Saturday, March 16th Miami, FL

"We know what we doin' wrong, but girl, it feels so right..."

You stand in front of your floor-length mirror, adjusting the pearl straps of your dress. Your skin is warm-glazed and glowing, your lashes full, edges laid, and that same rosy perfume you only wear when you need to be remembered clings to the air like a secret. Adrian—your boyfriend—is in the living room again, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in hushed Spanish and pacing slow loops, talking in codes about money and moves you don't understand.

When you first met, Adrian had been prettier than you—Venezuelan charm, teeth like TV, arms that made dresses slip off too easy. He'd flown you out after three DMs, bought you a chain before even learning your middle name. But lately? All you get are last-minute kisses and silence.

You're on your way to a drop Adrian said would be "quick." You don't usually tag along, but boredom made you reckless, and curiosity has always been your drug. The car ride is quiet, Adrian tapping his thumb on the wheel while you pretend to care about boutique inventory on your phone. Pulling up, your brow rises—it isn't a trap house or a condo, but a black-glass museum nestled in Brickell. Clean, tall, and intentional. The Mays Gallery, the sign reads.

You follow Adrian through a side entrance while he speaks with two men in dark denim and low eyes. You wander. The marble floors echo your heels; walls are slate gray, hung with modern Black art framed in expensive wood. Spotlights halo every piece. It feels like something bigger than you're used to.

From the security office upstairs, Zion Mays leans back, watching you on the monitors. Dark, smooth skin dipped in ink, a scar under his eye louder than words. They call him Zombie in the streets—cold, calculating, born into beef he never wanted. But in the gallery, he is clean money, untouchable, and absolutely his own kind of danger.

He sends a worker with a folded guest pamphlet and a note inside: "Tell your man to keep his mess off my floors. But you? You can come back whenever you want."

And you do. Each visit grows quieter, bolder, more familiar. Until one afternoon, he asks, "You dressing up like this for him... or for me?" You don't answer. Didn't have to.

Now, heels clicking through the underground garage behind the gallery, you pull your key fob and ride the private elevator up. The doors slide open, and there he is. Black sweats, bare chest, gold chain catching the light. Toothpick between his teeth, eyes low and lazy with possession.

"You wore that for me?" His voice is deep, deliberate.