thelovebelowseries

[thelovebelowseries]

𝐕𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐨𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐬. ┈─ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑... ও

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: The Velvet Box • Monroe Crest.

𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄: Friday, January 3rd, 2025.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 8.3k. ( Exact Count: 8,367 )

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: read teaser notes here.

WARNING. this is intended for a mature audience only. the love below novel series is an adult urban contemporary romance and e r o t i c a series. all content consumed is strictly for individuals aged eighteen and older. minors are advised not to engage with this content. any minor found interacting will be blocked and reported.

━━ ❍ CHANTEL’S POV. ❍ THIRD PERSON.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 night was alive, pulsing low and slow like a heartbeat wrapped in silk. Outside, the city simmered under a velvet sky, its neon veins flickering with possibility. But stepping through the doors of The Velvet Box was like sinking into a dream—one lined in velvet and stitched with sound. Inside, the walls didn’t just hold the rhythm—they breathed it. Soft crimson lighting clung to every surface like the afterglow of a kiss, bleeding into the plush shadows. Honey-warm basslines oozed from hidden speakers, rolling over skin in waves, syncing bodies to a tempo older than memory. The air hung thick—heady with the mingled notes of amber perfume, sweat, and something electric. Every table told a story. Lovers leaning too close. Strangers watching from the dark. Laughter curling like smoke. Even the corners seemed to whisper, their shadows ripe with secrets not yet spilled. The whole place throbbed with anticipation, as if the night itself were holding its breath. And then there was the booth. Set apart just slightly, like a jewel in a velvet box. It glowed faintly from within, not from light alone, but from attention. The kind of attention that bends the air. People glanced, lingered, looked away. Whatever—or whoever—was inside had gravity. Something was about to happen and of course the the room knew it. The rhythm shifted just ever so slightly and the night leaned closer.

The night was already thick with promise when Chantel lit her second clove blunt and leaned back against the velvet wall of the private hallway, just out of view. From her vantage point, she could see everything without being seen—exactly how she liked it. The city had delivered her finest tonight, wrapped in silk, sequins, and desperation, spilling into The Velvet Box like they knew they’d have to earn their pleasure. And she’d be the one to grant it—or deny it. Her name wasn’t on the door, but every inch of the place moved to the rhythm of her ambition. The curvature of the marble bar, the blush tones in the lighting, the vintage speakers hidden in art-deco nooks—all hers. Every bass drop that kissed the floorboards was a whisper of her intent. This wasn’t just a speakeasy. It was a stage. A sanctuary. A trap. And tonight, it was a celebration.

Estelle’s voice floated from the booth already—low and deliberate, like courtroom jazz—but Chantel hadn’t made her entrance yet. She never rushed the reveal. The Velvet Box trained people to wait, to wonder. That was what desire was—delayed gratification wrapped in gold trim. And tonight, she was the prize and the dealer. She took one last drag and snuffed the blunt out with the heel of her Louboutin. The beat dropped—slick, slow, seductive—and the doors opened just enough for her to glide in. Heads turned. They always did. But she only cared about one—and he was already there. Kairo Ventura. Of course he was. Lounging next to Kimbella like he’d never made her beg, like his mouth hadn’t been poetry on her skin, like they didn’t have unfinished business sealed in satin sheets and secrets. He didn’t look surprised to see her. That was his thing—cool composure laced with arrogance. He wore fame like a tailored sin. But Chantel was used to powerful men who thought they’d mastered her. He held her gaze, casual and cutting, and raised his glass just slightly. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just smiled—slow and sharp—like the truth she was always willing to use.

Let the games begin…

Chantel slid into the booth like a secret, all silk and self-possession. The low lighting caught the shimmer of her bare shoulder, the curve of a smirk tugging at her mouth, but her eyes never once flicked toward the man simmering on the other side of the plush semicircle. ❝ Finally. ❞ Estelle drawled, lifting her champagne flute. ❝ I was starting to think Monroe Crest’s reigning ice queen wasn’t going to grace us with her presence. ❞

❝ Please. ❞ Chantel replied, voice warm as velvet and twice as deadly. ❝ You know I like to make an entrance especially when it’s earned. ❞ She clinked her glass lightly against Estelle’s, then Kimbella’s, then Naomi’s—lingering just a beat longer with the latter, who offered a wry half-smile in return. ❝ To winning. ❞ Chantel said, ignoring the flash of gold and ego that was Kairo Ventura sitting inches away.

❝ To survival. ❞ Naomi countered, low and deliberate.

❝ To reclaiming everything. ❞ Kimbella added with a wink, though her eyes darted—just briefly—between Chantel and Kairo like she was bracing for impact. Chantel didn’t take the bait. Instead, she leaned back and draped one arm across the velvet behind Estelle, crossing her legs with deliberate ease. She was the picture of composure. Untouched. Unbothered. Kairo’s jaw tightened. Barely. But Chantel caught it … she always did. He shifted beside Kimbella, clearly expecting some acknowledgment—a glance, a hello, a flicker of memory across her face. But Chantel never gave away power for free.

❝ So, Kimbella... ❞ she said, turning with practiced delight. ❝ I heard you finally snatched that artist you’ve been eyeing. What’s the name again? Starts with a K? ❞

Kairo exhaled a soft, sharp laugh through his nose, low enough that only Chantel and Kimbella heard it. ❝ You actin’ funny now, huh? ❞ He muttered under his breath.

