Page 62 of The Birthday Girl
Miracle leaned forward, staring into Danielle’s eyes. “So what’s your move?”
Danielle swiped her palm across her wet cheeks, her breathing ragged. “I’m crashing that fucking memorial tomorrow, and the world’s gonna see me drag her ass right off that podium. I don’t give a fuck. I’m getting that bitch for playing with me.”
Miracle smirked, though her eyes stayed hard. “Well damn, Dani. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
Danielle’s lips curved into something sharp and bitter. “Good advice.”
The next morning, Danielle woke before the gray sun had managed to peel itself from the horizon. She leaned over the crib, careful not to jostle Tyricka, and watched her daughter’s small chest rise and fall. It was a steady, anchoring rhythm, and for a moment, Danielle let herself believe that things could still be normal, that this was just another bad morning on the far side of a worse night. However, the air in the house was wrong, more still than usual, as if the walls themselves mourned.
In the dull light of the bathroom, Danielle raked her fingers through her tangled braids and pulled herself together with angry resolve. Her reflection looked foreign, carved down and puckered around the eyes, but she met her own gaze with a glint that told of her fury.
Back inside her bedroom, she ransacked her closet, yanking hangers so hard the rod threatened to come loose from the drywall. She pulled out a black wrap dress she’d bought for a wake two years back, with the tags still attached. It had a deep V-neck and a fabric belt that tied at the waist.
Danielle showered, then bathed Tyricka and wrapped her in a clean towel. Afterward, she gently set her baby in her carrier by the bathroom door, then dressed in the still-damp air. She yanked the wrap dress higher on her shoulders and cinched the belt as tightly as the fabric allowed. With her added baby weight,the dress was unflattering, but she didn’t care. She avoided the mirror as she smeared on a single streak of eyeliner before giving up and settling for the smudges under her eyes.
Miracle returned mid-morning as promised with a coffee clutched in one hand and a bouquet in the other. She didn’t comment on Danielle’s puffy face or the state of her living room. Instead, she watched Danielle try to fill the diaper bag, then wordlessly took over, adding wipes, a pacifier, and, without asking, a spare onesie in case Tyricka had an accident.
“You need me to get her dressed,” Miracle asked, seeing as though Danielle had seemed to have forgotten.
Danielle shrugged, busying herself by cramming wipes and bottles into the bag. Miracle reached over and scooped Tyricka up, cradling her against her chest as she reached for a tiny outfit from the pile on the sofa. She dressed the baby while stealing glances at Danielle’s brittle movements.
“You know Tahlia is going to lose her shit when you show up,” Miracle said, tucking Tyricka into a black pants bodysuit and a tiny black cardigan. “You sure you’re up for the blowback?”
Danielle’s jaw locked. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be going.” She zipped the diaper bag with finality and set it by the door. “Tahlia is about to learn that I’m not the person to fuck with.”
Before she left, Danielle posted the flyer on her story and tagged Tahlia in all caps, the caption: YOU PLAYED THE WRONG BITCH!
22- Star-studded
Chrome wheels crunched to a halt against the curb outside of New Hope Baptist Church. Behind the Range Rover limo’s midnight-tinted glass, Tahlia's face remained motionless while camera flashes exploded against the windows as hungry vultures pecked for a glimpse of the darkness within.
Police cruisers flanked the street, their lights spinning silently while a phalanx of private security formed a wall between the church doors and the surging crowd. Metal barricades kept reporters, mourners, and nosy bystanders pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with their cell phones and cameras lifted high in hopes of getting a shot worth selling.
Uniformed officers barked orders at the throng, and behind them, suited men with earpieces scanned the sidewalks. The Banks’ name had always drawn attention, but today it looked like a head of state had arrived.
Real estate moguls received attention, but never like this. This kind of spotlight was reserved for Hollywood stars or trustfund heirs caught with cocaine and call girls. There was nothing remotely glamorous about kneeling before a casket, no matter how tasteful the lacquered wood or the floral arrangements were.
The church itself was dressed in mourning. Black cloth hung over its brick façade, and the white cross above the steeple glared against the gray afternoon sky as bouquets of lilies and roses framed the front steps. Locals who had known the Banks family for decades stood shoulder to shoulder with family members and ambitious strangers, all waiting for a glimpse of the daughter left to carry their legacy.
Inside the limo, Tahlia sat poised in the plush leather seat, her black dress clinging to her hourglass figure, and a single strand of pearls softening the neckline. Her hair was in a cascade of glossy curls that caught the dim light, and her makeup was immaculate. Winged liner as sharp as a blade, and lipstick the precise shade of a bruised rose that lent her beauty without excess.
Tahlia had crafted the balance carefully. Her intent was to look striking, but never so much that anyone could accuse her of vanity. Today, she wanted to be perceived as the grieving daughter, not a model on a runway.
She checked her reflection in a compact mirror. She was calm, composed, and even slightly bored. Heather dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, and Ezra watched her before shifting his gaze to Tahlia. He’d spent enough years around her to know the stillness in her body wasn’t devastation. It was strategy.
When the door opened, reporters shouted her name, and cameras snapped as though they knew her. Tahlia exhaled, then in the span of a heartbeat, she transformed. Her spine curled, and her lips parted, trembling with the hint of unshed tears. By the time her heels hit the pavement, her hand fluttered delicately to her chest, as if only the pearls kept her heart from breakingin two. She reached for Heather’s arm, allowing herself to be guided, her eyes glistening for the world to see.
The crowd responded instantly. Voices softened, phones lowered in reverence, and the reporters’ questions were now wrapped in sympathy. To them, she was the perfect picture of tragedy.
Ezra followed a half-step behind, his head held high, eyes focused on Tahlia’s back. He had seen her dry-eyed composure in the limo and seen the moment she easily slipped into her mask of grief. The switch was too seamless and too easy for his liking, but he said nothing. He just adjusted his tie and kept his eyes forward.
The doors of New Hope gaped open wide, the entryway drowned in sprays of white roses and lilies that perfumed the air with something sweet. Pallbearers in matching white suits stood ready, their solemn faces set in grief. Inside, the hum of the organ drifted out to meet the clamor of the street. It was a low, steady dirge fighting to be heard above the shouts and camera shutters.
Heather clutched Tahlia’s arm as they climbed the steps, whispering something that was lost to the chaos around them. Tahlia nodded faintly, her expression carved in glassy sorrow, the tilt of her chin rehearsed, the moisture at her lashes catching the light at just the right angle. Her performance was seamless.
From the barricades, family friends and locals craned their necks. Some shouted blessings, others their condolences. Family members who had not been given seats inside jostled against security for a better view, hoping their presence would be noticed. More than one face wore bitterness under its grief, and anger that the Banks legacy had been distilled to one daughter, one image, one story.
Cameras popped with every step Tahlia took, documenting the way her black heels caught the sun, the way her hand lingeredat her throat, and the way her grief seemed to hover delicately between collapse and endurance. The narrative was writing itself, and she made sure to feed it.
