Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
RHYAN
The rush from the fight lingers in my chest when it hits me—not the punches, not the screams, not the blood on my knuckles. It’s the words: You made her lose her baby. I halt mid-step, keys still in my hand, my breath catching as if something had reached inside my chest and squeezed.
That doesn’t sound right. That doesn’t feel right. If that were true…I would’ve known. Right? I shake it off at first, pacing once across the room like I can outrun the thought—but it won’t leave. It keeps replaying, louder each time, heavier.
Pregnant.
Baby.
You made her lose it.
“Man…” I mutter, running a hand over my face before grabbing my phone.
Bianca answers quickly. “Is everything okay?” she asks, already sensing something is off.
“Yeah…” I say, but my voice doesn’t match my words.
“I just want to ask you something.”
She pauses. “What’s up?”
I hesitate for half a second—then I just say it. “So… Chauncey got Tamika pregnant?”
Silence.
Not shocked.
Just… measured.
“Did you know about this?” I press.
Bianca exhales on the other end. “From what Simmy told me,” she says slowly. “The day Chauncey got shot… she lied.”
My brows pull together. “Lied how?”
“She told him she was pregnant,” Bianca continues. “He took that hoe to the abortion clinic…” I go still. “…and it was all a lie.”
Silence fills my end now. Because that just shifted everything.
“So that’s how she ended up in the car with him when he was shot?” I ask, piecing it together out loud.
“Yeah,” Bianca confirms.
I shake my head slowly, trying to process it. “So why ain’t you say shit?”
Bianca doesn’t hesitate this time. “I didn’t feel like it was relevant.”
That answer? It sits wrong. Not because she is lying—But because it means something bigger was being kept quiet.
I lean back against the counter, phone pressed to my ear, my mind moving faster than my mouth. If Tamika lied about a pregnancy… Then tonight? That wasn’t just a fight. That was a setup.
And suddenly… This ain’t just about Chauncey and me no more. This is about who’s been playing in the background the whole time. The thought won’t leave me alone.
Not now.
Not after everything that just went down. I don’t even sit on it this time. I call Simmy. He answers on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
“Simmy,” I say, voice tight, getting straight to it. “How come you never told me that raggedy bitch I fought at the hospital was screaming that she was pregnant by my Opp?”
He exhales.
“Because she was lying.”
That answer came too quickly.
Too smooth.
“You could’ve given me a heads-up,” I snap.
“Rhy—”
But he doesn’t get to finish because I hear movement on the other end.
A shift.
And then?—
His voice.
“Rhy…” Everything in me goes still. “…you know I love you, right?”
My jaw tightens instantly.
“Put Simmy back on the phone.”
No hesitation.
No softness.
“Why?” he asks, low. “You want some answers?”
“If I wanted to talk to you, I would’ve called you,” I shoot back. “But I ain’t up for no lies.”
Silence stretches for half a second. Then he exhales—slow.
“I’m gonna tell the truth,” he says.
And something about the way he says it? Makes my chest tighten anyway.
“I had some dealings with Tamika,” he admits. “But I ain’t get her pregnant.”
I don’t say anything. Because I’m listening…But I’m not receiving.
“I called her bluff,” he continues. “She was lying.”
Another pause. Then he adds— “You’re the only woman who’ll ever bear my kids.”
And there it is, that line. The one that used to mean everything.
Now?
It just sounds like another promise he should’ve made before everything broke. “…whatever,” I say flatly.
Because I don’t have the energy to argue, and I damn sure don’t have the softness to believe him.
“Aye… it’s the truth,” he says, his voice low and steady—but there’s weight behind it now. “I know I’m not perfect. I’m man enough to admit it.”
I don’t respond. Because I’ve heard versions of this before. He lets out a slow breath, as if he already knows I’m not making this easy for him.
“On some real shit… this ain’t even a conversation I wanna have with you,” he admits. “But we are having it because some shit happened.”
My grip tightens around the phone just a little. Not because I’m softening—because I’m listening differently now.
“You ain’t never gotta ask Simmy about me,” he continues. “You can ask me.”
That line? It almost sounds like growth.
Almost.
“I still love you, Rhy.”
There it is. Raw and straightforward. Too late now. My chest tightens, but my face remains calm, because love hasn’t been the issue—it’s what accompanied it.
“I’mma handle Tamika,” he adds, his voice dropping colder. “She knows not to step to you.”
And just like that—there it goes.
That switch.
“I ain’t worried about Tamika,” I cut in, flat.
But he keeps going anyway.
“A bitch can’t step to my wife twice without repercussions.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Because that word—wife—doesn’t land the same anymore. Not after everything.
“You’re still talking like I belong to you,” I say at last, voice quiet but sharp enough to slice. “And that’s exactly why we’re here now.”
That lands. I hear it in the way he goes quiet. “You’re talking about handling bitches,” I continue, “but you never handled yourself.”
No yelling.
No emotion.
Just truth.
“And I’m not your wife when it’s convenient for you to claim me,” I add. “I was your wife when you were out here, moving recklessly too.”
That one?
That one sinks in deep.
“I don’t need you to fix Tamika,” I finish. “I needed you not to create Tamika.”
Silence stretches again.
Because there ain’t no comeback for that.
