by Tia Sirrah
Broken
Tia Sirrah
a BWWM interracial contemporary romance
Intended for the 18+ reader
Copyright © 2019 by Tia Sirrah
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
To Eddie K., for your love and support.
Acknowledgements
Where would I be without my beta readers? Lnette, you have one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know. Don't ever change. d'Artagnae Ariel, your fierceness is unrivaled. Keep shining. Without you ladies, this book would still be a work in progress. Thank you for your encouragement and your time.
To my son and daughter, your love and patience has not gone unnoticed. To my husband, my rock, my blessing, the love of my life. Thank you for always believing in me, even when I didn't believe in myself.
To Kyani, my oldest friend. Thank you for listening to all my crazy imagined stories when we were barely teens. That planted a spark in me to want to do this one day.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Playlist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
About The Author
Playlist
Canon in D - Pachelbel
Breaking the Habit - Linkin Park
Oh, What A Life - American Authors
Fall for You – Leela James
Never Be The Same – Bilal
Lose Myself – Marsha Ambrosius
A Long Time Ago – Timothy Bloom
Come Fly With Me – Frank Sinatra
If This World Were Mine – Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell
It Never Rains (In Southern California) - Tony! Toni! Tone!
When It Hurts So Bad – Lauryn Hill
1+1 – Beyoncé
A Couple of Forevers – Chrisette Michele
Chapter 1
IT WAS THE WEDDING of the decade, and yours truly was the maid of honor. Relatives from across the country, old money, new money, political diplomats, many of the state's top one percent, and the local press were all in attendance to see two of the wealthiest and most powerful families join under holy matrimony. Over the last six months, Amy, my best friend of twelve years, had countless meltdowns, temper tantrums, and arguments with everyone who had the pleasure of crossing her path. She was the Queen B of Bridezillas, taking the crown fair and square. So why didn't I grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she got some act right, like my cousin Fatima would say? Two reasons. Number one. Her terror always seemed to bypass me. And number two. I pitied my bestie. I was one of the few, and I mean very few, who knew that this wedding was a total and complete sham.
"Novalee, you are a godsend," Amy said to me, as I handed her a flute of Cristal.
"Easy on the champagne," Mrs. Manchester warned from her corner of the suite, surrounded by her team of stylists.
As Amy and I tossed back our champagne flutes, I reflected on our friendship, our sisterhood. Amelia Manchester and I meet at Manchester Preparatory Academy, an exclusive and elite all-girls school, ranging from seventh to twelfth grade. At the age of twelve, I relocated to The Woodlands, Texas, to live with my father, Norris, and my stepmother, Helena. Before that, I lived in the Bay Area, with my biological mother, Keisha. Under Keisha's roof, I experienced verbal, physical, and sexual abuse. Deep purple and blue bruises marred my fair skin and were eventually discovered by my gym teacher. This led to a series of events that would forever change the course of my life.
Keisha was arrested and plead not guilty to child abuse charges. Her public defender argued that Keisha merely spanked me, from time to time, whenever necessary. Though in reality, her definition of discipline consisted of punches to the stomach and back, repeated slaps to the face, and a broken arm on one occasion. Due to my testimony and photographs of my bruises, she was subsequentially sentenced to two years in state prison.
I met Amy one week after moving to The Woodlands. The vice-principal, Penelope Grayson, volunteered Amy to give me a tour of the enormous school grounds. Still raw with emotion over the things that transpired in California, I wasn't a big talker and attentively listened as Amy blabbed on and on about Manchester Prep. Her grandparents had established Manchester Prep in 1979, and it was one of the top schools in the county.
Amy was very popular, even for a sixth grader. As we strolled the halls, girls of all ages greeted her. I'm sure her last name helped matters, that and the fact that her mother was the principal. We hit it off instantly, realizing that we shared the same taste in music, our love for Justin Timberlake, don't judge me, and our adoration for all things fashion.
Amy's familial contributions to the Republican party had spanned back five generations. The Manchester family was one of the most significant political donor families in the country. They contributed millions of dollars to numerous congressional and presidential elections. Amy's family legacy and the expectations for her to continue such legacy, was the reason for her upcoming nuptials to Quentin James V. Quentin was the son of the current two-term Republican senator, Quentin James IV. As Amy would tell it, their fathers betrothed she and Quentin over scotch and cigars one year ago.
Their marriage was merely a business deal, the merging of two powerful families to further advance their legacies and empires. When Mr. Manchester revealed his secret plan to Amy, she vehemently refused it. But Mr. Manchester wasn't used to being on the receiving end of the word no. And when he dangled her multi-million-dollar inheritance over her head, and the end of Quentin's future political career over his, the two became the "it" couple overnight. The plan was simple. Have a storybook wedding. Produce of a bunch of beautiful, blond hair, blue-eyed babies. In due time, become the President and First Lady of the United States of America. Their union would further catapult the Manchester name into our history books. Amy, with her Malibu Barbie good looks, and Quentin, with his Abercrombie model good looks, would become the John and Jackie Kennedy of the Republican Party.
