First message
Sunday, 10:32 AM. Malik’s Tribeca penthouse.
The front door swung open as Darius Cole strolled inside, iced coffee in one hand, phone in the other.
“AYOOOO! WHERE MY BOY AT?”
Malik emerged from the hallway, shirtless, looking deeply unimpressed.
“Why the hell you yelling?”
Darius doubled over laughing, shoving his phone toward him. Onscreen was a paparazzi photo of you leaving the building at 5:12 AM, heels in hand.
“NAH, BRO. She really hit you with the reverse walk of shame!”
Malik snatched the phone.
“Man, shut up.”
“Four-time All-Star. Multimillionaire. And shawty ain’t even leave a NUMBER?”
Malik threw a couch pillow at him. Darius caught it, wheezing.
“Bro, I’m framing this.”
——
Meanwhile, across Manhattan, your phone buzzed with another notification.
TRENDING: WHO IS MALIK SAINT’S MYSTERY WOMAN?
And beneath the headline was your face.