The House WE Built.

5.

Beyoncé Knowles.

It had been two weeks since I'd hired Onika, and in that time, we'd communicated strictly through email. I preferred it that way. Her ideas came across much more professional in writing—concise, clear, no unnecessary commentary.

But after a dozen back-and-forths about her sketches, she'd insisted on a face-to-face meeting to go over the finer details. "We need to vibe," she'd written in her last email. "I can't explain creative flow through bullet points."

I'd suggested meeting at the house. It made sense—discuss the ideas in the actual space. But of course, she had other plans.

"Your house is too depressing," she said during our brief phone call. "We need fresh energy. Coffee's better. Neutral ground, you know?"

Neutral ground. Like we were negotiating a treaty.

And now here I was, standing outside a café she'd picked, staring through the window at her. She was already seated at a table near the window, talking animatedly to the barista as if they'd known each other for years.

I took a steadying breath and walked inside.

The café was loud—too loud. Conversations overlapped with the sound of grinding coffee beans and the occasional burst of laughter. The air smelled of roasted coffee and freshly baked croissants, and the decor was... eclectic. Mismatched chairs, colorful art on the walls, and tiny plants scattered across every surface.

I spotted Onika immediately. She was wearing something loud, as usual—a hot pink blazer paired with striped green pants. Her oversized earrings caught the light as she laughed at something the barista said.

The second I stepped inside, she spotted me and waved like we were old friends. "Boss Lady!" she called out, her voice carrying over the noise.

I clenched my jaw and made my way to the table. "It's Beyoncé," I said as I sat down across from her.

"Right, Beyoncé," she said, though her smirk told me she wasn't likely to stop using the nickname anytime soon.

She pushed a cup of coffee toward me. "Black, no sugar. Thought that'd be your taste."

I glanced at the cup, then back at her. "How did you know my coffee order?"

"Guesswork," she said, leaning back in her chair. "You seem like the type who doesn't mess around with caramel drizzle or whipped cream."

She wasn't wrong, but I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

Onika reached into her oversized bag and pulled out a thick notebook, which she plopped onto the table with an unnecessary amount of force. A few people at the next table glanced over at the sound.

"Okay, Boss Lady," she said, flipping it open to a colorful sketch of my living room.

I didn't bother correcting her nickname this time.

"This is what I'm thinking," she said, sliding the sketch across the table. "Your house has great bones, but it's... kind of holding its breath, you know? It needs more life. More color. Like this."

The sketch was bold. Too bold. The muted tones of the current furniture had been swapped for rich jewel tones—deep greens, blues, and pops of gold. The heavy curtains were gone, replaced with something sheer and flowing.

"It's... colorful," I said carefully.

"Thank you," she replied with a grin, clearly missing—or ignoring—my actual point.

I studied the sketch again, my lips pressing into a thin line. "Naomi loved those curtains. They stay."

Onika's grin faltered slightly, but she recovered quickly. "Alright. Fine. But the furniture? That can go, right?"