<h4>Chapter 133: Its Not Normal</h4>


    "But Queen?" Nita scoffed, her tone thick with maternal frustration. "You have to send three emails, submit a formal letter, pass a background check and maybe—maybe!—she’ll send a voice note saying ’I’m fine.’ It’s not normal, Richard. It’s like she’s allergic to feelings."


    "Babe, please," Richard murmured again, voice weaker now. Sleep was slipping away from him, packed and ready to move to a more peaceful marriage across town.


    "Fine! Don’t listen to me. I’m just the woman who carried her for nine months, sacrificed my dder control and figure, and raised her while you were busy building an empire."


    "That’s not fair—"


    "I am going to sit hereughing," Nita cut in, "when everything goes to shit!"


    "I said I will talk to her tomorrow," Richard groaned, his voice breaking on the edge of a whimper. The man was not beyond begging, especially not when sleep was dangling before him. He rolled over, bunching up the nket around his waist. "Please, Nita. I swear. Tomorrow."


    Nita pouted slightly, then softened, the way she always did when she knew she’d pushed enough. "Okay... okay..." she relented with a long, dramatic sigh. "Did you have dinner?"


    "No." Richard exhaled, his eyes still closed. "Didn’t feel like it. I’ll have a big breakfast."


    "Alright then," she said, finally rolling onto her side and facing him, her fingers absentmindedly brushing through his greying chest hair. "Anything specific you would like?"


    "Ask me in the morning," he mumbled, already halfway to unconsciousness as he snuggled further into her, grateful for the familiar warmth, her scent, and the rhythm of her breathing.


    Nita smiled as she watched him drift off. Driving him crazy was her favorite hobby. It was a subtle art, a dance they’d been doing for over two decades. Push, pull. Threaten emotional catastrophe, then kiss his temple. Call him clueless, then tuck his nket tighter. He made her feel alive, and Richard—well, Richard had long epted that his wife was a walking paradox of chaos.


    *****


    Drake pounded on Chayara’s apartment door. It wasn’t even 7:30 a.m.. He needed Chay.


    Unfortunately, Chay had been ghosting him for days. Ignoring calls. Leaving messages on read.


    He checked his watch, muttering under his breath, ’It’s not that early.’ He thought.


    The door swung open.


    And instead of Chay.


    It was Guy.


    Shirtless.


    Hair tousled.


    Eyes squinty and using.


    Drake’s brows came together. "What are you doing here? Looking like that?"


    "What does ’like that’ mean? You’re the one knocking like a madman at—" he turned and squinted at the clock inside—"seven twenty-two in the morning."


    Drake looked him up and down. "Where’s Chay?"


    "She’s sleeping," Guy replied coolly, leaning on the doorframe.


    Drake wasn’t jealous, no. He was just... confused. Okay, maybe a little jealous.


    "She didn’t return my calls," he muttered, crossing his arms.


    "Well, you showed up unannounced, so you’ve graduated from ’annoying caller’ to ’early morning disturbance.’ Congrattions," Guy replied, stretching his back.


    "Get the fuck out of my way," Drake snapped, his voice sharp and gravelly like it had scraped against a sleepless night. He shoved past Guy.


    Chay was sprawled on the couch—half naked, one leg draped over the armrest. Her bra was slightly askew, and her jeans looked like they’d been halfway through a passionate encounter halfway. The entire apartment, usually a pristine sanctuary of order and clean lines, looked like a hurricane of pillows had passed through it.


    Drake’s eyes widened in horror. His brain tried to rationalize what he was seeing, but it short-circuited halfway through. He spun around, eyes shing. "What in the world have you done to her?"


    "Nothing she didn’t want me to do."


    Drake saw red. Without thinking, he stepped forward and shoved Guy hard in the chest. "Did you drug her?"


    Guy staggered a bit but recovered quickly, his smirk evaporating. "Touch me one more time and you’ll be picking your teeth off the floor."


    It wasn’t an empty threat. But Drake didn’t rise to it because he was panicking. He couldn’t afford to fight when Chay was looking like she’d just been beamed down from another. He turned his back on Guy and crouched beside the couch, heart thundering.


    "Chay?... Chay..." He reached out and gently pped her cheek, just enough to rouse her. He didn’t expect much.


    Then her eyes fluttered open.


    And he froze.


    "She... she got a tattoo?"


    It was there. On her breast.


    "It’s funny, uhn," Guy drawled from behind, now clearly enjoying the scene. "Real modern."


    "Drake?" Chay blinked, her voice hoarse and slurred with sleep. She reached up to clutch her head, groaning as if the act of remembering was physically painful. "My head..."


    Without a word, Guy disappeared into the kitchen.


    Drake just stared at her, his hands still hovering in the air.


    Of all the things he thought might go wrong today, walking into Chayara’s apartment and finding her inked with a dick, barely clothed, and being looked after by Mr. Abs was not one of them.


    He whispered, almost to himself, "What the actual hell happened?"


    "What happened? Did he hurt you?" Drake’s voice cracked,ced with concern and fury as he crouched beside the couch, the scent ofst night’s cocktails still clinging to Chay’s breath. His eyes scanned her face—pale, slightly flushed. She squinted up at him, wincing at the sharp stab of morning light bouncing off the window.


    "Did who hurt me?" she asked groggily.


    "Guy!" Drake hissed, gesturing wildly behind him. "Did he hurt you?"


    Chay blinked at him, then slowly turned her head toward the kitchen where Guy—very shirtless and smug—was fiddling with a French press.


    "What? No... no... we went out for drinks with his sisters." She let out a half-snort of disbelief. "He has six sisters!" She chuckled, eyes wide in genuine bafflement. "That is wild."


    Drake’s expression twisted into a kind of horrified confusion. "And you got a tattoo? Of a dick? Chay... what is going on with you?"


    She blinked slowly again and nced down. Oh God. Right. The tattoo. The unmistakable redness, still visible just above the edge of her bra.


    (Who would you want to win in a fight? I know y’all don’t really like Drake. Guy came in and stole his shine. Hehehe.)