∞∞∞
I STOOD IN FRONT of the three-way floor-length mirror in one of the country club suites. Fatima, my cousin and hairstylist for the day, stood behind me, combing my silky locks into submission. She had flat ironed my voluminous mop of curls for this occasion, by the request of Mrs. Manchester. She made her request crystal clear at the rehearsal dinner the previous night.
"Your curls are lovely, dear," Mrs. Manchester said. "Sort of like Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City, only a tad bit kinkier. But for this wedding, we are opting for a more…sophisticated look. For the entire bridal party, of course."
Helena had also called me the night before, spouting off similar things. "I know yo
u love your curls. And you have a beautiful texture, thanks to your father." Shade. "But for this event, you're already going to stand out being the only black woman in the entire wedding party. Let's not give them something else to talk about. You better to go with a more toned-down look." I hated myself for caving to the pressure. Begrudgingly, I asked Fatima to straighten my curls and took out my septum nose piercing for Amy's special day.
Fatima was a well-known hairstylist in the Houston area. Her clientele crossed color lines, and her specialty was natural hair and hair weaves. Smoothing down my edges with a bit of edge control, she said, "Do you know how many sew-ins I do every week on girls trying to get hair like this? You should let me style your hair on my next YouTube series."
"I love you, cousin, but you know I don't feel comfortable on social media."
"I know you're a social media hermit." She rolled her eyes. "But I need a hair model with a 3B curl type. You would be perfect. I want my favorite cousin with her banging ass hair on my channel."
"First of all, I'm your only cousin, and flattery will get you nowhere." A slow grin formed on my lips. "It's still a hard no." I'd had enough of my share of unwanted media attention over the last couple of years, which resulted in me canceling all my social media accounts. Fatima's YouTube channel had over five hundred thousand subscribers. She was a local celebrity in the Black Hair community. I wasn't ready to put myself out there again, especially after the humiliation I suffered two years ago, that still haunted me to this day.
Fatima scanned the spacious dressing room. Secluded from the rest of the bridal party, her voice was barely above a whisper. "You know you're going to be the only black person out there, right? This wedding and this country club are whiter than a Klan Rally in Mississippi."
I snorted in an unexpected chuckle.
"Just sayin'. You're about to have all these good ole white boys shook." She circled me, inspecting her work with a proud expression on her face. "My work here is almost done."
Fatima stood beside me as we studied my appearance in the mirror. "You're the best, Fatima. Seriously."
"I know," she beamed. "And ignore the haters, a.k.a Amy's mean ass mama and my bougie, but lovable, auntie Helena," she murmured. "Mrs. Manchester just wanted your high yella ass to blend in with the rest of em'," she ribbed.
"Ouch," I drawled feigning offense. "We’re not all blessed with an abundance of melanin like you have. No need to throw shade."
Fatima had flawless cinnamon-brown skin. Her skin had a natural glow that even the best bronzer couldn't create. "True, true." She rubbed her baby smooth skin with the palm of her hand before a smirk twitched at the corners of her lips. As she dabbed nude gloss to my lips, she said, "What I would give to have plump lips like yours. People pay good money to have lips like these." She slightly covered her mouth and mumbled, "Including Amy's mama."
"Shameless." I laughed inwardly, shaking my head.
"Girl, I don’t care. You should try it sometime." She winked at me and continued to touch up my makeup. "Well, you look absolutely gorgeous. And if I'm ever crazy enough to get married, you're designing my wedding dress and bridesmaid dresses. I can't believe you made all these dresses. You're missing your calling, girl." I spent the better part of last year, sketching, creating the patterns, and sewing all nine bridesmaids’ dresses.
"Aww, thanks, cousin."
With her hands on her curvy hips, she gave me a once over. "Now go out there and slay. Maybe find a cute guy to rock your world tonight. Lord knows you need it."
"Whatever," I dismissed. I wasn't the least bit interested in going home with anyone.
I smoothed my hands down the sides of my gown. I sighed with a bit of chagrin, as I looked down at my very lacking breasts. I was a card-carrying member of the itty-bitty titty club. My cleavage was practically nonexistent, even in my new demi bra. The pale green chiffon dress hugged my curves. I made my gown a size four but added a couple of extra inches around the hips, to accommodate my shapely figure. At least with what I lacked up top, I made up for with my small waist and ample behind. The crossover halter neckline and pleated waistband gave the dress a very sophisticated, yet youthful look.
Mrs. Manchester strolled over and stood beside me. Fatima excused herself with one last air kiss to my cheek. "Mrs. Manchester," she pointedly said.
"Fa-tee-mah," Mrs. Manchester replied, annunciating the pronunciation of her name with an air of arrogance.
With a smirk and a casual wave of her black polished manicured hand, Fatima sauntered away.
Mrs. Manchester appraised me through the mirror. "You look absolutely lovely, dear. Your hair is stunning, by the way."
"Thank you, Mrs. Manchester," I said, with a small smile. "You look beautiful, as always."
