Chapter 6
The next morning, I called every supplier myself.
I hated each call.
I hated explaining that records had been entered incorrectly.
I hated asking for time.
Most of all, I hated the small silence after I gave my name, when I waited to hear whether my reputation had already been damaged.
Some people were angry.
They had a right to be.
Others were patient.
One offered a payment schedule before I asked.
By noon, I had written every balance on a sheet of paper.
The total made my hands go cold.
Camille checked my numbers.
Then checked them again.
“We can make a plan,” she said.
“I can’t finish orders without materials.”
“We start with what you can finish.”
I looked around.
There were projects already paid in full.
Deposits I had assumed were protected.
Money Andre had moved while I was busy sanding tables and answering customers.
For one ugly moment, I wanted to disappear.
Turn off the lights.
Let everyone decide I had failed.
Instead, I called my assistant, Imani.
She had worked with me for three years.
I had sent her home early twice that week because I could not bear having someone watch me unravel.
“I need to tell you what’s happening,” I said.
She listened.
When I finished, she asked, “Are we still opening tomorrow?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll be there at eight.”
“I might have to reduce your hours.”
“We’ll discuss it after we count the orders.”
She arrived that afternoon anyway.
Together, we moved finished pieces near the loading door.
We checked what materials remained.
We called customers with realistic dates.
I did not tell them my whole life.
I told them what affected their order.
That was enough.
At four, Andre walked in.
Imani went still.
I had forgotten how welcome he used to be here.
He brought a bakery box.
My favorite lemon cake.
For a second, the familiar smell hurt more than his face.
“I thought you could use something to eat.”
I did not take the box.
“You need to leave.”
“We need to discuss the business.”
“Through Evelyn.”
He looked at Imani.
“Could you give us some privacy?”
She looked at me.
I shook my head.
“She stays.”
Andre set the box down too hard.
“I’m trying to help.”
“You already helped yourself.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I put years into this place.”
“You changed lightbulbs and complained about my hours.”
“I introduced you to people.”
“And I did their work.”
He took a folded paper from his pocket.
“There’s a solution.”
I did not touch it.
“What solution?”
“A buyer for part of the business. Quick cash. We clear the accounts and move forward.”
My stomach dropped.
“You tried to sell my studio?”
“An interest. Not the whole thing.”
“Without asking me?”
“I’m asking now.”
Imani shifted beside the workbench.
Andre lowered his voice.
“Nia, you can’t keep everything. Be practical.”
I looked at the paper.
Then at him.
He was still trying to make me pay for what he had done.
“Take your cake,” I said.
“Nia.”
“And leave.”
He stared at me.
Then he picked up the box.
At the door, he stopped.
“Don’t act surprised when people hear my side.”
The door closed behind him.
Imani let out a breath.
“Was that a threat?”
“It was familiar.”
I called Evelyn immediately.
She asked me to write down exactly what happened.
Then she told me the financial review had uncovered another problem.
Andre was trying to arrange a sale of the suburban house.
Not completed.
But moving.
“He told the agent you were unavailable and had agreed,” she said.
“I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“I know. We’re addressing it.”
I sat on a chair without its cushion.
Every time I thought I understood the damage, another door opened beneath me.
That evening, my cousin called.
“Are you really trying to leave Andre with nothing while Tasha’s pregnant?”
I closed my eyes.
The story had started traveling.
“Who told you that?”
“His mother said—”
“Did she mention the money taken from my business?”
Silence.
“No.”
“Did she mention that I found out about Tasha yesterday?”
More silence.
“I thought you knew.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Now you know I didn’t.”
After that call, I sent one message to the family group.
I said I had learned of an ongoing deception, that professional help was reviewing financial matters, and that I would not debate private details in a group chat.
I asked them to stop passing along claims they had not checked.
Then I muted it.
My mother called privately.
I braced myself.
Instead, she said, “Do you need me to come?”
That question broke something open.
“Yes,” I whispered.
She arrived the next morning with a small suitcase and groceries.
She held me in Camille’s kitchen while I cried into her shoulder.
No advice.
No questions about what I had missed.
Just her hand moving over my hair.
Later, Tasha sent a photograph of a letter.
Andre had asked her to sign a statement saying the money she gave him was a gift.
“He says if I don’t, the baby loses everything.”
I read it twice.
Then I wrote, Talk to your lawyer before answering.
Her reply came a minute later.
I did. I’m not signing.
I put the phone down.
Across the kitchen, my mother was washing a bowl.
May you like
For the first time all week, I thought about something beyond what Andre had taken.
He was losing the ability to make us believe him.
