Amiyah #2
He started to say something, stepping toward me, but I kept going.
“You begged me to trust you. To build something with you. And then you turn around and call me a—” My voice cracked.
“A baby mama? A broken home? Do you have any idea what that feels like? To lose a baby and find out you never wanted it in the first place?”
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to sound calm. “Miyah, please, you’re upset. I didn’t mean it like that—”
“I SAID DON’T,” I snapped, the words slicing through his excuses. “Don’t you dare try to fix this with soft words. You meant it exactly like you fucking said it. You said it. You said you were glad I lost our child.”
His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.
“I don’t need your apology,” I said, my voice steadier now. “I don’t need anything from you.”
He tried again, reaching for me. “Babe—”
I stepped back, pointing to the door. “Get the fuck out.”
“Amiyah—”
“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
Something in my tone must have convinced him, because for once, he didn’t argue. He just looked at me, like he was realizing too late that he’d destroyed something he couldn’t rebuild, and then he left.
When the door slammed, I stood there and cried, my tears mixing among the shards of glass. There was no sound but the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet cracking of my own heart.
That night, I promised myself I would never make myself this vulnerable to anyone ever again.
Back in the SUV, the city blurred past outside the window, a smear of neon and motion. I could feel James watching me out of the corner of his eye, the way he always did when something shifted in my mood. His hand found my knee, warm and steady, pulling me back to the present.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, though my throat felt tight. “Yeah. Just… remembering the wrong kind of past.”
Calla looked up from her phone, her gaze calm but full of understanding. “He doesn’t get to own your story anymore, Amiyah,” she said softly. “You do.”
Her words landed like a truth I wasn’t ready to hear. I stared out the window for a moment, watching the lights streak by. “Yeah,” I murmured. “I know, but he broke me down to nothing before I could take it back.”
James didn’t interrupt. Calla didn’t look away. It made it easier to let the words come.
“I was pregnant,” I said quietly. “Fifteen weeks, when my doctor told me there was no heartbeat. Jason said he wanted a family, our family, and I believed him. For someone who’d lost so much already, the idea of building something that belonged to me felt like a miracle.”
My voice wavered. I blinked hard, forcing myself to keep going.
“After the D the warmth of their presence centered me.
By the time we stepped back into the suite, it felt as if the city had finally exhaled for us. Comic Con had been noise and glitter; Aman was stillness wrapped in candlelight. Black-oak walls, rose petals across the floor, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine curling through the air.
Calla slipped off her Hokage cloak, the silk pooling at her feet.
James pulled the mask from his face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes softening.
For a heartbeat, we just looked at one another, three people who had spent a whole day pretending to be heroes, now quietly remembering who they really were.
The bath steamed in the marble tub, water scattered with petals. They helped me out of my wig and costume piece by piece, Calla’s fingers gentle, James' touch steady. The day melted away with every clasp undone.
When we finally slid into the water together, the warmth felt like surrender.
We laughed about the crowds, about James' near-meltdown when a fan flirted too boldly, about how Calla might have actually won the costume contest if she’d entered.
The laughter faded into comfortable quiet.
I leaned back against the marble edge and watched the candlelight paint her skin in gold.
After a while, I asked softly, “Calla… can I ask you something?”
She turned her head toward me, curious with a glass of champagne in her hand. “Of course.”
“How did The Black Dahlia come to be?” I hesitated, searching her face. “You talk about her like she’s more than a persona. Like she’s… something you built to survive.”
Her gaze dropped to the surface of the water. For a moment, I thought she might deflect the question, but then she sighed, a slow, deliberate breath that carried years with it.
“She was born the night I realized I didn’t belong to anyone but myself,” she said quietly.
“My father spent most of my life teaching me the opposite. He broke me down until I measured my worth by how well I obeyed or endured. When I got older, I kept finding men who repeated the cycle. They were nothing more than different faces reinforcing the same lesson. Control was always something that happened to me.”
The air around us seemed too still; even the water went quiet.
She continued, voice steady but distant.
“The Black Dahlia was the first thing I ever created just for me. She wasn’t about pain; she was about power.
About walking back into my own skin and saying, This is mine.
Every rule I set, every scene I controlled, was a way to remind myself I existed beyond what anyone had taken or tried to break. ”
I felt my throat tighten. “You turned what hurt you into something sacred,” I whispered.
Calla’s eyes met mine, clear, unflinching. “Exactly. The Dahlia isn’t about dominance for the sake of it. She’s the part of me that knows my boundaries, that protects what’s left of the girl so many broken men tried to destroy.”
James hadn’t spoken, but I saw the way his jaw flexed, how his hand found her shoulder beneath the water. The three of us sat there, steam rising around us, a small sanctuary carved out of pain and understanding.
Calla smiled faintly, almost apologetically. “You asked, and that’s the truth of it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “You’re beautiful. I admire your grace, your poise, your willingness to take back power that’s rightfully yours.”
She reached for my hand then, fingers threading through mine, the look in her eyes soft but fierce. “You both make it easier to keep choosing the woman beneath the mask,” she said. “The one who can just be Calla.”
We bathed each other, as I boldly sucked Calla’s nipples, while James lathered and washed her body, his hands gently rubbing up and down her plump pussy lips.
“Mmmmm,” Calla moaned out, her eyes closed and head tossed back as I nipped at her beautiful throat.
“Don’t be afraid, bite me harder and mark me, Amiyah,” she ordered, my pussy clinching at her demand, doing precisely as I was told, biting harder.
Calla’s moans of approval letting me know I was doing a good job.
I sucked on her neck, I slid my hand down her soft body until my fingers were between her thighs, gently rubbing between her pussy lips, being sure to tease her clit.
James was behind her, his chest flush against her back as he reached around, pinching her hardened nipples.
Evident in the way her body began to writhe, that the pleasure was mounting and nearing its peak.
Knowing she needed the release only I could give her in this moment, I slid two fingers inside her slippery, drenched hole and twisted them in and out as my thumb circled her clit.
“Mistress, I need to prove that I can please you, please unravel for me, and come all over my hand,” I begged shamelessly.
Her hands made their way to my tussled curls and grabbed them as her orgasm began to surge through her.
“Ohhhhhhhhh Princess, I’m coming,” She moaned, her pussy becoming even more slick with her release, her chest rising and falling as she attempted to come back down from the orgasmic high I’d just sent her on.
Sexual energy continued to surge through the room as we stepped out of the bath, our bodies glistening with water and candlelight. Calla led James and me to the bedroom, where a sleek, black strap-on harness was waiting for her.