CHAPTER 1

HENDRIX

I get paid for my good ideas.

Coming to this party was not one of them.

Another quick glance at my phone settles the uneven thump of my heart. No missed calls. No new texts.

Yet.

My muscles tighten, braced for the call that hasn’t come, and anxiety floods my nervous system as I wonder why my phone hasn’t rung.

Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.

Mama has been better since Aunt Geneva moved in a few months ago. The doctor believes Ms. Catherine’s death may have exacerbated Mama’s symptoms, or at least proved destabilizing enough that some of her lapses after Ms. Cat’s passing made sense. We can never really know, but taking her meds regularly, being more active, and having someone to watch out for her again seem to have improved Mama’s situation, or at least gotten her back on track. I try to get home to see her and help out at least twice a month, though work has been so busy lately, carving out the time has proven more difficult.

“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, pina 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.”

“I don’t care how rich he is, she is the bag. He better not fumble her .” I pause with the glass hovering at my lips and give her a wicked look over the rim. “But how fine we talking?”

“Fine enough.” Chapel affects a shiver. “I saw him on set once. There’s just something about him. Power? Charisma? It goes deeper than looks. Whatever it is, our girl Zere is lucky it’s hers.”

At that moment, the lucky woman in question approaches, wearing a white halter top and a tiny skirt that shows her almost waifish figure to full advantage. A pleased smile creases Zere’s hazel eyes at the corners the tiniest bit. The contrast of her flawless golden skin and coppery hair creates the striking coloring the camera loves so much, a legacy of her Ethiopian mother and Irish father.

“You’re here,” Zere says, her light floral scent as entrancing as her sweet voice. “I’m so glad.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it.” I return her air-kisses at each cheek. “This is incredible, lady.”

When I first met Zere on the set of Lewks , I only had the things I’d heard and read to go on—a famous model in her late thirties staying relevant through a competition reality show. Over the course of the season, though, I realized there was more to her than the headlines and the parties and the billionaire boyfriend. For one, she’s a hustler, and that I always respect. So when Chapel won Lewks and Zere approached us about developing a show starring Chapel, we were all ears and all in. When she suggested I serve as an executive producer for the show—something I’ve wanted to get into for years—I liked her even more.

“Girl!” Zere blows out a laughing breath. “Planning this party almost took me out, but it’s worth it.”

“You have a beautiful home,” I tell her, allowing my gaze to wander over the luxuriously appointed space. “I mean… wow.”

“Thank you. Of all Mav’s properties, this one is my favorite.” Zere scans the stunning open area, and wistfulness creeps into her voice. “I’d live here year-round if I could, but Mav can’t seem to stay in one place that long, and he actually prefers his house in Malibu.”

Something shadows her expression, but before I can interpret the look, she smooths it back into the perfect serenity I’ve come to expect.

“You’ll meet him later.” She loops her arms through our elbows and directs us toward the huge open space where a wall would be in a lesser house, leading to the party outside in full swing. “Let’s go get you a real drink.”

People crowd around a bar as long and as well-stocked as you’d find in the finest establishments. An infinity pool with floating pavilions is the jeweled centerpiece of the area. The yard rolls out like a verdant green carpet down to the house’s private dock jutting out into the bay. A pier of sorts floats over the water, decorated with overstuffed outdoor furnishings, a firepit, and yet another bar. Motorboats speed toward the deck ferrying more guests, all dressed in white. I recognize some famous faces—actors, rappers, models, high-profile figures from the worlds of business and entertainment. Black, white, brown, and everything in between. This party is renowned for assembling an impressive cross section of influential people. My shoulders move to the loud music and I sip the “real” drink Zere found for me, but I feel myself shifting into grind mode. Yes, it’s a party, but it’s also an opportunity.

And I always make the most of those.

For a few minutes Zere stays with us, introducing us to people I know only from the tabloids. Even the most famous seem to feel at ease here. Maybe it’s the tightness of the security, the carefully curated guest list, or the free-flowing libations. Whatever the reason, everyone is loose and before I know it, my default setting of what you see is what you get kicks in, and within the hour, I’m beside the DJ, directing him on what to play next. The phone rests heavily in my pocket, a reminder of my family’s challenges beyond this bay. The air, sultry and sweet and throbbing with the cadence of revelry, washes over me. If for only a moment, it washes my troubles away.

“You got ‘Jiggy Woogie’?” I ask, already winding my hips and anticipating that dancehall bop to drop.

He glances up and grins at me from the turntable, of which I approve because I’m old school like that. “You ’bout to turn this party out, ain’t you?”

I shrug and flash him a sheepish grin. “It’s what I do.”

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