Morning. It’s 11. I get up, brush my teeth, and hop in the shower. For half a second I panic — what the fuck am I wearing tonight? Gio’s picking me up at seven and I still don’t know what I’m gonna wear.
Shower done, PJs on, I wander into the kitchen and find a note stuck to the counter.
I’m sorry, princess. I had to leave — two weeks in the Dominican. I had shit to handle. It’s taken care of now. I actually landed this morning. I’ll make it up to you today. Don’t forget our date. I’ll kill the person who woke you up at 3 a.m. — Gio :)
I smile and try not to take the murder threat seriously. Maybe don’t piss this man off.
I make breakfast, dig through a mountain of clothes, finally pull a dark-blue dress that hugs the right places, and kill time watching a movie. Around noon I get a text from Javon: “I’m sorry about last night. I thought about it. I’ll be friends if you want. Maybe lunch?”
Nope. Not today. I text back the polite decline and keep getting ready.
By 5:40 I shower again, do mascara, Vaseline on my lips, a quick coil in my front hair, and take a few pictures—none get posted. At 6:43 I realize I still don’t have his number. How the fuck will I know when he’s here?
6:58 — knock. I grab my keys, gloss, and open the door.
Gio stands there like he walked out of my fantasies. He’s clean, dangerous, smelling like him and money. My mouth waters. I want to suck him right there in the doorway.
“You look beautiful, princess,” he says, stepping in. We kiss. Hard.
“You look good too, Gio,” I breathe. His smile widens and those dimples stab me. “We gotta go before I decide to fuck you right here and rip that beautiful dress off,” he adds, smirking.
“Don’t play with my dress,” I warn.
He chuckles. We lock the door and head out — him holding my waist, me leaning into him.
In the car his hand finds my thigh and I almost lose it. The whole ride is loaded.
The restaurant looks expensive and perfect. We sit, menus in hand.
“What do you want, princess?” he asks, already watching me like I’m the only thing in the room.
“Pasta,” I say. “You?”
“Pasta with shrimp,” he nods. “We’ll rate this place one to five after. First-time together.” He smiles shy and weird and I melt.
The server comes and Gio stares like he’s ready to flip a table if the guy breathes wrong. I nudge him under the table and get nothing but a hard stare. The server takes our orders, and Gio says the exact same thing I ordered. The dude leaves.
“What was that about?” I whisper.
He relaxes for half a second. “He was smiling at you. I didn’t like that.”
“He was being nice,” I say.
“Nice my ass,” he mutters, more to himself. I laugh because he looks ridiculous trying not to laugh.
We talk about dumb shit, laughing until we’re red. He’s opening up, and it’s cute and terrifying.
Then the food comes — a pretty girl brings our plates. She smiles at Gio and he goes cold. I don’t like this at all.
“How’s the food, Gio?” she asks with too much sweetness.
“It’s good,” he says, clipped. When she tries to lay a hand on his arm, he yanks it away like he burned himself. Hard enough her face snaps.
“Oh—” the girl stammers, then blurts out, “He’s my husband.” She’s stupidly smiling, like she’s making a joke or trying to claim him.
Something in me snaps. The room tilts. I stand up before I even think.
“No. No. I’m not doing this,” I say and walk out.
“Sierra,” Gio calls, voice low, but I keep walking.
Outside, I hear him lose it.
“I’m not your fucking husband, you psycho. I swear to God, I’ll kill you with my bare hands—” His voice cracks between anger and menace.
I don’t wait. I’m already hailing an Uber, my hands shaking. The app says three minutes. Thank God.
My chest’s a drum. My throat’s tight. I don’t want to be anywhere near that table. I don’t want to hear whatever the girl says next. I don’t want to feel his rage and my pulse buzzing at the same time.
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