Girls Love Beyoncé

62

THIRD POINT OF VIEW

The elevator dinged low as it arrived. Beyoncé stepped in with trembling hands, dragging her suitcase behind her while OJ cried loudly in his carrier. His small yelps bounced off the steel walls, a high-pitched, panicked echo that matched the pounding in her chest.

She couldn't shush him. She couldn't even look at him. Her vision was swimming, and her wrist—gripped too hard, too violently by Onika—was already bruising beneath the sleeve of her hoodie.

The doors slid shut. The hum of the elevator rising.

Then her body gave out.

She dropped to her knees with a quiet thud, the carrier jostling beside her. OJ whimpered louder, scratching at the sides, as if he could feel something cracking in her. Beyoncé covered her mouth with both hands, shaking uncontrollably. She didn't sob—didn't scream—just trembled like a wire stretched too tight.

Her phone buzzed violently in her pocket. Over and over. It was like it wouldn't stop. She pulled it out, and the screen lit up with a flood of missed calls and unread messages. Lauren, India, Jayda, Kyle... But mostly Lauren.

Lolo❤️
She's breaking literally everything.
You need to come back.
she was lying earlier.
Beyoncé seriously come back.
Where tf are you going???!

Beyoncé couldn't even read them fully. The screen blurred through the wall of tears forming in her eyes.

But then she heard it—her voice.

"I'll do him like I did Lamar. Watch him bleed out."

The words echoed in her skull, looping like a curse. Her hands flew to her ears, trying to drown it out, but it didn't work. She could still hear Onika, still feel her breath against her skin, still see the darkness in her eyes.

This wasn't the girl I loved. That wasn't her. That's not... her.

The elevator dinged again, and the doors opened to the lobby. Beyoncé forced herself to her feet, still shaking, dragging her suitcase with one hand, the carrier in the other, as OJ whined inside—louder now, distressed.

Her bruised wrist throbbed with every step.

As soon as she stepped out into the cold night air, her breath caught.

Zahir's car was parked at the curb, engine running. The moment he saw her—hoodie stained with tears, knees ash-colored from the floor, eyes wild with heartbreak—he rushed to her.

Without asking, without saying a word, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in tight.

"I got you," he murmured, low and steady, like it was the only truth left in the world. "I got you, B. You're safe."

She didn't say anything. Just fell into his chest and cried harder, shaking like a child in the storm. OJ barked once from inside the carrier, then fell quiet—like even he knew she needed this more than anything. When Zahir let her go she reached down and grabbed a shaking OJ.

Zahir grabbed the suitcase, and they headed out.

They got into the car. As soon as she sat down, Beyoncé pulled her phone out with shaking hands and called her mama.

It rang once.

"Hello?"

"Mama—" she croaked. "You were right. You were so right. I never should've come here. I thought I could fix it but—she's not the same, mama. She's not..."