Beyoncé returns to the house she shared with her late wife, determined to keep the past alive. But a bold young designer, a house full of secrets, and undeniable chemistry may force her to rebuild more than just walls.
The house was quiet except for the faint tick of the kitchen clock. I adjusted a vase of dried flowers on the dining table, then immediately moved it back. It was fine where it was. Perfect, even. But it still didn't feel right.
Why was I nervous? This was my house. My space. The person coming here worked for me, not the other way around.
And yet, the thought of someone new stepping inside felt invasive. I'd spent the last three years keeping this house untouched, sacred. Now I was inviting a stranger into it.
"You're going to wear a hole in that floor if you don't stop pacing," Kelly said through the speakerphone, her voice full of humor.
I stopped mid-step in the living room, glancing down at the wooden floorboards. "I'm not pacing," I lied, though even I could hear how unconvincing I sounded.
"Uh-huh. And I'm not sitting here with popcorn, waiting to hear how this designer blows your mind."
I pinched the bridge of my nose, sighing. "It's just a consultation. I haven't even hired her yet."
"But you're thinking about it," Kelly countered. "Admit it. You liked her portfolio."
I glanced at the folder sitting on the coffee table, its edges worn from how many times I'd opened it over the past few days. Onika's designs were bold, almost reckless—everything this house wasn't. Everything I wasn't sure I was ready for.
"She stood out," I admitted carefully.
Kelly's laugh rang through the phone. "That's practically a love confession, coming from you."
"Goodbye, Kelly," I said, reaching for the phone to hang up.
"Wait, wait!" she said quickly, her tone shifting to something softer. "Listen, B. I know this isn't easy for you. But you're doing the right thing. Let someone bring this house back to life. Bring you back to life."
Her words settled in my chest like a weight, one I wasn't sure I could carry.
I didn't respond. The sound of a car door slamming outside broke the silence.
"Is that her?" Kelly asked, her voice suddenly playful. "Oh, this is going to be good. Call me after!"
I hung up without answering, my focus now entirely on the footsteps approaching the front door, stomach tightening as the footsteps got closer. I took a steadying breath and opened it.
The woman standing on my porch looked nothing like I'd expected.
Onika was dressed casually but somehow made it look bold. She wore fitted olive-green leather pants that caught the light just enough to look intentional, paired with a floral bomber jacket that shouldn't have worked—but absolutely did. Her feet were tucked into black slides with pink and white designs, the kind of thing that would've made Naomi smile.
Her long, sleek hair fell past her waist, and her expression was calm, almost bored, as she glanced at me. It wasn't the polished, professional look I'd imagined, but it was striking in a way I couldn't quite explain.
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