Chapter 3 Three Years Later
Three Years Later
I hated this week every year.
It didn’t matter how many years I held it together or how good I got at pretending I was over it. The last few days of October always hit differently. The air felt heavier. My chest stayed tight. The nights got loud as hell in my head. And this year was no different.
Standing in the kitchen, I sipped from my glass of wine and exhaled deeply.
I was standing barefoot in a pair of boy shorts and an oversized tee with my mind racing.
You would think having a huge house, cars, a closet full of designer clothes, shoes, and bags, and money to go wherever and do whatever would have been enough. Nothing ever was.
Rome was upstairs in the shower. He was that nigga now. Head honcho. Grimwood didn’t move unless he said so. The same nigga that used to be King’s right hand and second in command now sat on the throne. And me? I was the woman who never expected to end up here. Not with him. But I did.
It started after the funeral. I was numb, broken, and barely holding on.
People kept showing up, dropping off food that I didn’t eat and gifts I never opened.
They kept saying shit that didn’t matter.
They kept telling me I was strong, that I’d be okay, and that King would want me to move on.
But Rome never said none of that. He didn’t say much at all, really.
He was just there. He sat in the corner of the living room at the repast, black hoodie on, jaw tight.
When everybody left and the house got quiet, I sat on the bed in one of King’s T-shirts, hugging my knees, and not saying a word.
Rome sat beside me. He didn't touch me or speak. He just sat there. And then he came back the next day. And the one after that. And the one after that. We didn’t plan to fuck.
It wasn’t some drawn-out flirtation. It was grief. It was anger. It was confusion.
One minute, I was yelling at Rome for not being there that night.
Next, he was pressing me up against the hallway wall, kissing me like he couldn’t survive without doing so.
And I let him because pain doesn’t know how to say no.
I cried the whole time we fucked and he just held me after, like we hadn’t just done something that would change everything.
The first few months, it was chaos. We were in hiding. Not from the streets, but from the guilt. Rome would fuck me like he was trying to erase King’s name off my skin. And I’d let him, hoping the moans would drown out the memories but time kept moving.
Rome took over everything King used to run. He took meetings with people King never trusted. He cleaned up, elevated, and slowly, without ever asking, started showing up as mine in public. At first, people looked confused. Then… they just stopped asking questions.
I don’t even remember when I officially became his girl.
It wasn’t love at first. It was comfort.
Familiarity. He was the only nigga who knew the version of me that died in the street that night.
So now, three years later, this was us. Together.
But it has never fully felt… right. At least not to me.
And this week, with Halloween creeping in, shit felt off as it always did during this time of year.
“Sky!” Rome called from upstairs, his voice echoing down the hall. “You comin’ to bed or what? Been complainin’ a nigga ain’t been home. I’m here. Come on, shorty.”
“I’m comin’,” I said, not moving.
I stayed in the kitchen, staring at the pantry door like something was behind it.
The house had felt weird all day. I kept getting chills.
I kept hearing the floor creak behind me when nobody was there.
And earlier, I swear on everything, I found King’s old hoodie in the hallway closet.
The one he had on the night he died. It wasn’t soaked in blood, though.
It was clean and still smelled like his YSL cologne and smoke.
Rome said I was tripping and I let it go.
I finally made my way upstairs and pushed the door open, pausing for a second. Rome was stretched out across the bed, chains gleaming against his collarbone. All six-foot-four of him, laid back against my pillows, thick thighs parted slightly, nothing on but a pair of black boxer briefs.
His body was carved with shoulders broad like a linebacker, chest solid, arms inked from wrist to bicep with pieces of his past and pain.
That golden brown skin of his caught the glow from the TV just right, and his low cut was crisp as hell, waves deep enough to drown in.
He had that same unbothered expression he always wore, like he couldn’t be phased by nothing or nobody unless he allowed it.
He held a blunt between his fingers and the remote in his other hand. SportsCenter was on the TV.
Rome being fine wasn’t the problem. The sex wasn’t either. The issue was simple: he touched my body, but he never reached my heart. Because no matter how hard I tried to move on, he wasn’t King.
He glanced over lazily when he felt me staring. He didn’t say a word at first, just took a pull from the blunt, and let the smoke curl out of his lips slowly. Finally, he asked, “You good?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. “I’m fine.”
“You been off for a minute now.”
“It’s that week, Rome. You know what time it is.”
He exhaled slowly, then sat up. “I’m not him, Sky.”
“I never said you was, Rome.”
“I ain’t gon’ leave you behind like that.”
I paused in the middle of the room, throat tight. “He didn’t leave me on purpose.”
Rome stared at me for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. He just picked up his phone.
I rolled my eyes and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. That’s when I saw the mirror fogged up and my favorite Champagne Toast candle flickering. Written clear as day in the steam on the mirror were the words, “I’m still here, Sky Pie.”
My breath caught. Only King ever called me that nickname, damn near from the day we met.
The steam still drifted off the mirror, letters dripping like tears.
The first time I blinked, I told myself I imagined it.
The second time, the words slid down the glass just enough for me to know they were real.
“Rome?” I called, pulse going crazy.
No answer. All I heard was the TV from the bedroom with a sportscaster yelling over a replay.
I wiped the mirror with my palm. The words vanished, but the chill in the air didn’t move.
The candle by the sink burned steadily, even though I hadn’t lit it in weeks.
I backed out slowly, my heart in my throat.
Rome glanced up as I stepped into the doorway.
“You good?” he asked, half-focused on his phone.
“Yeah… just... thought I saw somethin’.”
He squinted at me. “You sure you ain’t takin’ them anxiety pills again?”
“No.” I rolled my eyes as I walked over to the dresser to remove my jewelry. “You know they was fuckin’ with me.”
He let out a low laugh that wasn’t funny.
“You be stressin’ yourself out for no reason.
” He stubbed out the blunt and stood, stretching.
His back muscles flexed, tattoos crawling down his arms like scripture.
He came up behind me, slipped a hand around my waist, and kissed the side of my neck. “You need to relax,” he murmured.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.” He slid his hand higher, the tone in his voice switching from soft to warning. “You act like I don’t notice when you shut down.”
“I just got a lot on my mind,” I whispered, turning to face him.
He tilted my chin up, eyes sharp. “You still dreamin’ and missin’ this nigga?” I guess my silence was answer enough. He sucked his teeth and walked off. “After all I do for your ass…”
The way he moved when he was irritated was slow and heavy with his shoulders all tense. It used to scare me. Not because he’d ever hit me, but because I knew he could. And sometimes that was enough.
Rome had secrets. I knew it. Late-night phone calls.
Unmarked cars pulling up outside. Trips that started as “a quick run” and ended three days later with him smelling like new money and strange perfume.
I told myself not to ask. I told myself I owed him that.
Every time I thought about walking away, I remembered those quiet nights when he held me while I cried myself to sleep, as he whispered, “I got you, shorty. You safe with me.”
Maybe that’s why I stayed. Maybe that’s why I convinced myself love could grow out of survival. But after staring at that bathroom mirror, at the candle still burning, I knew something had shifted.
I slipped into bed beside him, trying not to shake. He was already half-asleep, one arm draped over his stomach, gun glinting on the nightstand. I lay on my back, eyes on the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came.