Chapter One
Déjà View
Ebony
“This is on your terms, Ebony.” My best friend Whitney plants her hands firmly on my stiff shoulders, leans in from behind me, and whispers in my ear, “We are not letting these bougie, low-vibrational folks define nor destroy your happiness for one more day.”
A small laugh escapes me at her theatrics.
“But do you hear me?” she presses, her tone serious.
I nod, fidgeting with the hem of my blazer. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” She sucks her teeth, then guides me farther into the restaurant’s main dining area with a flourish. “You look fine. LBD, blazer, neutral heels, hair laid—basically the recipe for we out here . Now stop worrying.”
Meanwhile, she’s in a deep V-neck black satin crepe blouse belted around a gold sequin column skirt that pops like pixie dust against her rich brown skin.
As we weave through Velvet Ember’s pristine marble floor toward the bar, my eyes wander to the menagerie of glittering chandeliers, hanging over perfectly set tables like a five-star zoo exhibit.
Then to the eerily familiar faces, scattered around.
They’ve been watching me since the second I stepped through the door, the low hum of their whispers filling the smoky, savory air.
Each one is disdainful, more superior, sharper than the last, cutting through me like a thousand silent judgments.
You don’t belong here anymore, they say. Crawl back into your hole.
Never mind that I wasn’t the one caught with my pants around my ankles on The Morning Tea .
Somehow, though, in the court of public opinion—half of it, at least—I’m the viral villain.
Julian’s reputation has taken a hit, yes, but I’m the “bad guy” who wouldn’t just forgive the poor, helpless, handsome “good man” who’d clearly wronged me.
I’m the woman who dared hire a PI to confirm suspicions of my husband doing dirt .
How was I supposed to know he was doing it with the Luxe Lady?
The funny part about it is, I still don’t blame Nora. I wasn’t married to her. And yet I exposed the problematic Luxe Lady’s deeds with a married man. So, naturally, I’m the one who gets publicly criticized and attacked by #TeamNora.
But that’s what today is about.
I may have been down for the last year, licking my wounds, but it’s time to put on my heels again and strut back out there.
Tonight, my girls and I are out for Hillary’s younger sister Hailey’s engagement party.
She’s marrying Julian’s younger brother, Donovan, so I know they’ll be here.
Right now, I’m finally going to face them—on my terms. All I’ve got to do is get through this evening without cracking. It’s the ultimate test.
I pull in a long breath, letting it expand my lungs, before slowly exhaling.
You are Ebony Grace Livingston. You’ve got this.
My skin prickles with discomfort as I imagine their pitying smiles, and that familiar, dizzying fear crawls over me. Damn, I don’t got this .
“Nope, I can’t do this.” My breaths grow fast and shallow. “I’m out.”
I try to turn back toward the door, but Whitney steadies me.
“See Priscilla and Hillary, at the bar, wildly waving us over? It’s just a regular Saturday night.
You’re here with your girls to celebrate Hailey and Donovan,” she insists.
“That’s it. Neither Julian nor that trifling woman are going to matter, because this is your ‘take back your life’ moment, okay? Reclaim your identity.”
My heart stalls.
Reclaim your identity.
For a beat, I let those words sink in. I block out all the faces, all the noise, and pull in a deep breath. Then I release it, along with all the tangled emotions around my divorce and the challenge of keeping my life—and my circle—close to my chest this past year.
Just me and my girls, I tell myself as I lift my hand into the air and repeat the mantra to myself. “No one else matters.”
“Mm-hmm, they know, but do you know you’re that girl?
” Whitney, going above and beyond her best-friend duties, keeps lifting me up like it’s her full-time job.
“Don’t go cowering, Miss Thang. Command their respect,” she preaches, clearly channeling her inner Oprah as she stares a few bougie folks down on my behalf.
Admittedly, I feel a little more pep in my step.
“I know that’s right. Strut for ’em, Ebony queen!” she hypes me up, snapping in time with my footsteps.
From the back, Priscilla—in an infinitely more couture LBD than me—chimes in, “ Yesss , louder for the people in the back!”
By the time we get to the bar, it’s Black Girl Magic in full force. It’s all hugs and laughter with my girls, and I’m light as a rock.
At thirty-five, it feels so good to still be tight with the same crew I’ve had since I was sixteen, preparing for my grand social debut.
