CHAPTER 4
Miley’s POV:
But inside my bedroom, the only sound that mattered was the sharp, rhythmic thud of my sneakers hitting the rubber yoga mat and the heavy, intentional pattern of my own breathing.
Ninety-eight... I muttered, my voice barely a rasp against the quiet of the room. My shoulders were on fire, the muscles screaming at me.
Ninety-nine... The sweat was dripping down the bridge of my nose, pooling on the mat right between my hands.
One hundred.
I pushed off the floor with every ounce of strength left in my upper body, locking my elbows out for one glorious, agonizing second before collapsing entirely onto my stomach.
I lay there for a beat, my chest heaving against the mat, letting out a long, dramatic groan of pure relief.
My arms were trembling like wet noodles, but it was that good kind of burn—the kind that let me know the work I was putting in was actually doing what it was supposed to do.
After about a minute of acting like I was dead, I rolled over and pushed myself up onto my feet.
I grabbed my oversized neon-green towel from the edge of the bed and wiped the thick sheen of sweat off my face, neck, and chest. I walked over to the full-length mirror that leaned against the wall in the corner, throwing the towel over my shoulder, and I couldn't help but let a slow, wicked smirk spread across my face.
"Okay, Miley," I whispered to myself, shaking my head. "I see you. The ancestors definitely blessed the blueprint."
The daily routine was non-negotiable. I didn't care if I went to bed at three in the morning or if I was exhausted down to my bones—every single morning started exactly like this.
One hundred sit-ups. One hundred squats.
One hundred push-ups. No breaks, no excuses.
And looking in the glass right now, the results were shouting back at me.
My brown skin was glowing, slick with perspiration that made it look like I’d been dipped in some kind of expensive honey.
My body was completely tight. My legs were thick, heavy, and powerful from the squats—the kind of thighs that looked good in a pair of tight jeans but looked even better in the corporate pencil skirts I’d been buying.
My abs were popping through my sports bra, defined and hard from the morning crunches.
I turned to the side, checking the arch of my back and the way my glutes sat perfectly lifted above my hamstrings.
Everybody in the neighborhood always talked about Miley’s shape.
They talked about the fat ass that made heads turn whenever I walked past the barbershop on Seventh Avenue, but people didn't realize I worked for this.
I worked at home, every single day, building the fortress I walked around in.
I was a hot black chick with lovely brown skin, lovely long box braids that hit the small of my back, and a smile that could melt a man's entire bank account.
I was primed, I was ready, and I was feeling myself.
I grabbed my visual-aesthetic clear water bottle from my nightstand, cracking the cap open and taking a long, ice-cold swig.
The frozen liquid slid down my throat, instantly chilling my core.
I walked past my bed and pushed the heavy glass sliding doors open, stepping out onto our small concrete balcony to catch the morning air.
The transition from the warm, enclosed apartment to the outside was an absolute blessing.
The breeze hit my damp skin, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
It was that perfect, fleeting window of time in a New York summer where the air actually felt fresh, right before the noon sun turned the asphalt into a sticky furnace.
I leaned my elbows on the rusted iron railing, looking out over the sleeping streets, watching a single yellow cab cruise slowly down the avenue.
As I stood there, letting the wind dry the sweat at the nape of my neck, my mind completely detached from the block and drifted back to the 40th floor of E-Tech Corp.
I wondered what the Ice Queen was doing right now.
Did Helisa Smith even sleep? Or did she just plug herself into a wall charging station like the high-tech machinery she built?
I pictured her in some multi-million-dollar penthouse overlooking Central Park, maybe doing some elite-level, private-instructor yoga, or standing on a balcony twenty times bigger than mine, reading global market reports on a tablet while wearing a silk robe that cost more than my entire college tuition.
The sheer thought of her—the memory of those intense, piercing dark brown eyes scanning my body yesterday morning—made a strange, sudden spark of heat flare up deep within my stomach.
It was an intoxicating, terrifying feeling.
I was just an intern, but the pull that woman had on my thoughts was already getting dangerous.
A soft, sudden flutter-flutter of wings broke me out of my trance.