"Thanks, dear." She smoothed the side of her sleek blond chignon with her hand. "I must say, you've far exceeded your maid of honor responsibilities. And the dresses are positively fabulous." Our eyes met in the mirror, my dark brown to her cornflower blue. "You've been a good friend to Amy." A hint of sincerity and warmth shone in her eyes before it quickly vanished and was replaced by her usual cold stare.
I noticed a slight tremor in her hand as she smoothed the skin under her eyes. She emitted a deep sigh, before turning to the other bridesmaids who were scattered around the room in various stages of dress. "Okay, ladies. It's almost time."
Amy's team of stylists surrounded her, hastily transforming her into a real-life Disney princess. The custom-made gown draped Amy's willowy frame. Her silky blond hair was whimsically swept up off her face in an elaborate updo.
"Novalee." Amy outstretched her hands to me.
I walked over to her and clasped her hands. "Amy, you look beautiful!" I beamed. The elephant in the room wedged its way between us. Its imposing weight lay heavy on my chest. An unwelcomed feeling of guilt and things left unsaid clung in the air between us. I thought about our conversation from the night prior.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" We sat by her parents' pool sipping on mai tais.
"Like I have a choice," she gritted out, angry tears welling in her eyes.
I looked around and then lowered my voice, ensuring we had privacy. "You always have a choice. It's your life."
"You don't know my father." A forlorn chuckle escaped from her lips.
"But you said that you guys don't love each other. What kind of life is that?"
"Marrying for love is for fairytales and cheesy romance novels, Novalee. This is real life. Quentin and I make sense. I could have avoided a lot of heartache if I'd only come to that conclusion sooner." She gazed off at a distance, tears now spilling from her eyes.
I wasn't naive. I knew that many people didn't marry for love, but rather for the comforts of wealth and the lifestyle that it could afford. And in my short twenty-four years on this earth, I could count on one hand, couples around me who seemed to have loving relationships, my dad and Helena being one of the few.
"I want you to be happy. You've always been optimistic when it comes to love. You once believed in fairytale romances. Like what you had with Wesley. I only want to make sure that you're okay. That you really wanna do this."
The infamous Wesley. The one I'd never had the pleasure of meeting, due to my overbearing, strict father. He kept a pretty tight leash on me, not allowing me to party with my friends during the summer breaks or on the weekends. My social life was lackluster. I spent many nights in front of my sewing machine.
"It's almost time," Amy said in a shaky breath, interrupting my thoughts.
"I'm sorry about last night. I should have never said those things," I blurted out, knowing time was short.
"Give us a minute," Amy said to her team of stylists.
Once we had a bit of privacy, I asked, "You good?" I searched her eyes. "If you're good, then let's go get you married to Quentin. You’ll be the envy of every woman out there, including your bridesmaids." I nervously chuckled, desperate to lighten the mood. "But if you're not," I lowered
my voice, "we can blow this joint." I tried and failed to mask the seriousness in my tone.
Amy smiled faintly and shook her head. "I'm okay."
I gave her my signature megawatt smile. "Let's go make an honest woman out of you," I quipped.
A delicate smile curved on her lips. "Let's do this."
"And make it quick, will you? My feet are killing me." I exaggeratedly shifted from one Manolo Blahnik to the other.
"We're ready. Places everyone!" Sun Yu, the wedding planner, clapped her hands loudly, garnering everyone's attention. Everyone studiously lined up. Her sleek shiny bob swayed from side to side, as she scanned the lineup and spoke into her headset.
Mrs. Manchester met up with Amy, who stood at the back of the line. With a silk handkerchief, she dabbed a tear that formed at the corner of Amy's eye. "There, there, Amelia," she cooed. "This will be the happiest day of your life. Quentin is quite the catch." She gently teased Amy's hair. "Hold your head up high and smile for the cameras. There are a lot of important people out there."
I stood in front of Amy, holding the flower girl's hand. I turned to give Amy one last wink, before exiting the room with her four-year-old cousin, Lindsey. I headed down the hall towards the wedding processional.
∞∞∞
THE QUARTET OF violinists played J. Pachelbel’s Canon in D, I sauntered out onto the vast grounds of the posh country club. We were surrounded by green manicured lawns, weeping willow trees, man-made lakes, and putting green off in the distance. Guests sat in white folding chairs, which were draped in ivory linens. The scenery was breathtaking, as was the weather, at a pleasant seventy-two degrees.
I subtly surveyed the crowd as I glided down the aisle, taking in all the smiles - some genuine, some fake. I looked ahead toward my destination. The sun momentarily blinded me, obscuring my view of the sixteen-member wedding party. Once my view was unobstructed by the sun’s glare, I focused on all the familiar faces who stood in front of a towering wall of ivory and pale green flowers. Quentin’s little brother, Victor, who served as best man, rubbed his smooth chin as he surveyed me. A faint groan escaped his lips, which landed him a subtle elbow to the ribs from Quentin. I heard stifled laughs from a few guests, which made my face heat from embarrassment.