As a little sister, Hailey’s an honorary member, but, really, it’s been the six of us—us four in town and two, Chanel and Tatiana, currently off globetrotting and scheming world domination.
We jokingly call ourselves the Divatantes—the perfect mix of diva and debutante.
Whether society is ready for us or not, we come in with equal parts high drama and old-school charm.
Lord, if we don’t wear our titles like sparkling tiaras…
“Hey, glad you made it.” Hillary side-hugs me, sly smile in place as she tells me “everyone” is already here, then, with five simple words, answers my silent prayers: “We’ve got a private room.”
“Hil…” I deflate against her tall, lean frame, relieved and laughing. I’m floating on Cloud 99 Problems but Public Humiliation Ain’t One, and it feels good.
Hillary’s smile is positively wicked. “Shall we?”
“Say less, friend.” I tuck my clutch under my arm, straightening. “Where you go, I will follow.”
She turns on her six-inch red-bottom black pumps and works the marble like a catwalk queen in her black cashmere midi-length dress.
My posture is ramrod straight, shoulders back, chin high as I file in line with Priscilla and Whitney on my heel—gliding like a sexy royal processional past the bougie, low-vibrational set.
It feels amazing.
For the few seconds it takes for us to cross the dining room and turn the corner to the private party rooms, I feel amazing.
I’m with my girls, the great times are ready to be had, and for the first time in a year, I’m me again.
Then Hillary swings open the door.
It’s not April Fool’s Day, but we’re barely ten days into May, and the spotlight is on me. All conversation dies in an instant. A dozen pairs of eyes snap to mine, and I freeze.
Then I see him.
The dark brown eyes attached to the man who shattered everything.
Julian Livingston III.
It’s like a warped déjà vu.
All over again, it’s the switch-up.
Fire ignites in my chest, searing through my veins, and for a moment I can’t breathe. My stomach churns as I quickly shift my attention, searching the party for Nora’s long, dark waves, her striking green eyes, and…
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Where is Nora?
I’m here on purpose, because my life coach said seeing Julian and Nora together, confronting the two people who bulldozed my life—on my terms, mind you—would work.
It should’ve been simple. I face my demons, celebrate one of my best friend’s little sister’s happy news, then close this catastrophic chapter for good. But how am I supposed to do that?
There’s only one demon here.
Dammit .
I scan the room again, my gaze drifting past Donovan, Nelly, and Cornelia—Julian’s younger brothers and mother—then to the Winstons, Hailey and Hillary’s parents, and a few women who I assume are her friends.
But my focus snags on Hillary. She’s settled in the chair beside Julian, sharing a quiet, but heated , exchange.
Like, she is letting him have it. As in, the full riot act with her unblinking brown eyes locked on mine.
What are you doing, Hil?
I shake my head, a nervous laugh dissolving into a hiccup before I can stop it.
“Should we maybe regroup?” Whitney whispers in my ear, her voice a low warning.
A reminder. “Let’s make a quick restroom stop,” she says, then plasters a smile on her face as she meets Hailey’s concerned gaze.
“Uh, we’ll be right back. She saw someone in the same outfit.
We may need a moment to recalibrate the whole vibe… ”
She moves quickly, leading the way.
Priscilla falls into step behind us.
As soon as we’re inside the decked-out restroom, Whit spins around, her stare immediately softening. “We’re still here for Hailey and Donovan. Forget about Julian and—”
“Hold up.” Priscilla grows still, as if she’s listening for movement—presumably Nora’s.
She scans the stalls, nods when she’s sure we’re alone, and locks the door behind us.
“All right, it appears she’s not here, but it’s not a big deal.
Let’s just have a few drinks, toast, and then I’ll make up some excuse why we’ve got to leave. ”
I give a single nod.
The thing is, it’s not that I needed to see Nora Whitfield, per se. I guess I just built it up in my head, what it would mean about my growth. If I could come face to face with them as a couple, and still be okay, I was healed—ready to start a new chapter.
More than anything, I’m disappointed she isn’t present tonight.
Whitney starts pacing, flexing her fingers restlessly. “I know it’s a letdown. I, myself, had a few choice words for that woman—”
“And what about Hillary?” I cut in, my head still scrambled. “I mean, I appreciate it, but she’s got no shame at all. Did you see her all up in his ear, letting him have it? Why would she confront Julian with Cornelia right there?”
A small laugh rumbles over me.