I blinked, looking down to my right. A dusty, remarkably plump gray pigeon had just pitched on the railing, not even a foot away from my left hand.
He cocked his head to the side, his little orange, beady eye locking onto me with an absolute lack of fear.
He looked at me like I was the intruder on his morning route.
"Oh, you think you bold, huh?" I chuckled, my hood tonality slipping out naturally since nobody was around to judge my corporate posture. "What you looking at, little man? You think I’m just out here to look pretty for you?"
The pigeon let out a low, vibrating coo, hopping an inch closer. His little pink claws scratched against the metal.
"I don't have no bread out here for you, baby. All I got is this water," I murmured.
I looked at the water bottle in my hand, then at the bird.
Feeling a sudden wave of sweetness, I twisted the plastic cap completely off the bottle.
With a steady hand, I carefully poured a little bit of the cold water into the small plastic cap, filling it right to the brim.
I held it out on the flat palm of my hand, keeping my body perfectly still, barely breathing.
To my absolute surprise, the bird didn't fly off. He took one tiny, cautious hop forward, looked at my face, and then lowered his beak into the cap. He began pucking at the water, drinking with a rapid, thirsty intensity.
"Ah, you’re a thirsty little bugger, huh?" I smiled, my heart melting a little bit at the sight. "Look at you. I know it’s hot out here. Wait, hang on... I think I have some crackers inside."
I carefully placed the water-filled cap down on the concrete floor of the balcony. The pigeon flew down from the railing, landing with a soft thud right next to it, dropping his head back to let the water flow down his beak and into his system.
I slipped back through the sliding doors, moving quietly through the living room.
Terra’s bedroom door was still shut tight—the girl was back there sleeping like a damn log, completely dead to the world, probably drooling on her satin pillowcase.
I tipped-toed into the kitchen, opening the upper cabinets and rummaging through the boxes until my fingers hit a sleeve of saltines.
I pulled out two square crackers and hurried back out onto the balcony, all excited like a little kid. I hunkered down on the concrete, my thick thighs compressing against my torso, and began breaking the crispy biscuits into tiny, bite-sized crumbs on the floor.
"There you go, king. Feast up," I whispered.
The pigeon hopped over in pure glee, his head bobbing furiously as he began picking at the broken biscuits. He was eating so fast you’d think he had a train to catch. I reached out with one finger, real slow, and surprisingly, he let me pat the very top of his dusty head.
"That’s a good bird," I said, a wide, genuine smile breaking across my face as I continued to rub the bird’s head. "See? I got you. We gotta look out for each other out here."
"I didn’t know that we were running the Salvation Army out on this balcony now."
I jumped nearly a whole foot in the air, my heart violently leaping straight into my throat as a gasp ripped out of my mouth. My sneakers scrambled against the concrete as I spun around, my back hitting the balcony railing.
Terra was standing inside the doorframe, leaning her shoulder against the wood.
Her hair was a glorious, wild mess of morning curls that went in every damn direction, and she had her oversized black silk robe wrapped loosely around her body.
She was wiping the crust from her eyes with her knuckles, looking down at me and the feasting pigeon like we were both prime candidates for a psychiatric ward.
"Damn, Terra!" I breathed, rubbing the center of my chest where my heart was still pounding a mile a minute. "You tryin to give a bitch a whole cardiac arrest before seven in the morning? You can't just be materializing out of thin air like a ghost!"
"Please," Terra scoffed, her voice a deep, raspy morning growl that was pure hood luxury.
She crossed her arms over her chest, the silk parting slightly at her neck to show a hint of her smooth, dark skin.
"You out here talking to the wildlife at the crack of dawn.
I know I heard you tell that bird 'feast up, king.
' Miley, you have officially lost your entire mind. "
"C’mon, look at him, he’s hungry," I said, looking down at the pigeon, who didn't give a single damn about our conversation as long as the crackers kept existing. I hunkered back down for a second, giving the bird’s head one last little rub. "He was thirsty too. He drank right out of my hand."
Terra took a step closer, looking down at the bird, then her eyes traveled slowly up my legs, over my waist, and up to my face. A slow, knowing grin started to spread across her lips.