Imagines (Beyonce x y/n)

Knowles daughter

For the better part of five years, that name around town was synonymous with two things: reliability and discretion. Those were the twin pillars of my existence as a dealer for Mr. Knowles. He wasn't just a boss; he was an institution. Not the kind with a plaque on the wall, but the kind with an iron grip on certain parts of the city, a network that stretched further than anyone dared to guess, and a reputation that made even the bravest men swallow their pride when his name was uttered.

I was his guy. His only guy who knew the address. Most of his crew, the muscle, the runners, they'd meet in warehouses, in dark alleyways, in nondescript suburban houses. But when it came to the money, the substantial earnings from the packages that moved like silent shadows through the city's veins, that came to me. And I, in turn, brought it straight to him. To his sprawling estate on the north side, a place hidden behind ancient oaks and wrought-iron gates, a fortress that felt miles away from the grimy streets I usually operated on.It was an unspoken trust, a dangerous privilege. Mr. Knowles didn't trust easily, and he trusted me with his sanctuary. I knew too much, he always said, not with malice, but with a quiet understanding that we were bound by information. My life was tied to his, and by extension, to the unwritten rules of his world.

The most prominent of those rules, whispered in hushed tones even among his inner circle, was simple: The Daughters.

Mr. Knowles had three. Solange, the youngest, a wild, creative spirit who always seemed to be humming her own tune. Kelly, the oldest, poised and sharp, with eyes that missed nothing. And then there was Beyoncé. I'd only ever caught glimpses of them in passing, a flash of movement as I entered the house, a distant laugh from some unseen room. They were his most protected assets, his blind spot, and off-limits to anyone in his employ. We were the dirt under his polished shoes; they were the jewels in his crown. Mixing those two elements was an invitation to a kind of pain no amount of money could fix.

My deliveries were usually late at night, after the city had exhaled its last breath of the day and settled into a uneasy slumber. I'd drive my beat-up sedan through the silent streets, the duffel bag heavy with cash on the passenger seat, my heart a steady drum against my ribs. The security was tight, layered and invisible, but I knew the drill. The coded gate, the discreet nod from the silent guard, the path up to the back entrance. I never used the front. That was for guests. I was just the help.

I'd walk into a dimly lit study, the scent of expensive cigars and old money hanging heavy in the air. Mr. Knowles would be there, usually behind a large mahogany desk, his presence filling the room. He was a man of few words, a nod, a curt instruction, a brief, assessing glance that always made me feel like he was peering right into my soul. I'd count the money, stack it neatly, and await his dismissal. It was a sterile, transactional interaction, one I'd honed to perfection. Get in, get out, stay invisible.

But one night, everything changed.
It was a Tuesday, I think. Or maybe a Wednesday. The days blurred together when you lived by the clock of the street and the whims of a powerful man. The air was thick and humid, promising a summer storm that hadn't yet broken. The usual routine: gate, guard, back entrance. But as I approached the heavy oak door leading into the side corridor, it wasn't fully closed. A sliver of light spilled out, and with it, the faint, melodic hum of a voice.

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. My instincts screamed danger. Breach of protocol. But something else, a quiet curiosity I usually suppressed, pulled me forward. I pushed the door open just a crack wider, enough to see.

It was the main hall, usually a cavernous, silent space. But tonight, it was bathed in the warm glow of an ornate chandelier, and at the foot of the grand staircase sat Beyoncé.

She was wearing what looked like silk pajamas, emerald green, shimmering in the light. Her hair, a cascade of dark waves, fell around her shoulders as she bent over a large sketchpad, humming softly to herself. She wasn't singing, not really, just an effortless, lilting melody that seemed to be pulled from the very air around her. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, but a faint, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips.