💜 Chapter One: The Asking

Angel

December 12, 2025

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“Angel! Angel hold up, I need to talk to you!”

The brazen shout echoed across the sprawling, meticulously manicured campus quad. It was two weeks before Christmas, and the air bit with a crisp, Louisiana chill, but I was burning from the inside out. I mentally rolled my eyes so hard I felt the muscles in my skull strain. I put an extra, determined snap in my stride, the worn leather of my sensible academic boots hitting the pavement with a percussive rhythm. The voice belonged to Saint Monroe, my arrogantly charismatic ex-best friend, and I was doing everything in my power to outrun it.

My entire being was focused on one sacred goal: reaching my dorm room for a necessary, ten-minute caloric intake. I’d been up since the alarm screamed at 8:00 AM for my first English/Writing class, endured back-to-back seminars on Economic Policy and African American Literature, had two exams in Anatomy and Physiology, and it was now past five in the afternoon. Being a pre-med student is hard as hell. The sinking sun cast long, skeletal shadows across the brick pathways. I was running on fumes, a dangerously low blood-sugar level, and the rapidly approaching deadlines of a thousand-page reading assignment and three major essays. Add to that, the three evening shifts a week at the campus bookstore, and I felt less like a college senior and more like an indentured scholar. I literally felt like the concrete was going to rise up and swallow me whole.

“Angel, I know you hea’ me, guh!” he yelled again, closer this time, the phrase a smooth, melodic curse spoken in that deep, unforgettable New Orleans accent. It was a voice that held the inherent risk of making a girl—even a disciplined, rational girl like me—pause, melt, and potentially forget her own name, let alone her urgent need for sustenance.

Why won’t he just leave me the hell alone? I thought, my jaw clenched. My dorm was now only a desperate twenty feet away. Can't he see I'm in a damn rush? I know we used to be as close as two molecules in a single bond—inseparable since birth—and I admit, he still occasionally appears out of nowhere to fix a flat tire or talk me out of dropping a major. But he was relentless, a force of nature dressed in a Gucci track suit.

I reached the threshold of my building, my fingers brushing the cool brass of the door handle. Maybe I should stop. That thought was a traitor. He might have something genuinely important to tell me, a campus emergency, or a last-minute policy change. Counting to ten in my mind—one one thousand, two one thousand...—I slowly, reluctantly turned around.

Saint was already there, towering over me, a slightly annoyed, predatory look on his face, as if I were the inconvenience. I should be the annoyed one; I was the hungry one.

“Damn Gelly, that’s what you doing now, just ignoring me and sh*t when I call you, huh?” He asked, his voice now a low rumble of accusation. His deep brown eyes, the kind of mesmerizing, slightly slanted pools that could suck girls in like a vacuum cleaner and leave them breathless, peered down at my exhausted face.

I scrunched my nose and gave him my most practiced, bored eye-roll. “How many times have I told you to never call me Gelly in public? Don’t answer that. What do you want, Jamie?” I used his nickname—short for James which happened to be his middle name, the one only his family and I were allowed to utter without fear, a subtle jab at the distance he’d enforced between us.

He didn't flinch at the use of his name. "So, you didn’t hear me calling you?”

“Should I have heard you calling me? Besides, the campus is loud and crowded this time of day; it’s almost impossible to hear if someone calls me,” I lied with a slight, airy shrug, feeling the pangs of hunger sharpen into actual physical pain. “Did you need anything, because I really need to get to my dorm so I can change for work. My shift starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Actually, I do need something,” he admitted, shifting his expensive backpack.

“Well, what is it? Because I have to go, and don’t you dare ask me will I do your Economics paper for you because the answer is no, I refuse to write another 3,000 words on the marginal utility of chocolate.”

He ignored the jibe completely. “You know the Omega Psi Phi Fraternity, Inc. Psi Alpha Chapter Holiday Gala is coming up, right?”

Did I fail to mention that Saint is a fifth generation Que? Well, he is. His grandfather, father, uncle, and older brother, Savior, were all inducted into the historic fraternity. He wasn't just a member; he was a damn legacy, born and bred to wear the royal purple and gold. Did I also mention that the legacy status had inflated his ego to stratospheric levels? Because it had. I genuinely couldn't stand his cocky, fraternity-obsessed ass anymore. Anyway, the Omega Psi Phi Fraternity, Inc. Psi Alpha Chapter Holiday Gala is a signature annual event where brothers and supporters celebrate the season with upscale parties, themed events like Mardi Gras or Masquerades, and community giving, raising funds for charities and scholarships, and local support while enjoying dining, dancing, and fellowship, embodying the fraternity’s principles of Manhood, Scholarship, Perseverance, and Uplift.

“Yeah, and your point?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe for support.

“I need a date. I’ll pay for your ticket and buy you a dress. A spectacular one. Everything,” he finished, as if this were a perfectly normal request from an ex-best friend who treated me like a ghost for the last year.

