CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
KORMIA
A few hours before…
Kormia had been so drunk the night before… she overslept and missed every single appointment.
Not one.
Not two.
Every. Single. One.
She spent most of the morning crouched over the toilet, throwing up everything she’d eaten in the last forty-eight hours—and maybe a little bit of her pride too. She already knew she was going to regret two things: drinking on an empty stomach and going to Wheezy’s party.
Kormia had every intention of sitting this year out.
Especially because they weren’t even together.
The streets didn’t know that, but they did.
And quite frankly, she was tired of being attached to his cheating ass.
Still… Wheezy believed in optics. And because he made sure, she was straight financially, Kormia played the role.
She knew how to pose. Knew how to smile.
But more importantly, she knew how to look like a trophy.
But this year? Even that felt exhausting.
So, the plan had been simple: skip the party, blame it on bad sushi, stay in, and practice new nail designs.
And she was doing exactly that. Until she made the mistake of opening Instagram.
That’s when she landed on Wheezy’s busted-ass baby mom’s story.
Of course, the video quality was ashy. Probably shot on some old Android with a cracked screen.
But what caught Kormia’s attention wasn’t the resolution. It was the outfit.
On the surface, she wouldn’t have blinked at the dingy little Fashion Nova fit laid out on the bed like it was couture.
But then she did a little more digging… and found a TikTok text post: OMW 2 watch the BD blow out his candles…
#sectionshit. “I know you fucking lying,” Kormia muttered.
And honestly? That was all it took. Before she even realized it, she was activated.
Kormia threw on a bra, grabbed her keys, sped to Jackie’s house, and pulled together a look in the eleventh hour like it was Fashion Week.
She knew it was petty. Knew she would probably regret it.
But she had to remind this hoe…Once my nigga, always my nigga.
It was a little after midnight when Kormia finally pulled up, dressed to kill, hair laid, body bodying.
And of course, Wheezy rolled out the red carpet for her like she was royalty.
He had the biggest section in the club. Low-key, she should’ve felt on top of the world.
Should’ve. Instead… she felt like a kept dummy.
Wheezy had all his bitches—new and old— in attendance, seated in various sections around the club like they had assigned seating.
The old Kormia would’ve been embarrassed.
Or at least pissed. The old her would’ve set fire to the rain and started an-all-out brawl in that bitch.
But now? She was so checked out of the relationship, she didn’t even care enough to make a scene.
And that scared her more than the disrespect.
Because she wasn’t jealous. She was bored.
Meanwhile, the man she actually wanted was in the section across from them.
With Malaya. Not paying her an ounce of attention.
Newdy’s section was low-key, tucked in the cut.
He didn’t have a bunch of bitches or even a ridiculous number of bottles.
Yet every stepper in the city made it their business to stop through, dap him up, and show respect.
Malaya was posted beside him, trying her hardest to give Tasha St. Patrick.
That’s if Tasha wore tacky mall jewelry and thick-ass lace.
Still… raggedy lace-front and all, Malaya was the one sitting beside him.
And that bothered Kormia more than it should’ve.
Kormia hadn’t really crossed paths with Newdy since that night everything went left with Cleo.
Yeah, she saw him on the block. Yeah, he replaced the awning on her shop because it was raggedy.
But outside of that? That man hadn’t even looked her way.
And it didn’t help that he and Nurse Ratchet seemed to be getting more serious.
Malaya was pulling up to his shop two, three, sometimes four, times a week.
Watching him posted in his section with her tonight?
That hit harder than Wheezy’s entire harem ever could.
Because the truth was… Wheezy didn’t move her anymore.
Newdy did. That realization sat heavy in her chest. But instead of sitting in it, Kormia reached for the 1942.
And poured. Then poured some more. Because it was easier to be drunk than to admit she was pressed over a man who wasn’t even checking for her.
She was reaching for her second bottle when she felt it.
Eyes. Newdy’s. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.
Barely acknowledged her. He just looked, bored and unimpressed.
Like she was exactly where he expected her to be.
And that shit burned. And rather than unpack it? She drank.
Until the lights blurred, her thoughts dulled, and she didn’t feel anything at all. And now here she was. Sick to her stomach. On the cold tile floor of her salon bathroom. Vomiting up tequila and ego… wishing she’d never even stepped foot in that party.