Page 11 of Kentrell

Currently, she was seeing a data analyst named Jill from Stacia’s tech startup. Last year, it was Shareef—Stacia’s brother-in-law and a trader at Ayesha’s firm.

That situation nearly gave us all ulcers.

But Mars never took warnings seriously. With her magnetic charm and zero filter, she could pull from the endless talent pool across my law firm, Ayesha’s bank, and Stacia’s startup. And she did—often. We’d all come to expect that when her entanglements went left,wewere the ones left picking up the emotional debris.

Nonetheless, I was fortunate to have the most incredible girlfriends—my two dearest childhood friends, Stacia and Mars, and my cousin, Ayesha. My mama always said we were three peas in a pod, plus one. She wasn’t wrong.

Still, something felt missing.

I excelled in school, kept my composure, navigated life with poise—but every night, when I turned off the lights and slidbeneath the covers, that cold left side of the bed whispered the same truth: success didn’t silence loneliness. It just dressed it up in silk sheets and morning meetings.

My mama never pressured me to find a man. In fact, I never saw her date growing up. But I wasn’t naive enough to believe no one tried.

Zora Davis was a certified baddie—stillis, even at forty. The young men in our neighborhood practically tripped over themselves when she walked by, and I remember the way she carried herself—head high, heels higher. People always said I was her younger version, a mini-Zora. But I never quite believed it.

She was bold, brilliant, and unmistakably beautiful.

Her deep brown complexion glowed like God had folded in cocoa, bronze, and honey until He got it just right. I inherited that same skin tone.

Her jet-black hair—dyed now to hide the silver—was always freshly styled by Sherry Nash every Saturday morning. You could never catch her slipping.

Her eyes were something else entirely. Hazel, hypnotic, and sharp as a blade. They’d cut through a lie in seconds or sparkle so bright the sun would blush. I got those, too.

And her lips—full, pouty, and prone to sulking whenever bored—another gift I’d received without asking. A blessing and a curse, depending on the moment.

But even surrounded by all this love and celebration, I felt... ghostlike. Present, but disconnected. Watching the world swirl around me like I was behind glass.

I hated my own cynicism, but it lived in me. Quiet and cold.

The road to becoming an attorney had kept me busy enough to ignore the ache, but not forever. That hollowness had followed me since birth. It never truly left—just took on new disguises.

Tonight, it was loud.

It rang in my ears as I watched the elite of Chicago mix and mingle, raising glasses to progress and Black excellence.

Lex was launching his grand project—a 15-story architectural marvel that offered everything from luxury boutiques and executive suites to a spa, a rooftop garden, and a boutique hotel spanning the seventh to ninth floors.

The twelfth floor would house a breathtaking exhibition space. And one level down, nestled in the heart of the action, stood Kensei’s new boutique:K-Reese.

The space gleamed with creativity and intention, named in memory of his late mother and driven by the genius of her only son.

It was beautiful.

They were beautiful.

Everythingaround me pulsed with life.

So why did I feel like I was floating above it all?

Among the crowd, I spotted a few familiar faces—some colleagues from the firm, a handful of industry contacts, and political figures like Mayor Brandon Johnson and Alderman Howard Brookins. Then, of course, there was Vivian Whitfield-Anderson.

Socialite. Heiress. The unofficial queen of West Loop society circles. And wife to one of the named partners at my firm.

It was safe to assume Mr. Anderson wasn’t far behind, likely nestled somewhere among the elite, doing his best to endure the evening despite his disdain for events like these. More than likely, their son Malcolm was with them, too. The office gossip mill had been buzzing—word was, he was laying the groundwork for a political run.

Knowing the Andersons were somewhere in the vicinity made me hyperaware of my dress again. Specifically, howshemight see it.

Vivian never hid her distaste for me. In fact, I respected her for that. I prefer my enemies bold, not whispering behind napkins. But the moment her husband entered a room, she morphed into the epitome of grace—smiling, nurturing,charming.

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