Rich Wives Association

by INDIA

Genres: African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction

Synopsis

To be a part of the A-List life, some women have to pay dearly…

The life of a celebrity wife is supposed to be all glitz and glamour. With red carpets, black cards, and tons of green money, who wouldn’t want to be on the A-list?
 
However, when the lights dim and the paparazzi fade, living life in the fab lane comes with a price. Some of these women pay severely for their membership into the Rich Wives Association. Don’t believe? Here’s their story.

 

Release date: March 29, 2022

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Pregnant! Are you sure?” I damn near screamed at Dr. Shiloh, my gynecologist.

“Jasmine, let’s not act too surprised by this news.” She rolled her eyes and wagged her finger in my face. “Come on now. We’ve been down this road too many times for you to be stunned.” Dr. Shiloh was from India. Her English was excellent, but her native tongue was still present and particularly noticeable.

“How did I let this happen?” I said more to myself than her. I was sure she knew I wasn’t speaking to her, but that didn’t stop her from chiming in anyway.

“Jasmine, they make condoms and birth control for a reason, you know.”

Now Dr. Shiloh was my girl and all, but she was beginning to piss me off. She had been my doctor ever since I was 17. She even delivered my son, Jordan. However, with the way I was feeling right now, if she kept talking, I was going to have to get ugly with her. This was not the time for speeches and “I told you so’s.” Right now, all I needed was a damn hug!

“Dr. Shiloh, please not right now, okay?” I wiped at a tear that slipped down the side of my face. I was so disappointed in myself I didn’t know what to do. This was my fifth pregnancy and would end up being my fourth abortion. Before you smack your lips and begin to judge me for what I’d done, you should try asking me what my story is and where my pain comes from.

Life for me might have appeared to be glamorous to blog writers, magazine readers, and television viewers. But trust and believe, life for me was no walk in the park by most people’s standards. My name was Jasmine James. I was 26 years old and married to the hip-hop legend King James. No, not LeBron, the basketball player from Ohio. My man was King James, the super-hot lyrical genius from the west side of Detroit.

Although King was his birth name, he went by KJ for obvious reasons. He was a six-foot, two-inch brother with light skin, beautiful teeth, wavy hair, and swag to die for. On a scale of one to ten, baby was at least an eleven. He got his break and was discovered about four years ago by Byron Washington, the CEO of Independent Records. After the contract was signed, King finally achieved fame, and our lives changed instantly. Most people pray for shit like this. However, if I was being honest, this celebrity life was for the birds.

I longed for the old days when we shared a studio apartment, rode the bus, and ate McDonald’s every day. Crazy, right? Well, it was true. Money had changed KJ in the worst way. In some ways, I was afraid it changed me too. No, I wouldn’t have said I was stuck up or anything like that. I still shopped in the hood at the local malls, and I could still chill in the cut and kick it with my people. But my standards had been lowered. Lately, my tolerance for King’s bullshit was extremely high, and that wasn’t okay with me. I’d watched him turn into my beautiful nightmare. I needed to wake up, open my eyes, and walk away, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

See, I’d loved King since we were in kindergarten. During recess one day, he asked me to be his woman and gave me a dollar and a kiss on the cheek. I cried, took the dollar, and told the teacher. King got a timeout, but he won my heart that day and had held it ever since. We were inseparable! He was my man, and I was his bitch! Ride or die, I was by his side. After high school, he did some time upstate on a weapons charge. My mama wasn’t feeling him, but I had his back. I stuck out the three-year bid with him, and when he was released, I was standing at the front gate, arms wide open. It was then that he informed me that his new passion was rapping. I encouraged him to take action and pursue a rap career. Within months, his music ripped through Detroit like a virus. Eventually, other states began to take notice. Just like that, he was signed. Life couldn’t have gotten any better. Or so we thought.

We soon discovered that I was pregnant, and I was given the news that we would be having a boy. King was the happiest man in the world. He wanted everything to be perfect for our son. He got down on one knee and asked me to marry him right here in Dr. Shiloh’s office. Of course, my answer was yes. Hence, we were married two months later. The lavish wedding, the exotic honeymoon, and purchasing our first mega-home was a breeze and no sweat off our backs. King had been signed for approximately six months by then. Money was flowing and everything was velvet. Actually, it was up until the night my water broke and Jordan was born.