“Aye, Rhy…” His voice drops, rough, trying to meet me where I am. “I know you’re in your bag right now. That’s why I ain’t too mad about you spending a few bags. You got every right to be.”
I don’t respond.
Because that ain’t the point.
“I get it,” he goes on. “I shouldn’t have created Tamika.”
That line almost lands.
Almost.
“These hoes know what you mean to me,” he adds, his voice tightening. “And it’s straightening coming behind, stepping to you any day.”
There it is.
That edge.
That violence sits right under his love.
“I ain’t afraid to erase Tamika,” he says, colder now. “Ain’t shit changed.”
My chest tightens. Not because I’m scared—Because this is exactly what I meant.
He still doesn’t get it.
“Hear me out,” he presses, his voice rising just enough. “I fucked up. Way more times than I can count.”
Silence.
“I ain’t fucking up no more,” he says. “Allow me to write my wrongs.”
A pause.
“I promise my actions gon’ speak louder than these words.”
That should feel like something, but it doesn’t. I’ve heard promises dressed up prettier than this. And then—He ruins it.
“You still belong to me…”
My jaw locks instantly.
“You’re still my wife,” he continues, his voice dropping into something darker—something familiar.
My jaw locks instantly.
“And I’m coming for what’s mine… the worst fucking way.”
And there it is. Not love. Not growth. Possession. My chest tightens—not soft, not emotional—just… pressure.
For a second, I almost believed him. Almost thought maybe… he was finally seeing me.
But no. He’s still trying to claim me, still trying to win me like I’m something he owns.
And that? That’s exactly why I had to leave.
My fingers tighten around the phone, nails digging into my palm as my breathing shifts—shorter, heavier.
Now it’s not just heartbreak sitting in my chest.
It’s clarity.
“You still don’t get it…” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
But I don’t say it out loud. I don’t argue. I don’t yell. I don’t give him another piece of me to twist around.
I just hung up.
Click.
The silence that follows is loud as hell. And my chest? It starts to ache. Not from missing him. From finally understanding him. The silence after the call doesn’t feel peaceful.
It feels loud.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
I stand there for a second, phone still in my hand, staring at the screen as it might light back up… as he might call again… like I might answer differently this time.
But it doesn’t.
And that’s when it hits.
It’s not anger or pride. It’s him, his voice, and that pause before he said he loved me. The way he sounded like he meant it.
“Damn…” I whisper, pressing my lips together like I can trap the feeling before it spreads.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to feel him again. I push off the counter, pacing once, twice—fast, restless.
“Get it together, Rhy…” I mutter.
But my chest?
It’s tightening. Not from anger this time. From something softer. Something dangerous. Because he planted it.
That seed.
I ain’t fucking up no more.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“No…” I shake my head, as if I could physically throw the thought away.
Because I’ve heard that before. In other words. On different nights. Same ending. But this time… It sounded different. And that’s what’s messing with me.
I slide down the wall before I can stop myself, knees pulling in, hand coming up to press against my chest like I can steady whatever’s beating too hard inside.
“Why…” my voice cracks, quiet, frustrated. “Why now?”
Tears blur my vision before I can stop them. I wipe them away quickly—aggressively.
Because I’m not doing this.
I’m not crying over him again.
But my body?
It ain’t fucking listening.
No matter how strong I’ve been… No matter how loudly I’ve said I’m done… This nigga still knows exactly where to touch me—and he ain’t even here.
“I hate this…” I whisper, voice breaking open now.
Not him.
This feeling.
This pull.
Because it doesn’t align with the truth I’ve been standing on. I lean my head back against the wall, eyes closing, tears slipping anyway. Because the truth is—I meant every word I said.
I am done. I am tired. I am choosing me… but that doesn’t erase him. It doesn’t erase the years. It doesn’t erase the love. It just means I finally chose myself despite it.
And that?
That’s the part that hurts the most. I’m still on the floor when my phone buzzes. I don’t even move at first because I already know who it is. My chest tightens anyway.
Slowly… I look down.
Simmy’s name.
But I know better.
I swipe it open.
Aye Rhy, I know you might not believe me, but I do love you. You got my heart. I might not show it at times, but you do.
My throat tightens.
I hate that it does.
I got a lot of regrets when it comes to us, but loving you and asking you to be my wife ain’t one of them.
I close my eyes because that part hits where I try not to feel anything.
I ain’t never wanted to be the nigga who caused you pain, but I did… being reckless as fuck.
A tear slips before I can stop it.
I wipe it quickly—annoyed. Now I’m mad again. Mad that he’s reaching me.
On God I’mma right my wrongs with you…
I shake my head slowly. I’ve heard promises before. But this one? It doesn’t sound like the old ones. And that’s what makes it worse.
…and just know I’m coming for you. Believe that.
The room is quiet again, but it doesn’t feel the same. Not after that message. I sit there, still, staring at nothing—his words replaying whether I want them to or not.
I’m coming for you.
My chest tightens because a part of me—a real part of me—knows he meant it. Not the way I want him to.
Not soft.
Not healed.
But real.
And that’s what makes it dangerous. I exhale slowly, dragging my hands down my face before pushing myself up off the floor.
“Enough…” I whisper because sitting here, feeling him, ain’t gonna save me.
It ain’t gonna change nothing. I grab my bag, steadying myself, forcing my breathing back to something controlled. Business—that’s what I need. Not him.