing them on purpose because you want to eat the school lunches instead of the ones I pack for you.”
I caught a spark of mischief in her eyes.
“Not true, Mom. When are you coming home?” she asked, quickly changing the subject.
Her school had an early dismissal today, which meant she was home sooner than expected. Bloom, her au pair, usually picked her up when I couldn’t, and since I was meeting with my father, today was one of those days.
“I have lunch with your grandfather. Once I’m finished, I’ll be home.”
Nazira perked up. “Can we stay in the city and catch a Broadway show? It’s the weekend, and I don’t have school on Monday.”
The last two years had been hard for us both emotionally. I no longer felt like myself, as though part of me was missing.
Karim.
He was supposed to be here beside me, but he was gone.
As a mother, I did my best to be present and help my daughter carry her grief while carrying my own.
I had lost a husband, and she had lost a father.
Neither pain outweighed the other, and once I realized that and checked myself, things became less foggy.
Therapy twice a week, along with lots of quality time, helped us.
Work consumed much of my time, but I appreciated the distraction from feeling lonely.
I never thought I’d get to the point where I would want to discover love again, but there were days when I craved love and someone’s touch.
“Mom? Hello?”
“Sorry, baby. I’ll have Yaya look up some shows, and then we’ll head to the city once I’m done.”
“Already on it,” Yaya whispered, holding up her phone.
Nazira cheered. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best. Love you, stinky socks.”
I chuckled. “Love you more, rotten cheese.”
We had been saying that since she was five years old, and I hoped we would continue saying it until she had children of her own and could pass it down to them.
After ending the FaceTime call with Nazira, I leaned my head back against the seat as the driver took us to my father’s favorite restaurant––a place where he always held meetings and where the staff treated him like royalty.
Miller’s Pointe sat right by the water, offering views of boats docking and fishermen unloading their catches of the day.
I loved the food there, but it wasn’t my favorite spot.
I mostly ate there when I wanted to feel pampered because I was Malcolm Rich’s daughter.
Those people would spoon-feed me if I asked.
That’s how much they loved and respected my family in Greenwich Pointe.
The Rich and Sterling families practically ruled this city, and it made me sick.
I refused to raise my daughter to feel entitled like some of my in-laws and my own family did.
They walked around with a sense of entitlement, as if the entire world owed them something.
“Although she’s seen it many times, I managed to snag Hamilton tickets,” Yaya said, distracting me from my thoughts.
“Do you think she remembers today is his birthday?”
Yaya put her phone down and rested her hand on top of mine. “Maybe. It’s also your responsibility to remind her, Tatiana. I know you don’t want to upset her, but she deserves to celebrate her father, even if he’s no longer here.”
“You’re right,” I sighed.
Talking about Karim with Nazira was hard because I didn’t want to make her sad.
I was the one who held her all night after he passed away.
The next morning, she came downstairs asking for her father even though she knew he was gone.
A small piece of my little girl died when her father left us, so I was always careful about how I brought up Karim.
The joy was returning to her, and I never wanted to see it disappear.
I would be miserable forever if that meant my baby could stay happy.
“I also need you to stop pretending like he didn’t exist with Nazira. The two of you should be celebrating him together on birthdays and holidays.” Yaya squeezed my hand.
“Thanks, Ya.”
Yalina and Liliana––whom we called Bloom––were my best friends, and I also hired them to help manage my busy life. Yaya was organized and detail-oriented, while Bloom was loving and nurturing. So, it only made sense to hire Yaya as my assistant and Bloom as my nanny.
After getting married, I remember sitting on a reformer in a Pilates studio in town, feeling sick to my stomach and heartbroken.
Yaya had finished her workout, and her sister was sitting on another reformer.
They watched as I counted down in my head, overwhelmed with regret.
When I suddenly stood up and bolted to the bathroom, they followed.
Two strangers held my hair as I vomited into the toilet. They stayed right there with me, offering a wet napkin and water as I dry heaved.
I learned they weren’t from Greenwich Pointe but from the next town over.
Yaya and Bloom didn’t come from wealthy families; they worked at a nearby strip club.
They were hood twins––same father, different mothers––and their father was strict about them knowing each other and having a relationship.
Despite our different backgrounds, we became inseparable from that moment on.
No matter how I felt about marrying Karim, the vomiting that day was a sign from Nazira that she existed, and we would be welcoming her into our lives.
“Please don’t let him get under your skin, Tati,” Yaya warned as we pulled up in front of the restaurant.
I’ve never been a daddy’s girl, and it’s a topic my therapist and I often discussed during my sessions. While Nazira loved everything about Karim and would be inside his skin if she could when he was alive, I felt completely the opposite about my father.
“Why does he want to meet with me anyway?” I asked, even though I knew Yaya didn’t have the answer.