MISSING LINK

Chapter 1

The girls and I embarked on a road trip from East Hampton to Montreal for Labor Day weekend. It was an adventure with Twins Mia and Pia, Claudette, and myself. The twins lived up to their reputation, partying hard, hitting the floor, and sometimes getting sick, as if they were starring in their own "Girls Gone Wild" production. Claudette, on the other hand, remained the voice of reason, playing the role of the sober and responsible driver - her restraint was admirable. The four of us had been best friends since childhood, an unbreakable clique.

We were all in our fabulous forties, graced with both success and beauty. At our age, it wasn't unusual for people to mistake us for women in our twenties or thirties. We often joked, saying, "We got it from our mamas!" 

The main difference between me and the others was their love lives - theirs with men vs. my love affair with my nightly glass of red wine and the comfort of my king-sized bed. Ever since the end of my ten-year relationship with my egocentric ex-husband, I had transformed into a lower vibrational, introverted recluse. I preferred the seclusion of my estate, often lounging in my robe and turban, and indulging in my newfound vice of vaping. It was ironic, considering that I had detested smokers, smoking, and smoke in general my entire life - yet here I was, parked in front of the television, resembling a modern-day, black Greta Garbo.

However, I have to give credit to my sisters. One of the four would call me at least three times a week, and it usually started with, "Girl, get dressed!" That was their way of ensuring I got out of the house, even if it meant they had to drag me. They kept me engaged and semi-social throughout my battle with depression.

Quamie, a music executive, was eleven years my senior, but even in his fifties, he retained his seasoned good looks, stature, and wealth, which attracted gold-diggers like bees to honey. My divorce from Quamie had been long overdue. I had suspicions of his infidelity dating back to three years into our marriage, but I chose to bury my head in the sand, denying what I was almost certain of.

"Babe! You know everything I do, I do with purpose. How can you even suggest I would purposefully step out of our marriage?" he protested. "It's these women chasing after me...and you should be proud that your man is still a catch, boo. What's wrong with that?" He wore a cocky smile whenever he thought he had a clever comeback.

To him, everything was a joke, but in the end, I had the last laugh. Five million dollars, a mortgage-free mansion in the Hamptons, two cars, an SUV, my own skincare business, and whatever remained of my sanity. I found myself engaged in constant inner dialogues, wrestling with my emotions and questioning why I wasn't overjoyed about escaping a toxic relationship while still basking in my luxurious lifestyle. It was the shame that lurked behind it all, gnawing at me relentlessly.

ONE YEAR EARLIER:

"I'm coming!" I shouted above the relentless doorbell ringing. A disheveled, video vixen - THOT type woman had the audacity to bring her drama to my front door.

"Misty Mitchell..?" She inquired, her tone dripping with an unmistakable shade, and her gaze locked onto mine.

Her excessively enhanced breasts practically spilled out of her crew-neck shirt, in competition with the bulging belly that lay before her.

"Who's asking?" I responded, my annoyance palpable.

"Just tell Quamie that his baby is arriving in two weeks," she declared, her voice carrying an air of confidence. "Tell him it's Cynthia, tell him he can run, but he can't hide! I've got tabs on where he lives, works, and plays. Let him know he made a grave mistake when he toyed with me, because," she ran her hands sensually over her rounded belly, "this right here is his baby and my future source of income!" With a flourish, she snapped her acrylic-adorned fingers in my face, twirled around on her four-inch heels, and waddled away down the courtyard.

At the end of the day, my worst nightmare had come true: Quamie had gotten one of his mistresses pregnant. An acute sense of dread washed over me in that moment. I knew I had to face the harsh reality that had been lurking beneath the surface for so long. I stood in the doorway, tormented by the worst thoughts—me, a humiliated trophy wife, childless, my biological clock ticking away, and my reputation tarnished. On that very day, I initiated divorce proceedings, keeping the real reason from Quamie. I let him discover it through his own lawyer during the court proceedings. Truth be told, as tumultuous as our relationship had become, Quamie had undeniably transformed my life, at least in financial terms.

Back when we first met at that school board meeting, I was struggling on a modest teacher's salary. Fate intervened when he handed me his business card in the parking lot afterward. Scrawled on the back were the words, 'Don't think about it, be about it. Call me.' In hindsight, I should have recognized the signs of a slick player. However, all I saw at the time was a successful, philanthropic black millionaire. I was ready for change, so I made the call, and we were married a year later.

Throughout our marriage, Quamie remained consistently generous. He insisted that I give up my job to pursue my passion for painting. He showered me with extravagant gifts and whisked me away on luxurious vacations. But, as we all know, money can't purchase love. Despite having it all—being a thirty-four-year-old black woman with an enviable life, a beautiful home, luxury cars, and an unlimited credit card—I was missing the most essential elements of life: genuine love, passionate intimacy, and romance, all the sentimental things you read about in romance novels.

After the divorce was finalized, Quamie extended an apology, claiming I was the only woman he had ever truly loved. I responded with a skeptical side-eye and an exasperated sigh. I didn't harbor hatred toward him; instead, I felt a profound disappointment. It was clear to me that he was never cut out for marriage. I sincerely wished him all the best, even in his new, somewhat pathetic role as a father.

A few weeks after the divorce, Quamie reached out to me again. By some twist of fate, the court had ordered a paternity test to confirm his alleged fatherhood of "ratchet girl's" baby. Astonishingly, the results proved that Quamie was not the child's biological father. I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief for him, though our paths have not crossed since that revelation.