Imani
I never thought I'd go out in a designer nightgown.
I never claimed to be brilliant. Or even smart. I just knew how to survive.
Survival, for me, meant playing the game. I wasn't some mastermind pulling strings in the dark, and I wasn't some tragic soul with a sob story to justify my choices. I was a woman who did what she had to do. And for a long time, that meant being exactly what men wanted.
Pretty.Available.Disposable.
Death was supposed to find me in an alley somewhere, strung out or beaten by a client who'd had too much to drink. Not plummeting sixty stories in silk that cost more than my first apartment.
But life's funny that way. Or death, I guess.
The morning had started like any other in my new fairytale: with sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Egyptian cotton sheets against my naked skin, and the smell of coffee brewing somewhere in the penthouse.
This was what 'making it' felt like – upgrading from hourly rates at the Marquis Hotel to Mrs. Andrew Blackwood, trophy wife with unlimited access to his platinum card.
That's not bad for a Wellspring high school dropout who learned early that her body was her most valuable asset.
I stretched like a cat, feeling pleasantly sore from last night. Andrew had been particularly enthusiastic after sealing some big business deal. I didn't ask questions about his work.
It wasn't my business, and honestly, I didn't care.
Our relationship had started three years ago – him, a regular client with kinky tastes and deep pockets; me, willing to do whatever kept him coming back. Somewhere along the way, hotel rooms turned into dinner dates. Dinner dates turned into weekend getaways. And then, four months ago, a diamond ring and a courthouse ceremony with zero guests.
No family on my side (except my vegetable mom) and Andrew had muttered something about his family 'not understanding our connection.' Red flag? Sure.
But when you've spent your lifetime making bad decisions, what's one more?
"Imani. Imani, wake up."
The slap of Andrew's palm against my arm and rough shaking pulled me from my half-sleep. I opened my eyes to find Andrew's face inches from mine. I think he's waking me up for morning sex.
His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were wild with fear. Was it panic?
"What's wrong?" I mumbled, still groggy from the sleeping pills I took every night – another habit from my former life that I couldn't shake.
"She's here. You need to hide. Now." he said desperately as he yanked me from the bed.
"Who's here?" The fog in my brain was clearing too slowly.
"Just–fuck–hide in the closet. Don't make a sound. No matter what you hear."
Before I could process what was happening and protest, he shoved me into the walk-in closet, among rows of designer clothes. I still felt like I was playing dress-up. He shut the door, plunging me into darkness except for the thin slats of light through the closet doors.
I was still trying to understand everything when I heard the bedroom door slam open.
"WHERE IS SHE?" A woman's voice – refined, educated and furious echoed through the house.
"Vanessa, this isn't–"
I hear Andrew's subdued voice.
"Don't you dare tell me what this isn't! Four fucking years of marriage, Andrew Blackwood. FOUR YEARS! And you've been fucking some whore this whole time?"
The hairs at the back of my neck stood erect. Marriage? Four years?
I pressed my eyes to the slat in the closet door. The woman–Vanessa–was beautiful in that old-money way.
Slim, blonde, wearing what looked like a tennis outfit, but with the kind of rage that distorted her perfect features into something almost feral.
"Let me explain..." Andrew's voice had that placating tone I'd heard him use on business calls when things went sideways.
"Explain WHAT? The credit card statements to hotels? The second apartment? A new fucking penthouse? Or should you explain the MARRIAGE LICENSE I found?" She hurled something across the room, and it shattered against the wall.
A chill ran down my spine. It was my vase, the most expensive thing I've ever bought with my money.
"Did you think I wouldn't hire someone to track your pathetic ass when you started acting strange? When you started going for business trips every week."
Another loud crash – this time, it was his laptop hitting the floor.
"Vanessa, please, you're making a scene…"
"A SCENE?" Her laugh was borderline hysterical. "I'll show you a scene." She reached for the 75-inch TV and crashed it to the floor, jumping on it until it was all debrics of glass and nothing else.
