𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

𝟐𝟎: 𝐓𝐮𝐠-𝐨𝐟-𝐰𝐚𝐫

I'm sprawled out on the couch in Beyoncé's living room, half-watching some animated movie Blue’s glued to. I didn’t think I’d get into it, but damn, this shit’s kinda fire. I’m tryna keep my cool while Blue sneaks those quiet glances at me. Shorty’s too smart for her own good, throwing side-eye like she’s tryna figure me out, which is making me lowkey uncomfortable.

Blue breaks the silence, staring dead at me. "You're pretty."

I blink. "Uh, thanks?" I say, caught off guard. I mean, I know I look good, but coming from a nine-year-old? Weird vibe.

"And you look like your mommy," I shoot back, trying to keep it casual. This kid’s vibe is throwing me off today.

She keeps her eyes on me, squinting like she’s thinking hard. "My mommy... Who’s you? Her girl?"

The way she asked it so direct had me chuckling, but inside I’m screaming, WTF.

"Nah, what?" I laugh nervously, trying to play it off like I didn’t hear that.

Blue just waves me off like she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. "Girl, everybody knows it. You’re not good at hiding it. I see the way you look at her... like some creep."

I choke on my own spit, sitting up straight. "Excuse me? I’m not dating your mother, and I’m older than you, little girl. You better watch that tone."

Blue cocks her head, unbothered. "Mommy’s older than you, and you curse at her all the time."

I sigh, rubbing my temples. This little girl... "You know what? Shut up."

She gives me that bratty smirk. "How about you leave my house?"

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "Nice try, little girl. But our mommy pays for this house, and she lets me be here, so guess what? I’m staying."

"She’s not your mommy," Blue says, her tone all smug like she knows something I don’t.

"Yes, she is." I stick my tongue out at her, just to piss her off a little more. I’m not proud, but this kid’s pushing me today.

Blue crosses her arms and yells, "Mommy!"

My heart jumps into my throat. "Shh, wait, I’m sorry!" I whisper-shout, waving my hands like I can somehow undo her calling Beyoncé over.

Beyoncé appears in the doorway, Blue’s little suitcase in hand. She’s in leggings and a sports bra, curls wild and natural, looking like a whole snack, but I can’t focus on that right now.

"You good, baby?" she asks, looking straight at Blue. She barely glances at me. I’m officially chopped liver.

Blue and I answer at the same time, "Yes."

Beyoncé’s eyes narrow. "I mean Blue, why’d you call?"

Blue, with all the audacity, asks, "Are you Onika’s mommy?"