Rhyan #2
Heat creeps up my neck. He’s not wrong. Kosh is still on my skin.
In my hair. In every breath I take.
“You don’t get to ask me shit,” I snap. “Not after the circus you’ve been running while I was gone.”
“Don’t turn this on me. You know who the fuck I am.”
“Why not? That’s exactly what you’re doing!”
The room explodes. Whatever softness we had?
Gone.
“You walked out and started fucking somebody else?—”
“And you stayed and kept fucking everybody else!” I fire back.
“You wanna talk about disrespect? Try hearing bitches whisper about your husband in nail salons and grocery store aisles. Try having hoes look at you like you’re the outsider in your own fucking marriage.”
“That’s different.”
“No, the fuck, it’s not,” I spit. “You humiliated me for years, Chauncey. I put my sanity on the line trying to make this work. And the one time I chose myself, now you’re the only one fucking bleeding?”
He looks like I hit him.
But pride won’t let him stay down.
“You’re still my fucking wife,” he growls. “And I don’t care who he is—if I see that nigga, I’m putting him in the fucking dirt.”
I laugh. Not because it’s funny—because it’s the only thing keeping me from breaking.
“You don’t own me,” I say quietly. “Not anymore.”
I made sure that lands.
Heavy.
Final.
Like chains hitting concrete. He goes still. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches me like I’m slipping through his fingers in real time.
And maybe I am.
Because when I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, I know one thing for sure—I don’t owe this nigga my body just because I once had his name.
You are still my wife.
I’m gonna put that nigga in the dirt.
Same Chauncey.
The walls start closing in. The antiseptic scent mingles with memories I should’ve buried. My skin crawls. My pulse pounds.
Yeah, I can’t do this.
Not tonight.
Not like this.
I slip my shoes on. Grab my bag. He’s watching me—like he thinks I’m bluffing. Like I always come back.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Rhy?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“That’s what we do now?” he asks, voice low. “You run when shit gets real?”
“I’m not running,” I say, steady despite the shake in me. “I’m protecting my peace.”
“From me?”
“From everything. From you. From this. From the version of me that keeps shrinking just to survive you.”
That hits Chauncey hard, but he doesn’t respond.
Just breathes too fast.
“I hope you heal, Chauncey,” I say softly. “But I can’t help you do it.”
I reach for the door?—
“If you walk out that door, Rhy…” I freeze. “…we might not come back from this.”
My eyes burn. “Maybe we’re not supposed to,” I whisper.
And I walk.
The door clicks shut behind me.
Soft.
Final.
With every step down that sterile hallway, I feel the weight of us sliding off my shoulders—heavy, familiar…and finally not mine to carry anymore. I’m halfway down the hall when his voice rips through the air—loud enough to stop the nurse mid-step.
“If you walk out that fucking door and decide to come back,” he roars, rage cracking through every word, “don’t get mad if it’s another bitch in your spot!”
It echoes.
Ugly.
Final.
I stop. For a second, my knees threaten to buckle. My chest tightens. That same ache—the one I swore I buried—claws its way back up. I close my eyes. Inhale and remember who the fuck I am. I turn around slowly. Really look at him.
Bandages.
Bruises.
Pride stifles his love. Then—I smile. Not gentle. Not his. Sharp. Cold.
A warning wrapped in silk.
“Likewise,” I say, voice calm enough to cut glass.
I step closer, heels clicking against tile—making the whole hallway mine.
“And just so you know…” My eyes lock on his. “I’m currently seven and oh with your weak raggedy-ass hoes.”
His nostrils flare.
I tilt my head, voice dropping—dangerous, smooth. “Chauncey… keep playing with me…” I catch a beat before I hurt this nigga. “And I’ll set this bitch off.”
Another step back.
“I warned you.”
And just like that, I turn back around—no tears, no trembling, no second-guessing—and strut down that hall like I own every inch of it. Because I do. The automatic doors slide open, and cool air kisses my face as I step into the night. I don’t look back.
Not once.
If he really wants to test me… I’m more than ready to go to war with this nigga. But the second that door closes behind me—I break. My hands start shaking so badly I almost drop my phone. My breathing comes too fast.
My chest too tight.
My soul?
Too damn tired.
I’ve never felt fury like this. Not even the night I walked out with nothing but a bag and my name. This? This is different.
This is the kind of betrayal where a nigga looks you dead in the face, sees your heart still open to him… and chooses to cut you any fucking way.
I hit Simmy’s number before I can think twice. He answers on the first ring.
“What’s up, Rhy, y’all good?”
My voice comes out low.
Too calm.
“Simmy… I need you to do me a favor.”
“Anything. What’s up?”
“Call Baptiste Funeral Home to the hospital.”
Silence.
Heavy.
“…What?”
“Because I’m about to kill Chauncey,” I say, voice cracking into something ugly, something raw. “And do what them niggas couldn’t.”
“Rhy—hold on. What the fuck happened?”
“I’m sick of this nigga playing in my face!” My voice snaps—loud enough to echo down the hall.
“I’m sick of loving a nigga who keeps making me feel stupid about it. Like, I ain’t held him down through every fucking thing. I’m finna give him something he’ll never forget.”
“Rhy, listen to me?—”
“Simmy, I will kill him,” I spit, pacing now, every nerve on fire. “And I won’t blink twice. I’m DONE bleeding for this nigga. Done.”
“Rhy—”
“I’m out. Don’t call me again.”
I hang up before he can finish. The phone feels heavy in my hand. So does everything.
My bag.
My body.
My heart.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold floor, knees pulled to my chest. Mascara streaks. Hands trembling. And for the first time in a long time… I don’t feel angry.
I don’t feel vengeful. I just feel—done. Done saving a nigga who never wanted to be saved. Done fighting battles I never fucking started. Done breaking myself into pieces just to keep him whole.
I wipe my face, stand up, and a sense of stillness takes over. It’s quiet, cold, and final.
That moment of calm right before a woman makes a life-changing decision. When I return to the hospital, the atmosphere changes. Nurses whisper, and heads turn—they sense it. The impending storm. I walk slowly across the tile floor, each step intentional. Every movement? Well deserved.
When I push open his door—I see it. Chauncey. Sitting up. Smiling into another bitch’s face. I haven’t even been gone that long. And he already replaced me in the room. After everything. After I’ve been the one here. After I chose him. All because I wouldn’t give him my body.
Oh yeah. This is what we’re doing?
Bet.
He looks up, smirking.
“What, you forgot something?”
“Yeah,” I say, stepping closer. Before he can even react—smack. The back of his head snaps forward. The room goes still. I grab the bitch by her long-ass weave and slam her face straight into his food tray.
“Stop fucking playing with me.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Violent.
Chauncey’s eyes snap to mine—dark, dangerous. Oh, he wanna hurt me.
Good.