Labor for me was extremely difficult. I felt as if I were dying. In my heart, I knew something was wrong. After Jordan was cleaned up and in my arms, I counted his ten tiny fingers and toes. I peered into his beautiful brown eyes and inspected his little ears, too. Everything was present and accounted for, but something was off. Staring at my son, it was then that I noticed he looked a little different from most babies and his cry wasn’t normal.

Nobody said a word to me, not even King, my mother, or Dr. Shiloh. They all noticed it too but were afraid to say it aloud. The next day, Jordan was taken for a hearing test and his circumcision. About three hours later, he was returned to me with both good and bad news. The good news was he didn’t have any hearing problems. The bad news was he had been diagnosed with Down syndrome.

After receiving that information, I was a mess. I blamed myself and cried constantly for my son. I was devastated that in less than twenty-four hours after coming into the world, he already had odds against him. King was crushed. Instantly, I began to feel a disconnection between us. Although he didn’t admit it initially, he blamed me for Jordan’s disorder, and that shit hurt like hell. How can you get through one of the most difficult situations in your life when the person holding your hand lets go?

He began to stay out late and party a little more. Within months, King was all over the internet. He was rumored to have been with this model or that singer and even a few groupies. There was also mention of a few outside children, which as of yet hadn’t been confirmed. I never questioned him about the stories that I heard or read. Honestly, I didn’t want to know the answer. All that mattered to me was that he provided for me and Jordan. It didn’t matter that the rumors were probably true, because deep down, I knew he loved us. This was just his way of dealing with things. I didn’t doubt his love at all. However, it did hurt my feelings that he rarely wanted to have sex when he came home from his tours.

On the rare occasions when we did get it on, he always used condoms. Fearing the worst, like an STD or something, I asked him what the deal was. He admitted that he didn’t want any more children. His rationale was because he was working all the time. Therefore, he didn’t want me to have to handle two kids all by myself. I assured him that it didn’t matter to me, that I would love to try again.

Aside from caring for Jordan and the occasional shopping trip, I wasn’t doing much with my time anyway. He still refused. I was aware that it was because he didn’t want another child like Jordan. I understood that most people couldn’t deal with having a special-needs child, so I backed off. We went back to using condoms. After one broke, I was told that I was once again expecting. King hit the roof and made me get an abortion. I didn’t want to do it, but my hands were tied. The same thing took place with the second unplanned pregnancy, as well as the third.

Every time I had to get on top of that table and kill a piece of me, I slipped further and further into a deep, dark hole. I begged Dr. Shiloh to tie my tubes, but she refused. “You’re young! One day you will meet a man who wants to make beautiful babies with you, and you will be sorry,” she had said.

“Dr. Shiloh, I’m already married to King, and he ain’t going nowhere.” I had flashed her my rock as if she could ever forget him.

“He is no good for you, and he is damaging your insides.” She had scribbled something down on a prescription pad. “Take this to the pharmacy, and I don’t want to see you back here until your annual pap smear.” She handed me the paper, which was a prescription for birth control. “No more babies, Jasmine.” Those were her famous last words.

That was four months ago. I was mortified to be sitting in her office with the same problem for the fourth time.

“Jasmine, you are too smart to be so naive. Please, honey, at least keep this baby! This may be your last chance at a normal pregnancy,” she pleaded as I nodded.

I wasn’t saying I was going to keep the baby, but I did agree that this just might be my last opportunity. It would be wonderful to have another baby and prove to King that we could do it right. Unfortunately, I knew he wouldn’t be a happy camper.

“Jasmine, here are a few samples of prenatal vitamins. If you decide to keep this one, start taking them as soon as possible.”

I looked around the 30,000-square-foot California mansion in disgust. No longer could I see the beauty within this gated property. Gone was the love I once had for the home and its co-owner, my husband. Every painting on the wall and expensive piece of furniture was just another reminder of his bullshit.

