VENETO DISTRICT, VENICE IN ITALY, CASTELLO TERRAZZA ESTATE.THE VELVET VIPER'S DOMAIN... Shante's private suite.
The jasmine-scented air hung heavy, laced with incense smoke that curled into soft spirals above their heads. The walls glowed with the deep, velvety red of sorrow, soaked in candlelight that flickered like silent weeping.
Shante stood near her bed, clad in a dark silk robe that shimmered with her every breath. Her presence still commanded the room,regal, magnetic, but something softer now lingered behind her sharp gaze. Grief was a ghost here, coiling around the ankles of the three women who stood before her like orphans on the verge of abandonment.
"I know you'll lead them well," Shante said, her voice low, tender,a rare melody reserved only for them. Her eyes, usually calculating, now burned with warmth. Sincerity. Love.
Julian, Maema, and Gabriella stood in a tight cluster, their faces torn between composure and collapse. They were already informed on the scene that happened in The Umbra Collective.
"I don't know who the next executive will be," she continued, her eyes sweeping over them, "but I trust that none of you will fail me. Treat the girls with kindness. That's not a request...it's a command."
Her words landed like a funeral bell.
"No," Julian whispered immediately, shaking her head, her mouth tightening into a trembling pout. "We don't want the position. Nothing is going to happen to you. Mrs. LaRue will fix everything. I'm sure of it."
Her amber eyes were already wet. The scent of jasmine suddenly felt cruel...because how would this room smell without Shante in it?
Shante clicked her tongue, cutting her a look. "Come on, July. How do you plan on ruling hundreds of girls when you cry this easily?"
But that only opened the floodgates. A chorus of tears began to fall, soft at first,then sharp, stifled sobs breaking through the velvet air.
"Oh God," Shante muttered. "C'mon, guys."
"Madam Te, please," Gabriella sniffled. "You mustn't go. The club won't survive without you."
Shante chuckled under her breath, the sound brittle. "You're the backbone, Gaby. You all are. You'll be fine without me." She tried to meet their eyes, but each of them looked away, consumed by grief.
"Shante…" Maema stepped forward, voice cracked and wet. "If you leave us, I swear, I'll hate you forever."
Shante winced. "That's a pretty nasty goodbye gift." She bent forward, meeting Maema at eye level. "But I get it. I'll always be with you. I'll always be right here." She touched Maema's chest gently, then stood tall again.
The three women looked shattered,faces blotched, eyes swollen, like lovers left in the cold by fate's cruel hand. Shante couldn't stand it.
"God," she muttered, shaking off the thought. The idea of dying wasn't the worst part...this was. The crying. The heartbreak. The possibility of her memory turning into some sacred relic that left people in pieces. She hated it.
If she had to die, she'd rather think of magic. Of stars. Of her parents waiting at the gates of something greater. Heaven, maybe. Not heartbreak.
"You guys have to stop crying. It won't fix a damn thing," she said, tone firm now. "What have I told you about showing weakness?" Her eyes narrowed. "You're Vixens, not porcelain dolls."
Any other day, they would've stiffened at that tone. Maybe even saluted. But today wasn't like the others. The word "goodbye" lingered like a curse in the air.
"Velvet Vixens," she called out sternly.
"Teeee!" they cried out in unison, voices trembling with despair.
Shante groaned. "You're making me think you're all hypocrites." She tried to joke, but the sound of their cries only deepened. She rolled her eyes.
"July, shouldn't you be happy? You've always wanted my bed. This is your golden opportunity."
"Noooo," Julian whined through her tears. "I like your bed. Not your room."
Shante gasped, mock offended. "Such bad words, young lady! Are you saying you don't like my paradise?"
"Tee," Gaby whispered, eyes downcast, "we may not see you again."
And just like that, the sobs returned. Louder now. Drenched in pain.
Shante closed her eyes. Her head pounded. It felt like needles pricking the inside of her skull.
"You know what?" she said with a forced smile. "Out. All of you. I need to breathe."
She walked toward them and began guiding them gently but firmly toward the door.
"No, no," Maema whimpered. "Let us stay,let's spend your last days together. Please, just a little longer."
"We've made enough memories," Shante replied softly. "You'll have those to hold onto."
"But it's not..."
With one final push, she nudged them all outside and shut the door firmly.
"Hypocrites," she murmured under her breath, the smile still painted on her lips as she rested her back against the door.
They heard it, of course. The murmurs and banging started almost immediately, but she didn't flinch. She slid slowly to the floor, the cool crimson tiles pressing into her skin as she stared at the ceiling.
Am I really going to die?
The thought sank into her like ice. She wasn't ready. Death was supposed to be poetic, something you leaned into,not something that shoved itself down your throat without warning.
Her eyes trailed across the room. Her temple. Her chaos. Her sanctuary.
Deep crimson walls that embraced her. Incense curling like secrets. A queen-sized bed with tangled, blood-and-midnight sheets. It always looked recently slept in,deliberately so. As though rest here was more ritual than relief.
On the side stood her antique dresser, chaotic and sacred,tomes, gemstones, melted candles, fragments of forgotten history. The mirror above it flickered with strange etched symbols, ancient and restless. Across the room, her favorite black armchair slumped beside dog-eared paperbacks and tarot cards stained with wine and wax.
Every surface held her secrets,taxidermy, trinkets, medical relics, beautiful monstrosities. And beneath it all, a shadow network of hidden symbols carved into wood, etched into sheets, whispered into pillows. A protection spell. A hex. A signature.
Her lair. Her temple.
Who would dare lay claim to this room now? Julian? Gabriella? Maema?
Her phone rang. A piercing, cruel noise.
She wanted to ignore it. But then she saw the name: Mrs. LaRue.
Her stomach flipped. Her hand trembled.
Is it time?
She swallowed and answered.
"…Madam Viv," she whispered.
"Is Drex with you?" Vivian's voice was calm but clipped. "I've been trying to reach him. Do you know where he is?"
Shante's heart stopped. Drex?
They're choosing a new exec already?
"…You're appointing someone else?" she asked, voice thin with fear.
A pause.
Then Vivian replied slowly. "What did you do?"
Shante's lips pressed together. She bit the inside of her cheek, heart thudding. Then, in a rush of breath, she told her everything.
When she was done, silence. She held the phone away from her ear, bracing for the explosion.
But all she heard was:
"Good girl."
"…Ma?" Shante blinked. The words sank in oddly, like a warm bath she didn't expect.
"I'm so impressed." Vivian chuckled. "You're a Vixen, Te. You're not a pushover."
The words echoed. Again. Again. Until they became a chant.
You're a Vixen, Te. You're not a pushover.
You're a Vixen, Te. You're not a pushover.
You're a Vixen…
And just like that...everything changed.
She wasn't going to die.
Vivian's voice snapped her back. "Are you even listening?"
"Yes! Yes, Ma, I'm listening!"
"Find Drex for me."
"Alright, Ma." Shante beamed so hard her cheeks ached.
The rest of Vivian's words floated in one ear and out the other. Shante was no longer present. She was floating.
As the call ended, she flung herself back onto the bed, laughing.
"I AM A VIXEN," she shouted at the ceiling, voice rich with relief.
"I AM NOT A PUSHOVER!"
And for the first time in days...Shante smiled.
A true, warm, bone-deep smile.