“Saint, what the hell are you talking about?” I asked, genuinely confused as I studied his face. Even exhausted, I couldn't deny the aesthetic impact he had. He truly was a work of art, a living sculpture of athleticism and swagger. He resembled a younger version of actor Michael B. Jordan, only Saint’s skin tone was a shade darker, glowing like polished bronze. His eyes were like deep pools of brown that still pierced straight through my soul, and he stood at least 6'2"—maybe taller—exuding the deep, smooth voice that could probably make a woman swoon with a simple grocery order. He even had the sexy deep dimples like Michael B. Jordan. He was the forbidden, rich, dark dessert that every girl on campus craved, the one they knew could ruin their diet, their GPA, and possibly their life. And every girl did crave him... except for me. Because he was arrogant, rude, and a massive pain in my black ass.

He folded his muscled arms across the chest of his jacket, staring at me with the unwavering confidence of someone used to getting what he wanted. “I’m telling you that I need a date for the gala, and I know you’re probably not going to be doing sh*t that night anyway, so I figured...”

I looked at him like he was batsh*t crazy. “Hell no! I don’t know what made you even think I would consider going to even a luncheon with you. Saint, your ass is crazy.” I chuckled unamused.

“Why not?” He asked, a flash of genuine confusion crossing his perfect features.

“Because we haven’t exactly been the best of f*cking friends since you pledged Omega, became captain of the basketball team, and started treating me like I was radioactive. Furthermore, you’re a huge pain in my ass, and for your information, I am going to be busy that night.”

Okay, that wasn't true. My "busy" involved a date with my stack of library books and a cheap bag of chips. But I was not going to that gala with Jamie. Not for all the purple and gold in the world.

“Don’t make me beg, Angel. I’ll let you buy whatever you want off my black card—dresses, shoes, laptops—do your homework for the rest of the semester, and I’ll pay off the remainder of your car note. I’ll even buy you a Christmas gift…an expensive one.” He offered the final point with the flourish of a man accustomed to solving all problems with extreme liquidity.

I actually laughed out loud. It was a dry, incredulous sound. “No way. Your ass is delusional. I have to get ready for work, and thanks to this conversation, I have to go in hungry as hell, so thanks a lot for the empty stomach.” I shook my head, already turning my back.

“Angel!”

“Bye Saint. Good luck finding a date for your legacy preservation ceremony.” I waved over my shoulder as I finally reached the door and retreated into the dim, cool hallway of my dorm, the promise of a stale granola bar awaiting me.

*****

Saint

I watched the brass door swing shut behind her, cutting off the sharp scent of her Victoria Secrets Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion and the slight huff of her annoyance. Angel. Her back talk always left me both irritated and impressed. Every other woman on this campus—hell, every other person in my life—falls in line when Saint Monroe gives a command. But not her. Angel Carter, or 'Gelly' as I'd called her since we were kids fighting over a single pack of Skittles, was my one and only constant annoyance, the only one who consistently refused to bow.

Damn, I'm already in trouble. I thought, my jaw tight. I knew the moment I spotted her worn, UGG boots marching across the quad that this was going to be a harder sell than a three-point shot in overtime. I tried the usual yell—the deep, loud one that usually stops women in their tracks—but she just picked up the pace. That's Angel. She knows my voice, she knows what I want, and she'd rather eat dirt than make this easy for me.

The sight of her, all tight bun and tired eyes, leaning against the doorframe, didn't help my case. She looked like she was about to pass out from hunger, and I felt a brief, familiar pang of guilt for delaying her. But I had to shut that down fast. I needed to get this done.

When she hit me with the "Jamie," I had to check my expression. That's a low blow. That's the name my Mama calls me, the name she knows gets under my skin because it reminds me of a time before the gold boots, before the legacy, before the life I had to take seriously. It reminds me of when we were just two kids who shared secrets and never went more than a day without talking. It reminds me of the distance I had to put between us to protect her.

"Why not?" I asked, genuinely confused by her flat-out rejection. I was offering her a lifeline! The Gala is the event of the year, a chance to get eyes on her, dressed in a designer gown, for once. The basketball team, the fraternity—that was all business. That was my future. And for the past year, that future demanded I keep a healthy distance from the one girl who could distract me and, worse, ruin my carefully constructed image.

Her answer, when it came, hit me like a foul. "Because we haven’t exactly been the best of f*cking friends since you pledged Omega, became captain of the basketball team, and started treating me like I was radioactive."

She hasn't forgotten. I expected the resentment, but the raw anger in her voice was sharper than I anticipated. I knew I’d iced her out, I had to. It was a necessary evil. I needed to focus, and Angel, with her stubborn independence and her way of looking right through my ego, was the biggest threat to my laser focus. I couldn't risk the chapter or my father thinking I was getting serious with a girl before I earned my spot.

I pulled out the heavy artillery. The Black Card. The car note. The Christmas gift. This wasn't just about a date; this was about the final, biggest social event of the semester. My family—my grandfather, my father, and Savior—were all going to be there. They needed to see me with a date who was smart, presentable, and most importantly, not one of the sorority girls who were only after the Monroe name. They needed to see me with a woman they respected. They needed to see me with Angel. No one questions her pedigree, her academics, or her character. She’s perfect camouflage. And it’s not like she’s new to these galas since we’ve been attending them with our families since we were children. Our dads were line brothers and our moms were sorority sisters, so we always attended the galas every year until her parents stopped attending them. Angel could’ve pledged Delta freshman year but she didn’t want to be apart of the sorority life.