“Tionne, where the fuck are you going?” Dallas looked over the marble banister. He was standing there in a pair of black silk pajama bottoms. The oil on his chocolate brown skin was illuminated by the scented candles lined along the ledge. Every muscle in his chest and stomach area stuck out like a sore thumb. Dallas was a powerhouse! Had my husband not been one of the most famous rappers turned CEO of his own music label, he could definitely be mistaken for a professional bodybuilder.

“I’m leaving.” I kneeled down to pick up the two pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage resting near my Giuseppe-covered feet.

“You ain’t going nowhere, especially with only two suitcases.” Dallas chuckled.

I even giggled a bit too. With all the clothing, shoes, and other worldly possessions upstairs in my closet, it did seem quite ridiculous to only be leaving with a few items. Even so, I decided long ago that if and when the time came to leave, I would only leave with whatever I’d come with. It was time for me to make my own way in life. I didn’t want Dallas to take credit for anything, not even the labels across my round ass.

“Come on, baby. Join me in bed and stop playing.”

“Dallas, I’m serious.” I had threatened more than two dozen times to leave his no-good, two-timing ass. Each time I meant it but could never stay true to my word. It seemed as if he had an invisible hold on me. No one could see it, but everyone knew it was there.

“Look, I’m not about to stand here all night. Quit playing, and bring your sexy ass to bed.” Dallas made his way down the semi-spiral staircase, taking each stair at a deliberately slow pace.

I didn’t have time for this nonsense tonight. He thought my threats were idle, but he was gon’ learn today.

“You got another nigga or something?” Dallas teased me with a laugh.

He knew I would always be his, and so did I, or so I once thought. “I should have another two or three. Hell, maybe four or five just to keep up with you,” I said with my back to him.

“Ten niggas couldn’t even love you like I do,” Dallas barked.

I could hear the flopping sound of his leather house shoes nearing. Without delay, my entire body tensed up. Every time I was prepared to walk away from him and his lies, he always found his way back in. The majority of the time, Dallas would apologize profusely for his behavior. Then he tried to make things better with a new piece of jewelry, an expensive new car, or a shopping spree. Sadly, he only got his act together long enough for me to let my guard down. Just when I thought my marriage would be okay, his ass would end up in the doghouse again.

“Baby girl, did you hear me?” Dallas reached down to remove a piece of luggage from my tight grip. “I said I’m sorry. I love you.”

“Dallas, you don’t love nothing but pussy.” I rolled my catlike eyes, which were a mixture of hazel and gray contacts of course.

“I can’t argue with that.” Dallas stroked his neatly trimmed goatee, then rubbed a hand across his bald head. “If I didn’t love pussy, I’d be gay.”

“You know what I mean.” I smacked my full lips. The MAC lip paint shimmered beneath the lights of the chandelier hanging in the foyer.

“Can’t we talk about it?” His brown eyes peered into mine.

“Talk about what, Dallas? This is ho number fifteen!” I snapped. Normally, I was a quiet person until you pissed me off. “If you want to talk about why that bitch was under your desk sucking your dick when I came to the office, then go ahead. Be my guest.” Truthfully, she wasn’t even the real reason I was leaving. I was simply fed up with him, period. I was tired of the way his forehead wrinkled when he smiled. I was tired of the way he left toothpaste all over the sink. I was tired of the way he slept at night, and I was tired of him always leaving the toilet seat up. More than anything, I was tired of taking chances with my life every time I slept with him. It was time that I had some much-needed space. Catching him with this new bitch made leaving that much easier.

“I told you she was down there shining my shoes,” he lied to me with a straight face.

“Oh, she was polishing something all right, but it damn sure wasn’t your shoes.” I shook my head. Dallas was pathetic. His lies weren’t even good anymore.

“You’re jumping to conclusions. From your position at the door, it may have looked like my joint was in her mouth, but it wasn’t. I swear!” He raised his right hand as if he were taking an oath.

“Dallas, just shut the fuck up! There’s nothing you can say or do that will persuade me to change my mind. I’m leaving and that’s that.”

“I thought you were in this shit for better or worse. Until death do we part, remember?” He tossed the wedding vows at me like they mattered.

I had already endured the good, the bad, the ugly, and the most horrific shit imaginable. There were no more burd. . .