CHAPTER 2
On the private outdoor terrace of Woodwork—a subterranean, highly exclusive lounge tucked into a renovated brick warehouse along the riverfront—the temperature was tempered only by low-humming industrial misting fans and the occasional cool breeze rolling off the water.
Inside, the lighting was a study in restraint: deep amber sconces, low-slung leather booths hidden behind heavy velvet drapes, and a bar made of polished black walnut that gleamed under the soft, amber glow of blown-glass pendants.
The music stayed low—a slow, syrupy instrument-heavy neo-soul bassline that pulsed just underneath the hushed hum of private conversations, deal-making, and high-end flirtation.
Sasha sat deep in a curved leather booth, her bare, smooth knees brushed against the edge of the mahogany table.
She had spent the last four days running from appointment to appointment—three private dance bookings for high-spending corporate regulars, followed by a long, exhausting negotiation session with a commercial contractor for her future venue.
Her shoulders ached with a deep, bone-weary fatigue, but her mind was humming.
Across from her sat Natasha Whyte.
Natasha looked like money that didn't need to shout.
She wore a silk blouse the color of liquid midnight, unbuttoned just far enough to reveal the sharp, elegant dip of her dark collarbones and the delicate gold chain that rested in the hollow of her throat.
Her silver-draped temples caught the amber light every time she tilted her head, her dark eyes sharp, calm, and utterly focused on Sasha.
Thick, brushed-gold hoop earrings swung gently against her neck as she set down her crystal glass of neat Macallan.
"The permits for the kitchen build-out on Woodward came through this morning," Natasha said, her voice a low, honeyed rasp that cut straight through the ambient hum of the lounge. She reached across the table, her long, manicured fingers lightly brushing the back of Sasha’s hand.
Her skin was warm, dry, and coolly reassuring.
"Margaret managed to bypass the city inspector’s backlog.
You're clear to break ground on the interior bar framing by Monday. "
Sasha let out a long breath, her dimples digging deep into her cheeks as she looked at Natasha. "You serious? Man, I spent two weeks trying to get that city clerk to even open my file. He kept acting like he was doing me a favor just reading my name."
"That's because you were asking for permission, Sasha," Natasha murmured, her thumb making slow, hypnotic circles against Sasha’s wrist, right over her jumping pulse. "In this city, when you have the right leverage, you don't ask. You inform them of what's happening. You need to get used to that."
Sasha chuckled, the rich, throaty sound rolling out of her chest. She took a sip of her dark rum and ginger beer, feeling the bite of the alcohol warm the back of her throat.
"I'm used to handling things with my hands, Natasha.
This whole sitting back and letting lawyers write letters shit...
it's new. It feels strange not having to fight for every inch. "
"You're still fighting," Natasha replied, her eyes dropping briefly to Sasha’s lips before rising back to meet her gaze with an intensity that made Sasha’s stomach flip. "You're just fighting with capital now instead of your knuckles. It's much more efficient. And significantly more lethal."
Sasha opened her mouth to reply, a smart, teasing comment forming on her tongue, when the temperature in the back of her neck suddenly spiked.
It was an old, visceral instinct—a violent prickle at the base of her skull that she hadn't felt in over six months.
Her body knew before her eyes even confirmed it.
The easy, warm expression melted off her face instantly.
Her jaw locked, the muscles along her neck tautening like pulled steel cables.
Slowly, deliberately, Sasha turned her head toward the long, illuminated black-walnut bar.
Leaning against the polished wood, one heel hooked carelessly over the brass footrail, was Jermaine.
He was tall with that same sharp, arrogant jawline and the cocky, self-satisfied grin he used to wear like armor when he thought he could slide through life without ever paying the check.
He had on a pristine white designer tee that hugged his chest, dark fitted denim, and fresh retro Jordans.
He was already leaning over the counter, running his mouth to two young women in tight, brightly colored bodycon dresses who were sipping colorful cocktails.
One of the girls—a pretty light-skinned woman with long acrylics—was giggling, her fingers touching his bicep as he whispered something into her ear that made her throw her head back in exaggerated laughter.
The sight didn't just hit Sasha; it slammed into her solar plexus like a brick wrapped in velvet.
Her heart hit her ribs in a hard, violent succession. Her fingers tightened around her crystal glass so hard her knuckles turned ash-gray, the ice cubes clinking loudly against the heavy glass base.
