I nodded at my own reflection on the screen, satisfied. This was good content. Honest, but not alarming. Vulnerable, but still looking hot.
I then tapped the stop recording button and typed a caption filled with all the necessary hashtags for better reach. I knew my way around social media. Years of being visible online had earned me a following—people who stay for my stories, my jokes, my perfectly curated chaos.
Once I hit upload, I set my phone down, reached for the water, and told myself I was fine.
But then my phone slipped. Betrayed by gravity.
It slid off the edge of the table in slow motion and landed screen-up on the floor. I groaned under my breath and leaned down to grab it.
That was when I heard heels clicking.
I looked up and saw the most gorgeous woman in the world.
Tall. Confident. Unapologetic.
I straightened just in time to hear her familiar voice say, “Darling, if that phone cracked, I swear, that’s the universe telling you to stop checking who viewed your story.”
I stood and hugged her without hesitation.
Honey had arrived.
But Honey didn’t arrive the way normal people did. She made entrances feel like a performance.
She was all sharp lines and intention—slim, sculpted, with a V-shaped face that could cut through indecision. Her short hair framed her features perfectly, styled just enough to look effortless but never accidental. Her eyes were fierce, alert, like she was always five seconds away from reading someone to filth.
And the outfit? Of course it was a moment.
A sleeveless statement top paired with a dramatic, fashion-forward skirt that moved like it had its own personality. It wasn’t about being traditionally sexy—it was about being seen. Every step she took felt like it belonged on a runway no one else had access to.
Her lips were painted red—non-negotiable. Her makeup remained flawless, expensive-looking, the kind that whispered power instead of begging for attention.
Honey wasn’t trying to be desirable.
She was curating an experience.
She didn’t just enter rooms, she edited them.
“I was uploading a TikTok, not checking my stories,” I defended, kissing her on both cheeks.
“We’re vain, darling,” she said. “Don’t apologize for that beauty.”
“Of course, Honey,” I nodded.
Every time she showed up, I was reminded that being around her meant existing in the presence of someone who had mastered the art of being exactly who she wanted to be: loudly, stylishly, and without apology.
That was when I heard a familiar, confident tap tap tap of pumps, announcing an arrival before the woman even spoke.
“Hey bitches!” Andi called out.
“C’mon now,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “It’s not nice to call people like that nowadays.”
She arrived like she always did: late enough to be noticed, and early enough to still control the narrative.
Andi was short but voluptuous—all curves and confidence—wearing an off-shoulder yellow top that knew exactly what it was doing, paired with slim pants that fit her well and pumps that meant business. Her blonde-dyed hair was pulled into a bun, but a few loose strands framed her oval face naturally, like softness refusing to be tamed. Orange, triangular-shaped sunglasses sat on her nose like a fashion declaration, and her skin glowed the way only a true brown beauty could—warm, rich, and gorgeous.
Andi was, without question, the most liberated person I knew. Sexually empowered. Emotionally loud. Unafraid of pleasure, attention, or desire.
Where the rest of us overthought, Andi felt. Where we hesitated, she stepped forward.
