28. Asha
Asha
Supreme brought me flowers the next day.
Not the usual bodega bouquet he'd grab on the way home when he remembered.
These were proper flowers, wrapped in tissue paper, delivered to the apartment by a woman in a black apron who rang the bell and handed them to me with a card that read For my queen. Love always, Premie.
I put them in water and set them on the kitchen counter. They were beautiful. Lilies, roses, something purple I didn't know the name of. I arranged them in the vase, stepped back, looked at them. I understood exactly what they were.
A reward for staying.
Supreme cooked that night. He sent the cook home early, rolled up his sleeves, and made oxtail with rice and peas from scratch. He moved around the kitchen with music playing from his phone, singing along to tracks I didn't recognize, asking me to taste things while he stirred.
"How's the seasoning?" He held a spoon out to me.
"Perfect, Premie." I blew on it, tasted it, nodded. "Just right."
"See? I told you I could cook." He grinned. "You just never let me."
"Because you burn everything."
"That was one time." He pointed the spoon at me. "One time. And it wasn't burnt, it was caramelized."
I laughed because the joke was actually funny, which was the worst part of Supreme.
He could be charming when he turned it on.
He could make you forget, for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, that he was a man who ordered throats slit over dinner and unpacked your escape bag without raising his voice once.
He took me shopping the next afternoon. Cee drove us to SoHo and Supreme held the car door open for me like a gentleman, his hand finding the small of my back as we walked toward the first store.
The boutique was all white walls, gold fixtures, and a saleswoman who looked at Supreme's watch before she looked at his face.
"My girl needs something special," Supreme told her. "Whatever she wants."
The saleswoman smiled at me. I smiled back. Two women performing for the same man for different reasons.
Supreme picked out a dress from the rack before I'd even started looking. Deep green, fitted, something you'd wear to a dinner where everyone was watching. He held it up against me, one hand on the hanger, the other on my waist.
"Try this on, baby."
"I was looking at the blue one."
"The green's better. Trust me." He kissed my temple. "Go put it on. Let me see."
I took the dress to the fitting room. The saleswoman followed me in, helped me with the zipper, told me I had a beautiful figure. I stood in front of the mirror looking at myself in a dress I hadn't chosen, picked by a man I hadn't chosen, and I smiled because the saleswoman was watching.
"Gorgeous," she said.
I came out and stood in front of Supreme. He leaned back in the velvet chair they'd brought for him, his legs spread, his chin in his hand, studying me like I was a painting he was considering purchasing.
"Turn around," he said.
I turned.
"Yeah." He nodded slowly. "That's the one. We'll take it."
"Premie, I haven't even looked at anything else..."
"You don't need to. That dress was made for you." He pulled out his card and handed it to the saleswoman without looking at the price. "Wrap it up. And whatever shoes go with it."
The saleswoman chose the shoes. Supreme approved them. I stood there while they discussed heel height and color matching like I was furniture being accessorized.
He bought me a coat at the next store. Long, camel-colored, expensive.
I told him I didn't need a coat and he laughed and said baby it's Brooklyn you always need a coat.
The shop assistant folded it into tissue paper while Supreme stood behind me with his arms around my waist, his chin on my shoulder, telling me how good I was going to look in it.
His generosity was a cage with a bow on it. Every gift was a brick in the wall he was building around me. Every "whatever you want, baby" was a reminder that what I wanted didn't matter because he'd already decided.
In the car on the way to dinner his hand was on my thigh, his thumb drawing circles. "You deserve nice things, baby. I want you to have everything."
Everything except freedom. Everything except a choice.
The restaurant in Williamsburg had exposed brick, candlelight, a hostess who called Supreme by name. He pulled my chair out, adjusted it for me, then sat across the table with his elbows on the white cloth.
"We'll have the ribeye for two," he told the waiter before I'd opened the menu. "Medium rare. The lobster mac as a starter. And she'll have the Caesar, no croutons, light dressing."
"I actually wanted the salmon," I said.
Supreme looked at me across the candles. His smile didn't change but something behind his eyes recalibrated. "Baby, the ribeye here is incredible. Trust me. You'll love it."