I stared at her sneakers, trying to note what brand they were. After this mess, I would definitely be getting one for myself.
"Where is she? Is she here right now?"
"No, of course not. This is…"
But Vanessa was already tearing through the room like a hurricane, ripping back bedsheets, looking under the bed, throwing open the bathroom door. I shrank back as her footsteps neared the closet.
"Then whose clothes are these?" She wrenched open a drawer, pulling out the red lingerie I'd worn just last night. "These aren't mine. I don't wear these cheapskates."
I rolled my eyes. Each of those cost me more than a thousand dollars.
Suddenly, light flooded the closest as the door was yanked open, and I found myself staring into the most hateful eyes I'd ever seen.
"Well, well," she said, her voice suddenly going calm. "Here she is."
A manicured hand shot out, grabbing my arm with surprising strength, pulling me out of my hiding place. I stumbled, still in just the silk nightgown, feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way I hadn't since my early days on the streets.
"Vanessa, don't…" Andrew started.
"Shut up." She didn't even look at him; her eyes were fixed on me. "So, you're the whore my husband's been keeping."
"I didn't know," I stammered, finding my voice. "I swear to God. I had no idea he was married. He never told me he was…"
A slap landed on my left cheek before I could see it coming. My head jerks to the side.
"Oh, please," she looked me up and down with disgust. "You expect me to believe that? After three years? After he married you?"
"The wedding was only four months ago," I said, as if that somehow made it better. "He told me he was single. He said his family didn't approve of me; that's why I never met anyone…"
"Well, he got one thing right. We certainly don't approve of prostitutes."
The words stung, even though it was true. "I'm his wife now, too."
She threw her head backwards and laughed. "Bigamy is a crime, sweetheart. That makes your little arrangement null and void." She turned to Andrew, who stood pale and silent. "Isn't that right, darling?"
When he didn't answer, she released my arm and pulled out her phone, tapping the screen.
"Come with me," she said, grabbing me again and marching me toward the terrace doors. "Both of you."
Andrew followed like a man walking to his execution as she dragged me out onto the penthouse terrace. Sixty stories up, the city was beneath us, indifferent to the drama playing out above.
"I've been doing some research on your wife," Vanessa said, turning to Andrew but keeping her grip on me. "Quite the colorful past, isn't it? Prostitution is just the tip of the iceberg."
She turned her phone toward me, and I felt my heart stop.
"It's amazing what money can uncover when you hire the right investigators," she said in a silky tone. "They found what the police couldn't. Or should I say, who the police couldn't."
My legs nearly gave out. "That was – that was different. He tried to…"
"Save it." She cut me off. "I don't care what happened. But the authorities might."
She released me with a shove that sent me stumbling back against the terrace's metal railing.
"Here's what's going to happen," Vanessa said, holding her phone up. "Either I send everything I have to the police about your involvement in this, or…" she gestured to the railing behind me.
"You're insane," I whispered.
"No. I'm a woman protecting what's mine." She turned to Andrew. "As for you – it's very simple. Your career, your lifestyle, everything my family has given you, gone in an instant. Unless you prove your loyalty right now."
He flinched. "I won't do it."
"Then you'll lose everything," Vanessa screeched.
Andrew looked from me to Vanessa. And then he came toward me. I pressed my back against the edge of the rooftop balcony, terror clawing up my throat.
He stops in front of me. He takes my hands, and for one brief, stupid second, I think he's going to fight for me.
"I love her," he said. "I married her. I'm done with your family. I choose Imani."
Instant relief flooded my chest, and I believed him.
Big mistake. I thought he was choosing me.
"I do love you, Imani," he said softly, his eyes meeting mine. "But some things are bigger than love. I'm sorry."
Then I felt his hands on my shoulders, and he pushed. It was so sudden that I couldn't fight back. I tipped backward over the railing.
My scream got lost in the morning traffic. The penthouse terrace grew smaller as I fell…
Sixty seconds later, I died.