14. Samara
Chapter fourteen
Samara
Sunday, July 12, 2026
“ A lright, sis, it’s time to tell me why you polished off three glasses of wine already tonight.” Vea eyes me speculatively. Before I can respond, she puts both of her palms up in surrender. “I’m not judging you, but this isn’t like you.” She leans forward to grab her own wineglass. “So spill.”
I groan, leaning back into the royal-blue couch cushions.
Nosy pain in my ass… always knows when something’s bothering me.
“Aren’t we supposed to be planning your wedding anniversary?” I question, trying to change the subject, but I know it’s futile. Once she’s gotten her claws in something, she doesn’t let go. Maybe she should’ve been the lawyer.
“Yeah, don’t give me that. Tell me what’s really on your mind ‘cause I know you don’t wanna hear about your older sister getting some ‘cause that’s how I’m celebrating my anniversary.”
“Lord Jesus, woman! Can you chill?” I yell, snatching the pillow beside me as I try and fail to suffocate myself out of this conversation.
“Damn pillow is too breathable,” I grumble before tossing it at her instead.
She dodges it and cuts right to the chase. “Is it the IVF? Have you decided to try another round or something?”
I blow out a breath, already wishing I could crawl into bed and hide from this conversation. “No, Vea, I’m not doing it again. I just can’t .” It nearly killed me the first five times.
“Well, why not? I know it ain’t the money, so what is it?”
“You know, for someone who carries on about being so damn sensitive to other’s feelings, you don’t seem to be doing a great job,” I snap, feeling bad about it the moment the words leave my mouth. I’ve always been a little impulsive with my words when I feel personally attacked. It’s as if I’m being backed into a corner, and the feeling makes my mouth move faster than my brain can seem to. Luckily that doesn’t extend to the courtroom when it’s my clients under attack.
Her expression softens, and she places a hand on my thigh, squeezing gently. “All I’m saying is that there are other options. You don’t have to give up entirely. Even if it isn’t IVF.”
I nod slowly. “I know there are other options, but I’m a single Black woman. Please tell me where the adoption agencies are that are jumping for joy for applicants like me. I’d love to know.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “Exactly.” I shake my head.
“Your feelings are valid, as are your concerns, but why not surrogacy or one more round of IVF? There’s more than one way to start a family, Mara,” she says, hope lacing her words.
“Because it fucking hurts. Emotionally, every time I have another negative test, physically, as I jab myself with needles senselessly, hoping for a different outcome, and financially, it’s a huge burden. Even if I have the money, it’s too much of everything. IVF usually has a very good success rate at nearly seventy percent. So I have to think that when I’ve done five rounds of this shit with no results, it’s just not going to happen for me,” I explain, rubbing at the ache in my chest.
“ A dat wid yuh now .” She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Oh, you can’t stand me? I’m sorry, but you asked! I’m giving you the only answer I know how. Or did you want me to lie?” My voice is becoming louder the more defensive I feel.
“Stop with that.” She waves her hand in front of my face. “You always find the negative.”
“Vea, please.” I plead with her to understand. “My body is so tired. I am so tired. I have to shave my face daily to keep my lady beard in check because most laser hair removal systems aren’t safe for our complexion. I work my ass off to stay in shape so I don’t have to sport something so lovingly referred to as an ‘apron belly.’” I say the phrase with every ounce of disgust I feel toward it.
The fact that so many people with ovaries and a uterus have to suffer from polycystic ovarian syndrome is fucked. You’d think with how prevalent it is that there’d be real treatments for it, but there aren’t, and I think it’s largely to do with it being something that doesn’t impact people with a dick and balls . As if either of those are so damn useful.
“You and your body are beautiful, sis. You do hard things with that body every day! You should be proud of it!” It’s moments like this that remind me how much of a disconnect we sometimes have between us.
My body sags. “I know my body does hard things, but it’s also difficult on my mind. Now, can we please stop talking about this?”
“Fine,” she huffs out. “Tell me about work.”
This is safer territory, and maybe she can help me work something out. I share limited details with Vea, maintaining attorney-client privilege, and I mention how off-putting I find Luca, and throughout the entirety of it, several things become more and more clear to me.
