Imagines (Beyonce x y/n)

Vogue

The hum of the espresso machine was the only thing that felt normal this morning. Normal, and utterly out of place in the suffocating silence between us. Beyoncé was in the kitchen, impeccably dressed as always, even at 7 AM on a day that felt like the end of the world. She poured herself a matcha, steam curling around her face, a face I knew better than my own, yet one that felt like a stranger's this morning.

I watched her from the marble island, a cold coffee in my hand, the taste of burnt sugar and resentment bitter on my tongue. The fight had started harmlessly enough, a late-night scroll through Instagram. Just a like. A simple, innocuous double-tap on a photo of a rising R&B artist, someone I admired professionally. Her feed popped up, a striking headshot, and I'd liked it, genuinely appreciative of her artistry.

That's all it was.

But when B found it – because she always found everything – it became an indictment. A betrayal.

"Are you serious, Y/N?" Her voice had been low, dangerous. "You're liking thirst traps at this hour? What is wrong with you?"

"Thirst trap? bey, it was a press photo. She's promoting her new single."

"Oh, her new single," she'd mimicked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or her new cleavage?"

That stung. "Don't do that. You know I don't—"

"I know what I see! I know what I've seen before!" And then it came. The dagger. "It's like you want to be that man. You want to be just like him, don't you? Looking everywhere but here, always looking for the next shiny thing."

That man. The ghost in our machine. The one whose shadow still stretched long and dark across the landscape of her past, even years after I'd entered the picture. Jay. I hated the comparison more than anything. I'd spent months, years, picking up the pieces that man had shattered. I'd held her when she cried, celebrated her triumphs, absorbed the quiet pain she sometimes carried like a second skin. I'd been her comfort, her rock, her safe place.

And she was comparing me to him.

"Don't you dare," I'd snarled, my voice rough with disbelief. "Don't you ever compare me to him. I'm not him. I never will be him. I comforted you when he broke you, remember? You think I'd ever do that to you? You think I'd ever look at another woman, let alone disrespect you like that, after everything we've built?"

The air had crackled. Her eyes, usually so warm and full of light, were cold, distant. "Then why, Y/N? Why the late-night likes? Why the need to validate... her?"

"It was not validation!" I'd slammed my hand on the counter. "It was a goddamn like! Are you seriously going to ruin our day, ruin our lives, over a goddamn Instagram like?"

"Maybe you already did that," she'd whispered, her back to me, the words cutting deeper than any scream.

The urge to walk out, to call the Vogue team and tell them to go to hell, had been overwhelming. To tell Beyoncé to go to hell, too. How could she question my loyalty, my love, after everything? But the image of the cameras, the crew, the millions of eyes on us... it held me. Our brands, our carefully curated public persona, were intertwined. We were King and Queen in the public eye, despite the private storms. And today, we were scheduled to give the world a glimpse into our perfect, artistic, blissfully happy life for "73 Questions with Vogue." The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth.

Now, the silence stretched, thick and suffocating. She took a sip of her matcha. I swirled my cold coffee. The front door chime sounded, announcing the arrival of the Vogue team.

"Showtime," I muttered, pushing off the counter.

Beyoncé didn't even look at me. "Don't screw this up, Y/N."