Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Check that phone again,” whisper-warns the woman walking beside me, “and I’m tossing it in the bay.”
Biscayne Bay butts up to a sprawling Miami mansion and my companion, Chapel—client turned good friend—may be right. I should relax for one night… while I can. I slip the phone into the pocket of my wide-legged white linen pants and turn up the wattage on my smile.
“No more phone,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “Party girl reporting for duty.”
And it is a duty. Copping an invite to one of the most exclusive parties of the year is cool, and I’m happy to be Chapel’s plus-one. She is my client, though, and despite the music thumping through the walls and the sea of beautiful people dressed in all white, this is work.
“Last year this time,” Chapel says as we approach the front door of the four-level glass-paned mansion, “I was watching celebrities post photos of this party. Now I’m at the All-White Party snapping my own.”
“It is the hottest ticket in town,” I agree. “We know firsthand that Zere throws a fantastic party.”
“That wrap party was bananas.” Chapel’s eyes go wide. “What a night.”
Zere, the host and an executive producer on the reality model competition Lewks, shut shit down with the wrap party at the end of the season.
“And you had a lot to celebrate,” I remind Chapel. “From that first episode, I knew you’d win.”
“You were probably the only one who thought so.” Chapel huffs out a laugh. “No one else was sitting at home predicting the five-foot-four chick with vitiligo would win a model competition.”
“Well, then they weren’t looking hard enough because that is exactly who took home the prize.” I give her a gentle shoulder bump. “Now everybody wants a piece of you.”
Athletic wear, soft drinks, perfume—as Chapel’s manager, I field requests every day from some new brand wanting in on her unexpected meteoric rise.
“‘Would you bury gold?’” Chapel asks softly when we reach the front door, pausing before we enter. “That’s what you said to the makeup artist on set who tried to cover up my vitiligo.”
“She was clueless.” I suck my teeth. “She was burying the gold, trying to hide what makes you most uniquely beautiful.”
Chapel stares at me, blinking all fast like she might cry, but instead she reaches up and throws her arms around my neck. I almost stumble with the force of her weight, even though she is no bigger than a minute.
“What the…” I laugh and return her squeeze. “You need to warn a sister before you launch yourself like that.”
“Just… thank you,” Chapel mumbles into my shoulder. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t believed in me like you did.”
“Like I do,” I say, looking down at her pretty face with soft washes of pale pink a striking contrast over her dark brown skin. “We just getting started, boo. Now let’s show these folks how we get down.”
Despite the phone burning a hole in my pocket, I set out to have a good time, make some connections, and for one night forget the dilemma of Mama’s condition. I let out a low whistle when we enter the house. It’s a magnificent waterfront property with soaring ceilings and an abundance of natural light. The open floor plan flows seamlessly to a gorgeous tranquil pool. Limestone floors and stark white walls are touched with spots of color from sculptures, paintings, and oversized plants. It is somehow opulent and warm.
“I done seen some impressive shit,” Chapel says, her eyes roaming over the glass-and-chrome decor of the house, warmed with occasional touches of driftwood on the walls and tables. “But this that life. I mean I knew Zere’s man was rich as hell, but this? Another level.”
The sunken living room is decorated with what I think is custom-made Rick Owens furniture. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the bay.
“They say he reached billionaire status when he sold that video game,” I say.
“It’s a betting app,” Chapel corrects. “Called True Playahs. And yeah, I heard that, too.”
“They’ve been together for a while, right?” I frown, trying to remember any details the press managed to leak about Zere and her much-more-reserved mogul boyfriend.
“Coming up on three years, I think. When we talked on set,” Chapel says, lowering her voice as we wade into the stream of white-clad partygoers, “she seemed to think he’d be popping the question soon.”
“Oh, for real?” I grab a glass of some white drink in keeping with the theme from a server passing by—coconut something, piña colada—don’t care as long as it contains alcohol.
“Have you seen him?” Chapel asks.
“Maybe? I don’t remember seeing him before and that’s a shame since on principle I should know every Black billionaire on sight. Not that many of them.”
“Well, he’s not as public as Zere. Not in pictures much except around this time of year when they throw this party, and even then seems like the pictures folks post are of everyone except him. But he’s fine, and this rich?” She gestures to our luxurious surroundings. “Zere better not fumble that bag.”