She clucks her tongue. “Uh-huh, and you don’t think that this man having a baby dropped into his hands with not one effort could be playing a factor in your feelings toward him?” she asks, suspicion clear as day in her words.
My shoulders sag. “It’s possible .” I groan.
She rolls her eyes again, not even bothering to justify what I’ve said with a response. “Okay, fine. Maybe I have been putting some of my trauma on him, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a playboy, and based on how easily he dumped that poor woman after her abortion, he probably had no plans of becoming a father. Who’s to say he really even wants this child? Besides, he has all this money and walks around getting recognized left and right, always being seen with a new woman. That definitely plays a part in why I don’t fuck with him like that.”
“Mhmm,” she says. “I’m sure it does.” Her big brown eyes glimmer as a smile tugs across her lips. “Maybe if he’s so fertile, he could help you with your pum-pum problem.”
Wine dribbles out of my mouth as I fight to stop myself from spraying it across the room. “I do not have a pum-pum problem! My vagina is fine. It’s my fucking ovaries that are useless.”
“Ohh, you don’t have a pum-pum problem, huh? When was the last time you had an orgasm with a person and not your hand?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Four years,” I grumble somewhat incoherently.
“Sorry, what was that?” she asks, her hands cupped behind her ears as she leans into me dramatically. “I couldn’t hear you, sis. You couldn’t possibly have said four years. ”
“You suck,” I deadpan.
She cracks another grin. “And sadly, it seems you don’t. Maybe if you did, you’d be having more orgasms.” She stands abruptly, downing the rest of the wine in her glass before heading in the direction of my guest room.
“ Mi gaan, ” she calls over her shoulder, disappearing down the hall.
I let my body slide down into the cushions. I love my sister, but she has a way of dredging up every uncomfortable topic on the planet, and it isn’t what I needed tonight.
My mind wanders as I scroll mindlessly online, reading article after article about Luca De Laurentiis and his most recent “conquests,” as the media so disgustingly calls these women he’s seen with.
They’re human beings, not quests to be conquered.
I place my phone down on the coffee table before turning the TV on. Clearly, I can’t be trusted with social media tonight. Nothing good can come from my doomscroll.
My body finally starts to relax, and with it, my mind, but the harsh screech of my phone ringing startles me.
As I grab for it and see a newly familiar name across the screen, annoyance ramps up inside me.
“This is Samara,” I answer.
“Ms. Perez-Allen, this is Hank. I’m calling about Ms. Cecily St. James. There’s been a change of plans for our court hearing tomorrow.”
My stomach drops to my toes . I knew that woman was wifty. 1
“What kind of change?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“She no longer wishes to sign over her parental rights. She wants full custody.” And with that, he hangs up.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I try not to scream.
I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for this.
I know that I’m not actually the cause, but somehow, I feel guilty for even putting this kind of bad energy into the universe for my client.
My hands shake as I dial his number. On the second ring, he answers.
“Samara?” he asks, and I can hear Gia crying in the background.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay, Gia, mia bambina. Daddy’s got you,” he coos to the little girl, and her cries quiet almost instantly.
My chest tightens with the blow I’m about to deliver.
“Luca, I’m very sorry to call at this late hour, but there’s been a change to tomorrow’s agenda.” I do my best to keep my voice from wavering as a crushing feeling settles over my chest.
“Oh, okay. Well, that shouldn’t be a big deal. Let me know what time it’s been moved to, and I’ll arrange for someone to watch Gia,” he tells me, clearly having no idea what I’m really getting at.
“It’s not that kind of change, unfortunately. Cecily St. James has decided that she wants full custody now,” I explain.
“Why?” His voice comes out so soft, like a defeated little puff of smoke, and a fissure slices through my heart.
“I’m not sure, Luca, but we’ll get it figured out tomorrow. For now, try to get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.” I try to sound as comforting as I can manage. After the way our conversation with Cecily and Hank had gone, there was no indication she’d change her mind so abruptly.
He doesn’t respond at first, but when he does, it nearly breaks my heart in two. “Thank you, Samara, for”—he clears his throat—“for letting me know. See you tomorrow.”
My job isn’t always full of wins, but it’s moments like these that remind me just how difficult certain parts can be.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
1. "Wifty" is a term used in Philadelphia to describe something as not being concrete or solid.