Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
RHYAN
I’m not buying a damn thing Chauncey’s selling. Action speaks louder than words, and I meant every word I said—fuck Chauncey. He’s gonna hate me, and I’m okay with that. I’m leaving Teflon Hills soon, but until then? I’m gonna spend his money and play in traffic.
I blocked his number. I don’t want to hear his voice, don’t want to hear another apology, don’t want to hear anything. I knew some shit would pop off when I came back, but not like this… not this deep. And I’ve never put my hands on Chauncey before, but today? He was catching all of it.
My phone starts ringing. Amirya.
“Yo…”
“Are you okay?”
“You want me to be honest?”
“Yes.”
“No… I’m not okay.” My voice softens, cracks just enough to tell the truth.
“Loving him hurts. I’m bleeding, Amirya, and I’m tired of putting bandages on everything, praying for change.
I’m over it. These past nine months, dealing with Kosh?
It’s been everything. We’ve only been apart three weeks, and look how fast he came to see me.
Chauncey has never put in that kind of effort.
Why would I keep accepting the bare fucking minimum?
” I exhale, dragging a hand down my face.
“I’m sorry. I ain’t mean to dump all that on you. ”
“It’s okay,” she says gently. “That’s why I asked.
These past few weeks have been heavy for all of us—and even heavier for you.
I’m glad Chauncey’s up… even if he’s right back on his bullshit.
But I want you to do what’s best for you.
I’m not the friend who’s gonna tell you to stay just because I want you here.
If he’s moving funny, click your heels, Rhy, and take it back to Dallas.
True already knows—if he fucks up again, I’m out too. ”
That makes me laugh—real this time.
“Can we at least party before you leave?” she adds. “It’s been a minute.”
“We can,” I say, a smirk creeping in. “I wanna shit on a few bitches before I go.”
“Say less. We are outside tomorrow.”
“Bet… and thank you, Amirya. I needed that. I love Bianca, but she is going too hard for that fuck nigga.”
We both burst out laughing.
“Of course she does,” Amirya says. “Simmy ain’t nothing like True and Chauncey.”
“Right.”
We keep talking, letting the tension ease just a little… until True walks in and starts cockblocking like always.
By the time the sun starts melting into the skyline, I’m already outside.
Not spiraling. Not reacting. Just moving.
Teflon Mills is alive—lights bright, energy loud, money flowing—but when I step out, the noise shifts.
Heads turn. Conversations pause. I don’t rush.
I never do. I walk in as I belong here… like everything in this building already knows my name.
“Miss Benyeir,” the concierge greets smoothly.
“I need a few things,” I say, calm, effortless. “And I don’t feel like thinking.”
That’s all it takes.
Doors open. Racks get pulled. Champagne appears. Assistants move like I’m on a silent clock. I don’t check tags—I check how it makes me feel. Silk that glides. Heels that speak. Jewelry that catches light like it’s meant to be seen.
Then I see it.
A drop-top Bentley. Clean. Glossy. Unapologetic.
“Wrap it up,” I say, already walking past the salesman.
He stumbles. “You don’t want to?—”
“I said wrap it up.”
Minutes later, the engine hums low and smooth. And somewhere across the city… Chauncey gets the notification.
My phone buzzes.
I don’t even look at it. Next stop—jewelry. Nothing loud. Just intentional. Gold. Diamonds. Pieces that sit on my skin as they belong there. I layer it slowly, deliberately—like I’m putting myself back together in real time.
By the time I call the girls, everything’s already handled.
“Get ready,” I tell them.
“For what?” Amirya asks.
“You’ll see.”
The spa is quiet. Soft. Warm. Steam curling through the air. Glasses clink. Laughter drifts into the room like we’ve all been holding our breath too long. Hair done. Makeup flawless. Nails clean.
For a few hours… nobody talks about Chauncey. Nobody talks about drama. We just exist.
“Courtesy of Chauncey,” I say lightly, lifting my glass.
Bianca laughs. “You’re crazy.”
“No,” I correct softly. “I’m done.”
Across the city, his phone keeps lighting up. Transaction after transaction. Name after name.
Rhyan Benyeir.
Again.
Again.
And again.
Chauncey calls from Simmy’s phone. I see it.
I let it ring. Not tonight. By the time we step out, we don’t look heartbroken.
We look elevated. Every detail intentional.
Every step deliberate. The Bentley glides through the city, top down, music low, wind brushing my skin like a reminder that—I’m still here, and I’m still her.
When we pull up to the club, the night shifts again.
Lights flash. Music blares through the speakers.
Movement in the club. We walk in together—no hesitation, no announcement.