When she laughed, the dry, incredulous sound scraped against my pride. Delusional? Nobody calls Saint Monroe delusional.

"No way. Your ass is delusional. I have to get ready for work, and thanks to this conversation, I have to go in hungry as hell, so thanks a lot for the empty stomach.”

She shook her head and turned her back, the casual dismissal stinging more than any curse.

"Angel!" I called, but she didn't even pause.

"Bye Saint. Good luck finding a date for your legacy preservation ceremony.” The backhanded compliment was classic Gelly, and I felt my lips twitch despite myself.

I stood there for a long moment, folding my arms across my chest again, watching the door. Every other woman would be halfway to the mall by now with my card. Every other woman would be begging to be seen on my arm. But Angel just walked away for a stale granola bar.

I still need her. The Gala is too important. The fact that she can’t be bought, bribed, or swayed is precisely why I need her there. It tells my family that my choice is real, not just a transaction. I just have to figure out a better angle. Money didn't work. Guilt didn't work.

What does Angel Carter really want?

I pulled out my phone and scrolled past the dozens of texts from hopeful prospects. I stared at the locked door of her dorm, a new plan already forming. If bribery won't work, maybe a little strategic emotional blackmail will. I don’t have a lot of time. Angel Carter is going to that Gala with me.

*****

My chest was still heaving slightly from the sprint to catch her. No girl ever made me run that hard, especially not since I became captain. I leaned against the brickwork, letting the late afternoon chill cool me down, and went over the entire disastrous exchange.

Fact One: Angel is hungry. Fact Two: Angel hates my ego, my fraternity status, and the way I've treated her this past year. Fact Three: Angel is the only one who fits the criteria for the Gala—someone who looks good, won't embarrass the family, and, crucially, won't try to get pregnant by a legacy.

I'd thrown the Black Card at her, and she laughed. Laughed. Most girls would sell their soul for a swipe. But Angel’s pride is bigger than her appetite, and her GPA is more important than my credit limit. She's been working those three bookstore shifts because she needs the cash, not because she wants to 'get out of the house.' If she turned down the car note offer, that meant her need wasn't financial; it was personal.

And that's where I screwed up. I treated her like one of the superficial girls I usually dealt with—a transaction.

I pushed off the wall and started walking, my Gucci bag slung over my shoulder, the weight of my own books feeling suddenly heavier. I had to appeal to her sense of duty. Her misplaced loyalty.

The Gala wasn't just a Legacy Preservation Dinner; it was a charity event that was held every year to raise money to provide gifts and dinners for families in need. All the Omega patriarchs—my grandfather, my dad, my uncle—they're all there watching. My older brother, Savior Monroe, the Golden Boy of the family, would be there, too. Savior hates me. He thinks I'm an entitled kid who only pledged because of my name. He’s looking for any reason to call me a disappointment. And this year, thanks to my recent induction to the Golden Boots, the scrutiny on me is unbearable.

The Omega Psi Phi Psi Alpha Chapter has to look pristine. It’s not just for my reputation; it's for my father's and his father's.

My original date, some girl named Sydney, just got mono, and she won't be cleared in time. I can't just show up with some random fly-by-night hookup. Savior would rip me apart. And my father… the man barely speaks to me as it is. He needs to see that I can handle the legacy, that I can present myself and my company with class and respect.

Angel is the only one who knows the drill. She knows my family. She knows the rules of engagement.

I walked past the library, the glow spilling out into the twilight. I saw her car, a 2019 Nissan Altima, she calls "The Chariot," parked in the faculty lot—she probably sweet-talked a professor into letting her use it for her bookstore shift.

Okay, Jamie. Time to switch tactics.

Plan B: The Debt of Friendship.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my tablet. I didn't need Angel to do my Economics paper (which, by the way, was actually about the marginal utility of petroleum), but she did talk me through an entire mid-term freshman year. She did pull me out of that car crash two years ago. And she did cover for me once when I missed an important quiz because I spent the previous night partying and getting drunk with my frat brothers.

I typed a message, then hesitated. No, texting is too easy to ignore. I needed to see her face. I needed the full effect.

She said she was going to be busy with books that night, a lie I could see right through. Angel would always prioritize her work, but if I frame this not as my social event but as a life-or-death crisis for the Monroe name, she might cave. She’s too much of a softie to let a legacy that big crumble, even if she despises the person holding it. She wants distance? Fine. But for one night, I need the girl who was closer to me than my own shadow. And I’ll use every memory, every favor, and every ounce of my charm to get her to say yes. This isn't just about a date; it's about surviving the night my family judges whether I'm worthy of the purple and gold.

I just need her to see that rejecting me isn't just rejecting Saint Monroe, the jerk. It's rejecting Jamie, the friend who is about to be humiliated.