Page 35 of Good As Hell

Later after seeingLyric’s family and our friends including FADE and his family off on the royal air fleet, sending them back to America’s shores with no black site detours, I come to the suite I now share with my family looking on my son and new wife cuddled together sleeping in our bed.

Careful not to wake either of them, I pick up Ayaan, taking him to his room.

After tucking him in and making sure he doesn’t wake back up, I head straight to my bath, washing the day away.

Nothing removes the singe of shame that I’ve caused Lyric. After smoking and kicking back with my best friends in the world, I took time to look at the blogs and Tiktoks speaking on Lyric, paying close attention to one particularly vicious entertainment influencer.

Seems like there were several clips from DiDi’s cousin, Joi, who, though gossipy with exclusives she’d could have only gotten from her cousins, was not cruel or mean. Her little Shelby-Love Chronicle was one of the few places that showed us in a positive light.

Resolving to give her this one thing. I made the necessary calls to wipe those stories from the internet.

Rubbing the towel through my curls, I stand over my wife watching her sleep much the same way as I did this morning. She’d probably be shocked to know she snores.

I can’t seem to stop being fascinated by the way her nose scrunches up in her sleep or the way she clutches the cover like it’s a lovey.

She’s too grown to be called adorable, but that is exactly what she seems like to me at the moment.

Sighing because there is nothing for it. I take off the robe climbing into bed.

“Hassan?” She mumbles sleepily, struggling as if to make sure it’s me and not anyone else. Her hypervigilance makes rage snake around my heart. That night when she hid from me under those mountains of pillows is never far from my mind. I have not pressed her. I haven’t earned the right to demand she tell who hurt her but when I do and I will; I will not stop until I have wiped that motherfucker from this earth.

“It’s me habibti,” I murmur the endearment I never meant to use for her, but it seems so right in this moment. Pulling her into the safety of my arms, I hold her long moments, resolving in some way to make this work.

Chapter Twelve

WHEN THE WORLD CRIMBLES

LYRIC

Over a thousand reported dead and at least as many missing as authorities scramble to save as many people as possible from the rubble. The earthquake striking south of Marrakesh was at least 6.8 if not higher. The Red Crescent has been deployed, and recovering teams from neighboring countries are on the way. His Majesty King has tapped His Royal Highness, Prince Hassan Al Rasheed, to lead the rescue and recovery efforts.

My tummy drops, watching as person after person pulled from under collapsed buildings in the towns of Al Haouz and Taroudant. No one was spared. Historic landmarks all the way to Marrakesh were leveled by the earthquake.

I cover my throat, watching a little child’s limp body being pulled free, trying hard not to break down.

Despite the being found deep underground, his little fingers wiggle.

“Praise God,” the words pass brokenly from my lips. Covering my heart, I continue to watch, unable to drag myself away.

“You need to turn that off before Ayaan comes running in here and sees you upset. You’ve been glued to the tv all day.” Fi tells me, coming over to grab the remote.

“No,” I snatch it back. “I need to see what’s going on.” I tell her, turning down the volume in compromise. She’s right. I’ve been locked into the broadcast from the moment Hassan was called away fore day this morning.

“Why?” she screws me with a withering look. “These motherfuckers gave you one briefing, if you can even call it that. They have been locked away politicking and shit all day and have not once come to check on you after the news dropped. Being a consort is not a queen. It’s not anything other than waiting for him to come back and dick you down.”

Her words feel like slap after vicious slap of truth. The kind that only a true friend or sister will tell you. There is nothing I can say because she’s said everything I have been thinking in the weeks since Hassan forced me to marry him.

Gone is the powerhouse singer. The superstar has disappeared not only from the public, but from my very being. I only sing, play songs and lullabies for my son now. No accolades or achievements, no adoring fans or pleasing any crowds. I’m like a chubby little domesticated tabby, not even a fierce siamese like my cat back home with Onyx. No, I’m literally doing just as she says, waiting every day for Hassan to come back from his office or some meeting in another province to dick me down trying to get me pregnant.

“I don’t know what you want me to do. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m good and stuck. I have no power here. I’m locked in with a man who how controls every aspect of my life. Even being with Ayaan depends on me not making him mad, Fi.” Trying to make her understand is met with skepticism. Even I hear the defeated despondency in my tone.

“Girl, if you don’t get the fuck outta here with that bullshit. That man got you dickmatized. You can tell him no. You can make him honor your wishes. Yeah, he got you good with that whole kidnapping and lord of the manner thing, but let me learn you something like my granny used to say. You need to adapt and overcome because you’ve lost yourself.” She huffs, turning away. Frustration is palpable in her every movement.

“I get it and I’m sorry I got you caught up in my mess, bestie.” Her head swivels back to me. I see things too.

“How are things over at Fariq’s?” I ask in a gentle tone.

Shoulders slumping, she sits down on the settee facing opposite mine. “Terrible, horrible, no good.” Then she covers her face, staring down at the plush rug beneath our bare feet. “We made love.” The confession erupts like out of her like Mount Kilauea.

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