Eyes follow. Phones lift. Whispers build.
I don’t acknowledge any of it. We take our space.
Drinks arrive. Music carries. The energy wraps around us, and for the first time in a long time… I don’t feel heavy.
I feel present.
We danced. We laughed. We breathe. No pressure, none. No expectations. Just the moment. Later, we drift to the bar, finding a quiet pocket in the noise. I lean against the counter, glass in hand, letting the night settle around me rather than on me.
And for once…
I’m not thinking about him. We barely get a moment to breathe before the night shifts.
“It’s Rhy… right?”
I don’t even turn all the way at first. I take another slow sip of my drink, already knowing. When I finally glance up, it’s exactly what I expected—a small group of girls standing behind me… and right in the middle of them?
Her.
The same bitch I folded a few weeks ago. My jaw tightens, but I don’t flinch. I rise from my seat slowly, calmly, like I’ve got all the time in the world.
“You still mad your husband got my friend pregnant?” she spits, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. “You made her lose her baby… I’m finna whoop yo ass since she didn’t.”
For a second?
Everything goes quiet in my head.
Pregnant?
I already know that’s a lie. Chauncey reckless… but not that reckless.
Still—That was enough.
“Oh, so that’s what we’re doing tonight?” I murmur, setting my glass down really gently. “We’re making shit up just to feel important?”
Before I can take a step forward, Amirya slides smoothly in front of me.
“Excuse me?” she says, voice sharp but controlled.
The girl smirks, eyes flicking over her. “Amirya… you might wanna sit this one out before I clock your tea and hurt your feelings.”
Amirya doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “You can’t clock shit over here.”
“Oh, I can,” the girl shrugs. “I fucked True plenty of times.”
The air shifts.
That one?
That one landed.
Amirya’s expression doesn’t change—but I know her. I see it in the way her shoulders square just a little tighter.
“True told me he fucked you and ducked you,” she replies coolly.
The girl laughs, loud and ugly. “He did, but after all the ducking we were still fucking. I was fucking him while you were playing wifey though.”
Yeah.
That’s it.
Amirya slides her hoops off slowly, handing them to Bianca without breaking eye contact.
And me?
I kick my heels off, one by one, the sound of them hitting the floor louder than the music for a second.
Bianca snatches them up quickly, already stepping back. “Y’all got it,” she mutters, half-laughing, half-ready.
The girls behind her start shifting, energy building, voices rising, phones coming out.
And just like that—The whole section clears a little.
Because everybody knows what’s about to happen.
I step forward, cracking my neck once, eyes locked dead on hers.
“Aye…” I say low, voice steady but dangerous. “You should’ve stayed fucking quiet.”
The music doesn’t stop—but the energy does.
It shifts. Tightens. Phones rise; whispers ripple. Space opens around us as the floor knows better.
“Aye… you should’ve stayed quiet,” I repeat, stepping closer.
She laughs—loud, fake, bold because her friends are behind her.
“I’ve been waiting on you to do something?—”
She doesn’t finish that sentence. Because I move first.
Fast.
My hand snaps forward, catching her clean across the face—sharp, loud, final. The sound cracks through the section like a gunshot.
She stumbles back into her friend, shocked.
Good.
“Run that shit back,” I say, voice low.
She swings. Sloppy. Emotional. I slip it in easy, grab a fistful of her hair, and drive her straight into the edge of the bar. Glass rattles. Drinks spill. The crowd erupts.
“Don’t you ever fix your mouth to lie on me again,” I snap, tightening my grip.
Her friends rush forward—bad move.
Amirya is already on one of them, clean and precise—no wasted motion, just straight pressure. Hoop earrings gone, hair still laid, but her hands? Not playing with these weak-ass hoes.
Bianca slides in behind, grabbing another girl mid-lunge. “Y’all picked the wrong fucking night!” she shouts, dragging the girl back.
The section erupts. Bodies collide. Chairs scrape. Music still pounds as if none of these matters. The girl in my grip claws at my wrist, trying to break free.
I lean in closer, my voice in her ear. “You wanted attention… now you got it.” And I slam her down again. This time, harder.
She stops fighting the same way. That’s how I know I’m done. I release her, stepping back smoothly, breathing steady like I ain’t just turned the whole section upside down.
Security finally floods in—too late, as always.
“Break it up! Break it up!”
Hands grab. Voices shout. Lights shift. But the damage?
Already done.
I step back, brushing my hands together as if I just finished something small. Amirya adjusts her dress as if nothing happened.
Bianca picks up my heels, grinning. “Y’all good?” security asks, panicked.
“I’m great,” I reply calmly.
Because I am.