Chapter Three
1170 Words
“What about your parents?”
Ariana asked me that right after the FBI drove off with Tom in cuffs. Right after the wedding guests fled in awkward silence. Right after the music died and the fairy tale exploded into a crime scene.
I remember just staring at her, blinking slowly.
I didn’t have the energy to cry anymore. Or scream. Or even pretend I was okay.
I gave a bitter chuckle and sat down on the edge of the now-empty bridal stage, the scent of roses and betrayal still hanging in the air.
“What about them?” I said flatly. “They tried to sell me off like property. Like I’m just another asset they could trade for favors. So no—I don’t think I owe them anything.”
Ariana didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. My words were heavy enough to settle between us like broken glass.
But the truth was—deep down—it still hurt.
I wasn’t angry because I didn’t love them.
I was angry because I did.
That night, my mom knocked on my door. Not as the woman who had tried to arrange my future like a spreadsheet, but as the woman who once braided my hair before school, who used to sneak me puff-puffs before dinner, and who held my hand the first time I got my heart broken.
She sat beside me, quiet, unsure if I’d push her away.
“We almost ruined your life,” she said, her voice cracking. “And we know that.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t trust my voice.
She continued, her eyes glistening, “Tom’s family gave a large sum for the wedding. For the deal. Your father and I… we can’t keep that money in good conscience. So… it’s yours.”
I blinked.
“You can use it to start over,” she said, gently. “Wherever you want. However you want.”
For the first time in days, I didn’t cry.
Instead, I looked at her—and saw regret.
Not power. Not calculation. Just a mother trying to fix what she helped break.
And I let her.
One week later, Ariana and I were dragging two overstuffed suitcases down the JFK terminal, loud and unapologetic in the middle of a chaotic Tuesday morning.
“Welcome to Brooklyn, baby,” she grinned, twirling in an oversized hoodie like she’d just stepped onto a runway.
New York buzzed like electricity—chaotic and sharp. Yellow cabs screeched, subway performers belted out love songs, and the air tasted like dreams and diesel.
It was fast. It was raw. It was everything I needed.
Brooklyn wasn’t easy—but it was alive. And it gave me something Queens never did:
A chance to rewrite everything.
We moved into a small apartment in Crown Heights. The place had cracked ceilings, hardwood floors, and a heater that wheezed louder than Ariana’s fake laughs—but it was ours. She called it the “pre-success suite.” I called it freedom.
I applied to five jobs the first night. Fixed up my resume. Watched three videos on “how to stand out in competitive markets.” Created a spreadsheet and color-coded the industries.
I wasn’t waiting around for my life anymore. I was running straight at it.
And every day, Ariana hyped me like I was applying to be Beyoncé’s assistant.
“You got this,” she’d say every morning, sliding me coffee with her socks mismatched and her bonnet sideways. “They’re not ready for you.”
But the rejections came anyway.
Thanks for applying.
You’re not what we’re looking for.
We’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.
Every email hit like a paper cut to the chest. Death by a thousand polite declines.
Three days in, I was starting to doubt everything. My skills. My degree. Myself.
“You sure I’m not cursed?” I asked Ariana one night as we sat curled up on the couch, sharing a bowl of popcorn we couldn’t afford.
“What?”
“I mean… think about it. Arranged marriage, near-disaster wedding, job rejections, limited money—like, maybe I’ve got bad luck tattooed on my aura.”
She looked at me with a face full of offense. “Samantha, don’t play with me.”
I laughed—barely.
She softened. “You’re not cursed. You’re in a plot twist.”
That night, the air was thick with unspoken questions. What next? How long could we float before we sank?
And then—morning came.
I was half-asleep when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. My heart jumped.
I answered with a groggy, “Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Miss Samantha Mba?”
“Yes…”
“This is Jasmine calling from Avanti Creative Group. We received your portfolio through a third-party referral, and our director would love to meet you for a quick interview this afternoon, if you’re available.”
I sat up, fully awake. “Wait—I didn’t apply there.”
“Yes, ma’am. It came to us through an internal creative share list. Are you available by 3PM?”
I could barely form words. “Uh—yes. Yes, I am.”
Ariana watched me, eyes wide.
“They want to interview me,” I mouthed, already standing on the couch.
“WHO? WHAT COMPANY?” she screamed.
I danced into the kitchen.
“Avanti. No idea how they got my stuff. But it’s real. I checked the email signature.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. But mostly—I wanted to believe this would be different.
We picked an outfit. Ariana triple-checked my bag. She walked me to the building—but something was strange.
The interview wasn’t in a corporate suite.
It was booked in a hotel lounge.
Red flag? Giant.
But I needed a chance—any chance.
We agreed she’d stay in the lobby, just in case.
The man who greeted me looked polished—but smug.
He offered champagne.
I declined.
Five minutes in, I realized… there was no real interview.
Just a sick power play masked in opportunity.
He reached out—too close.
I froze.
And that’s when the air shifted again.
The door opened.
Another presence filled the room—calm but sharp. The man from the bar.
He said nothing.
But the sleazy recruiter’s face went pale.
Before I could react, the lights cut.
The power went out.
And the stranger who just saved me?
Gone.
I never saw his face.
But I felt it.
Ariana burst into the room moments later, heels clicking like gunfire.
“What happened?!” she shouted.
I stood there, still trying to breathe.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think someone just saved me.”
Her eyes darted around the room. “Who?”
I looked toward the door… still swinging slightly from where he left.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
“But… who is that man?”
- Writer