"Sasha?" Natasha’s voice dropped, dropping all business warmth, turning instant, laser-focused steel. "What is it?"
Sasha didn't look back at Natasha. Her eyes remained locked on the profile of the man at the bar—the man who had shared her bed for two years, who had eaten off her plates, who had sworn he was working double shifts at the freight depot while he was laying up in cheap motels downtown with two different girls from his old neighborhood.
"That's him," Sasha spat out, her voice coming out flat, dry, and lethal.
Natasha followed Sasha’s gaze, her dark eyes narrowing as she assessed the man at the bar with a cold, calculated efficiency. "The ex."
"The no-good, lying-ass nigga who thought he could steal out of my purse, fuck around behind my back, and walk out of my life clean," Sasha said. Every word was dragged over broken glass.
The memories rushed back in a hot, suffocating flood: the smell of cheap, unfamiliar vanilla perfume clinging to his collar when he stumbled in at three in the morning; the endless, pathetic excuses about dead phone batteries and traffic on the I-94; the night she finally had enough and went through his device while he was passed out, finding dozens of filthy, detailed text messages and graphic photos sent to women he claimed were just "childhood friends. "
She remembered the explosive, screaming confrontation in her living room—how he had tried to gaslight her, telling her she was crazy, insecure, paranoid, until she pulled up the printed screenshots and shoved them into his lying face.
She remembered throwing his clothes into black plastic lawn bags, dragging them to the third-floor balcony, and hurling them down into the muddy alleyway in a torrential downpour while he stood on the landing, begging and making excuses until she pulled her grandfather's old .38 out of the nightstand and told him if he stepped back over her threshold, she’d leave him bleeding on the linoleum.
And now here he was. In Woodwork. In a venue where people came to talk six-figure deals. Looking fresh, laughing, leaning on the bar, using the same tired-ass pick-up lines on two new girls who didn't know any better.
"Sasha, sit down," Natasha commanded softly, her hand wrapping tight around Sasha’s wrist. "He isn't worth the energy. He's a ghost."
"He's in my space," Sasha breathed, her voice rising half an octave, raw and jagged with a hood-bred fury that no amount of silk dresses or high-end wine could ever erase.
She stood up.
The move was sudden, explosive, and completely undeniable.
Her slate-black jersey dress clung to the round, massive curve of her ass and the thick, sculpted line of her thighs as she smoothed the fabric down with one tense hand.
The intricate tattoos running along her forearms flexed as her fingers curled into tight, heavy fists.
"Sasha, wait," Natasha said, rising smoothly beside her, her hand instantly pressing firm into the small of Sasha’s back. "Breathe, baby. Look at me. We don't do scene-making in here."
But Sasha was already moving.
The low neo-soul music faded out. The hushed chatter of the surrounding tables dissolved into a quiet, rushing white noise in her ears. Her bare heels slapped firmly against the dark wood floor as she crossed the main floor in six long, deliberate strides.
Jermaine was mid-sentence, flashing his dimples at the girl in the pink dress, when Sasha stepped directly into his peripheral vision and stopped two feet away.
The girl in the pink dress froze, her eyes widening as she took in Sasha’s towering, menacing presence—the Bantu knots, the broad, muscular shoulders, the dark eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hatred.
Jermaine turned his head, his cocky smile expanding automatically as he prepared to deliver a line, before his brain registered who was standing in front of him.
The smile faltered. His eyes widened slightly, a flash of genuine, instinctual fear flickering across his dark face before he quickly tried to smooth it over with a casual tilt of his head.
"Sasha? Damn," he chuckled, though his voice sounded thin, devoid of its usual bravado. "Look at you. Looking good as hell, girl. What you doing around these parts?"
"Don't you ever use that fake-ass charm on me again," Sasha said.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it was so dense, so cold, that the air between them seemed to instantly drop ten degrees.
"Don't say my name. Don't look at me. You got about five seconds to turn your ass around and walk out those doors before I forget where I'm at and tear that fresh white shirt right off your fucking chest."
The girl in the pink dress let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle. "Excuse me? Who are you?"
Sasha turned her head just enough to pin the girl with a glare so venomous the woman actually took a step back, her heel catching on the footrail.