Page 3 of The Birthday Girl
The final insult came when she read the caption.
Happy birthday, boo. He won’t be able to make the party, but I’ll make sure he eats enough cake for both of us.
The phone slipped an inch in her grip, and her lungs seized mid-breath. Her fingertips tingled, then went pink around the edges as she tightened her hold. She blinked once, then again. The image remained fixed on the screen, growing sharper with every passing second, as the comments multiplied beneath it.
@MiaWithTheViews:(Three laughing emojis.)Chile, this is a mess. Niggas love to embarrass you, and they don’t give a damn when they do it.
Three hundred and forty-two comments already.
@RealEstateBabe:sending you prayers, Tahlia. Nothing about this shit is cute.(Praying hands.)
@KingMaker212:ain’t no way I’d be sucking a broke hoe pussy if my bitch was a fucking billionaire. This nigga down bad. The only way I can see this is if wifey’s pussy is trash.
“I’m thinking the roses should be elevated another three inches to really catch the light from the chandeliers,” the decorator’s voice pierced through Tahlia’s fog.
Her chair screeched against the floor as she stood and spun around, phone still clutched in her hand. Pearl, Tahlia assumed that was her name, froze mid-gesture with her clipboard pressed against her chest.
“Out. Everyone out. Now.” Tahlia’s voice was firm, though holding it together took everything in her.
The room emptied so quickly one would’ve thought she had pulled a weapon instead of throwing a tantrum. Forty thousand dollars’ worth of custom florals and a battalion of waiters and caterers scattered, all afraid of her, or what she would do to them if they disobeyed. It was impossible to know which.
When Tahlia was finally alone, she sank back into the chair, fingers trembling as she pressed the woman’s profile image. The name on the screen was Shanice Carter.
The scroll began. Videos of Shanice shaking her ass in clubs, laughing with drinks in both hands, and posing half-dressed in bathroom mirrors under fluorescent lights that did nothing for her complexion filled the entire page. She was thirty-five, graduated from James Madison High School in 2007, and had two children under the age of five, although her captions read like those of a teenager.
The children appeared every so often, smiling with missing teeth and holding juice boxes, but they were mentioned only in passing.
Kids with Grandma tonight. I’m outside.
Tahlia stared at the photographs longer than she should have. Shanice was a party girl who sought attention by posting thirst traps in lingerie and measured her worth by the number of views and comments she received. She lived her life out loud, cheap and loud. Tahlia had never been one to judge because she felt people were free to live how they saw fit, but Shanice had dragged her into that world, and now she could not unsee it.
Every fucked-up priority leapt off the screen, such as the nights spent at a bar instead of reading to her children. Every filtered selfie screamed of her desperation, and every caption begged for attention. It was quite pathetic in Tahlia’s eyes. For Shanice to be such a beautiful woman, she was such a waste of space.
And that was who Tyriq had chosen to embarrass her with. A broke imitation of everything she had left behind. A woman who reminded her far too much of her older sisters, whom she secretly despised.
Tahlia stared at Shanice long enough to hate everything about her, then tossed the phone to the end of the table, knocking over the centerpiece.
Every promise Tyriq had ever made to her had been broken, and Tahlia was in shambles. She had been cheated on before, but never that publicly, which made her take a moment to try to tally the things she might have done to deserve it. That was if the universe believed in fairness.
After sitting there for minutes and coming up empty, unless simply existing as a woman who expected the bare minimum from those who claimed to love her counted as some cosmic offense, Tahlia finally gave up. What more did they want from her? A perfect daughter, a perfect friend, a perfect lover. Yet not so perfect that she shamed the rest by comparison.
Her eyes closed as she summoned the ritual she had created in middle school, a nervous code she calledthe Konami Calm.Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start. She pressed the invisible buttons in her mind, repeatedly chanting the sequences. By the time she opened her eyes, her pulse had steadied into something she could control.
Outside the private dining suite, the caterers whispered in the hallway, their voices prickling her skin. She glanced at the mirrors lining the walls, and her reflection stared back at her.Tahlia’s lashes were flawless, her lips were glossy, and her brown skin glowed with rage. Her hair, waist-length curls spilling in glossy waves, framed a face carved by both love and cruelty. Her cheekbones were prominent, and her almond-shaped eyes carried entire wars in their depths.
Tahlia was a goddess. A beautiful Black woman built from ambition and survival, and people still tried to cut her down to nothing by plucking her apart piece by piece.
She smoothed her gown across her lap and adjusted the diamond cuff at her wrist, the sparkle catching the light. Rage gleamed back at her from her reflection, polished and righteous, but beneath it lay the calm she had summoned. The Konami Calm.
She would not give anyone the satisfaction of watching her unravel, and she would not give Tyriq the privilege of believing he had ruined her party. Tonight was still her night. Her birthday. And she would be damned if she allowed anyone to dim the shine she had built with her own two hands.
Tahlia crossed the room to the door, eased it open, and leaned into the hallway, her voice smooth as velvet when she said to her staff, “You may return.”
The caterers filed back inside, their gazes fixed anywhere but on her. Pearl, the decorator, glanced around the room with feigned composure, pretending nothing had happened. The background noise swelled again. Crystal tapped against crystal as glasses found their places on linen-draped tables, and just like that, everything resumed.
Tahlia held herself upright with the dignity of a queen in exile, chin level, not a hair out of place. She drifted through the final checks, listening to the chatter, while her mind prowled the edges of violence, of what-ifs and how-dares, of everything she could destroy with a single phone call.
It didn’t escape her notice how quickly the staff converted their nervous energy into flawless precision. They worked as if every fold, every plate, and every petal might tip the balance between triumph and disaster.
