❝Baby I don't need a man, I need Dinero & a tan!❞-Taj Romaé
***
"...if yuh nuh name Dinero den mi nuh want yuh,"I say sassily.
He chuckles.
"Den how you a pree me so?" his husky voice ask as he makes...
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Z A H I R ᴢᴀʜɪʀ
I make my way down the airstair, sauntering towards the SUV with my bodyguards on either side.
We've made it through the tassel of descending the stairs but there's still more to go through.
There are paparazzi forcing microphones towards me. Cameras flashing from all directions and ear shattering screams from my supporters who are jolting forward with outstretched arms.
Behind me is Chlöe-my publicist and my agent Christophe Lavigne.
I come to a halt, take their pens and scribble my autograph on their number nine shirts and footballs.
"Where you want it?" I ask the next female who pushes her way through. She smiles coyly with nothing in her hand.
I raise my eyebrow and wait patiently until she responds.
"Right pan mi breast," she blinks flirtatiously and blushes.
I don't react.
Usually I'd snap-especially when I don't have time on my hands but I've been working on myself through intense Cognitive Behavior Therapy and Ego State Therapy.
"Give me your wrist," I say and she stretches it towards me. I quickly scribble it and she thanks me.
Through all this, all I can think about is Taj. I still question God. Like why has he done this to me?
It's been one year and eight months.
Approximately 52,560,057 seconds, 876,000 minutes and 14,600 hours-twenty torturous months to be exact.
It's killing me slowly behind all this success and fame.
I don't know if she's dead like everyone is saying.
Or if she's out there somewhere.
"That's it. Enough," one of my bodyguard says and pull the door. But before I could put my foot in, a reporter ask an intriguing question.
My eyes finds her.
"What?" I ask just for clarity.
"Do you believe that your girlfriend could be out there alive despite all the arguments surrounding her? And if you do believe that. What would you like to say to her?" she repeats.