"I'm sure it's great. I just feel like salmon tonight."
The waiter stood there with his pen hovering, his eyes going between us. Supreme reached across the table and took my hand. His grip was warm, firm. His thumb pressed against my knuckles.
"Get the ribeye," he said softly. "For me."
I looked at his hand on mine. At his thumb on my knuckles. At the waiter standing there waiting. At the other diners around us eating their food, living their normal lives, having no idea what was happening at this table.
"The ribeye sounds great," I told the waiter.
Supreme squeezed my hand and smiled. "See? I know what my baby likes."
He told the waiter I was the most beautiful woman in Brooklyn.
The waiter agreed because you agree with the man holding the black card.
Supreme topped up my wine without asking if I wanted more, told a story about a business deal he'd closed that morning, reached across the table to wipe a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his napkin.
Every gesture was ownership dressed up as romance. Every touch was a claim. We were both performing for each other, two actors running lines in a play neither of us believed in but couldn't leave.
The difference was he didn't know I was acting. He thought I was coming around.
At home he kissed me in the kitchen, long and slow, his hands on my waist. I kissed him back because that was the job.
When he pulled away he looked at me with something in his eyes that might have been real affection, genuine belief that the flowers, the cooking, the shopping had worked.
That the escape attempt was a blip, not a warning.
"We're good, right?" he asked, his forehead against mine.
"We're good, Premie."
"Promise me you ain't gonna do nothing like that again."
"I promise."
He kissed my forehead and went to take a shower. I stood in the kitchen with my hands on the counter, looking at the flowers he'd bought me, listening to the water run.
I picked up my phone and checked for messages. Nene had texted twice.
You okay? Haven't heard from you in a minute.
Ash. Text me back.
I went to the bathroom, locked the door, ran the tap, and typed carefully.
I'm here. Can't talk much. Things got tighter after what happened.
Nene replied fast: What happened? Are you hurt?
I tried to leave. He caught me before I made it to the corner.
A pause. Then: Shit. Are you safe right now?
Yeah. He's being extra nice. Flowers, cooking, shopping. You know what that means.
I know exactly what that means. Another pause. Ash, we need to get you out properly this time. No solo shit. You hear me?
I hear you.
I mean it. You tried it your way and it didn't work. Let the people who know how to do this do it.
She was right. I'd packed a bag and walked out the front door like I was going to the store, and Supreme's people had been waiting for me like they already knew.
Because they did know. Because Cee had been reporting back for days about my movements, about the gaps in my schedule, about the home visits that didn't add up.
Supreme might frame it as concern for my safety but he'd had those men posted because he'd already suspected something.
I couldn't outrun his operation on my own. I'd proved that.
I hear you, I typed again. I'm done trying to do this by myself.
Good. Stay safe. I love you.
Love you too.
I deleted the conversation, flushed the toilet, and went back to the bedroom. Supreme was out of the shower, towel around his waist, picking out clothes. He smiled when he saw me.
"Come here, baby."
I went to him. He wrapped his arms around me, his skin still damp, and held me against his chest. I let him hold me and counted the seconds until he let go.
That night I lay in bed waiting for his breathing to even out into sleep. It took longer than usual because he kept touching me, his hand on my hip, his lips against my shoulder, mumbling things I tuned out. Eventually the touching stopped, the breathing slowed, and he was out like a light.
I pulled out my phone from under the covers. The screen lit up my face in the dark.
I texted Omar: When are we doing this?
His reply came in under a minute: I'm already working on it. Sit tight.
How long?
Days. Maybe less. We're putting something together.
Omar.
Yeah?
Thank you.
He didn't reply to that. He didn't need to. I deleted the thread, put my phone back under the pillow, and closed my eyes.
Supreme rolled toward me in his sleep, his body curving against mine, his weight settling along my back. I let him and lay there in the dark counting the things I was grateful for. Omar was working on something. Nene was ready. Whatever was coming, I wouldn't be doing it alone.
For the first time since I'd stood in this bedroom watching Supreme unpack my bag, the door inside me opened a crack.
Just a crack. But it was enough.