But Chantel didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. ❝ I’ve always been funny. ❞ She said smoothly, pouring herself a drink without looking at him. ❝ People just don’t always get the joke. ❞ Estelle coughed into her glass to hide a grin. Naomi’s brow arched. Kimbella looked like she wanted to melt into the leather. Kairo leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice quiet but pointed. ❝ You really gon’ act like you don’t see me? ❞

Chantel’s smile widened—dangerous and disarming. She turned, finally meeting his eyes, cool and unimpressed. ❝ I don’t have to act. ❞ She said, then lifted her glass. ❝ To new beginnings. ❞ He stared at her, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. Heat. Memory. Hunger laced with something darker. She turned away again, laughing at something Estelle had just said. Kairo sat back, tension carved into his jaw. He didn’t like being ignored. And she knew it.

She could feel him burning beside her, even without looking. That was the thing about Kairo—his presence didn’t just enter a room; it pressed against it. Demanded space. Filled every corner with that low-simmering, star-wrapped arrogance he wore like skin. But she’d learned a long time ago: attention was currency. And she never gave him anything for free anymore. Still, it took everything in her not to let her eyes drift toward the curve of his mouth, the way his gold chain caught the light when he leaned in. Still wore the same cologne. Still smelled like bad decisions and good nights.

Chantel swirled her drink, letting the ice clink softly in its glass—something to anchor her. She could play it cool, all silk and sharp edges, but inside, her pulse wasn’t as calm as she made it look. He shouldn’t be here. Not in her space. Not in the booth where her girls came to breathe and laugh and put down the armor for a minute.

And certainly not on Kimbella’s arm.

That was the part that stung more than she’d admit. Kimbella knew. Maybe not everything—but enough. Enough to know Kairo wasn’t just some old flame or failed fuck. He was the one that got too close. The one who knew how to pull pleasure from her like a secret. The one who made her almost consider softness. And now he was here, all smooth grins and veiled taunts, acting like they could play pretend. Let him stew. Let him want. She leaned into the laughter, tossing her head back with a practiced ease. The red lights caught in her curls, in the shimmer of her shoulders. She felt eyes on her from across the room—and from inches away. Let him remember what he lost. Chantel smiled. Let the night unfold. She wasn’t breaking tonight. Not for him and certainly not again.

━━ ❍ ESTELLE’S POV. ❍ THIRD PERSON.

Estelle had been watching Chantel for the past few minutes—not in that obvious, nosy way most people did when they were trying to figure her out, but the way only someone who’d memorized her friend’s tells could. The laugh was half a note too high. The sip of her drink came a second too soon. And she hadn’t touched the pomegranate seeds in her cocktail. Chantel always ate the damn pomegranate seeds. That was enough to confirm it—something was off.

Estelle slid her gaze past the glowing rim of her glass and zeroed in on the source: Kairo Ventura. That man was trouble wrapped in sex appeal, all diamond watches and slow blinks. He sat too close, smiled too easily, and stared at Chantel like she was a locked room he still had the key to. Estelle knew that look. She’d seen it in courtrooms, across negotiation tables, even once in a mirror. Chantel hadn’t said a word about Kairo signing with Kimbella. Not in the group chat. Not over wine. Not even when Estelle had purposefully mentioned Monet Sound Syndicate last week just to see if she’d flinch. And now here he was, sitting right next to her like some dark constellation crashing into her orbit.

Estelle waited for the right moment—timing was everything with Chantel—then leaned in just slightly, angling her body so her words could slip beneath the surface of the conversation like a well-placed cross-examination. ❝ You good? ❞ She asked, soft and low, like an offering rather than a question. Chantel didn’t answer immediately. Just kept her eyes locked on Naomi across the booth, nodding at whatever theory she was spinning about power and proximity and protest. But her fingers were coiled too tight around her glass, and the laugh that slipped out wasn’t anchored in anything real.

❝ I’m always good. ❞ Chantel said finally, her voice smooth as satin—and just as hard to hold onto. Estelle gave her a look and Chantel sighed, just barely. ❝ He doesn’t matter. ❞ She added, eyes flicking to Estelle now. ❝ Not anymore. ❞

Estelle let the silence stretch. Let Chantel’s words settle. She knew better than to challenge her friend directly when she was in defense mode. Instead, she offered what Chantel would never ask for but always noticed—presence. Stillness. The kind of attention that didn’t demand anything in return. But even as the conversation resumed and the girls laughed louder, Estelle’s thoughts lingered. Not anymore was always code for still a little bit too much. And Chantel Brooks, for all her fire and flawless control, had just walked into a night she didn’t fully own.

Estelle took another sip of her champagne—dry, crisp, expensive—and let the bubbles dull the weight gathering behind her eyes. Outside, the city roared in velvet tones, the heartbeat of Monroe Crest vibrating through the walls of The Velvet Box, but inside this booth, the tension was sharper than the music. It always amazed her, how a room full of beautiful, brilliant women could still bend under the gravity of a man.

She watched Naomi now, her voice rolling smooth as sermon over the soft clink of glasses. There was always something mesmerizing about Naomi when she got going—her words layered in intellect and fire, her hands painting truths in the air like a pastor on the edge of a breakthrough. The other women leaned in, caught in the pull. Even Kimbella, who’d been unusually quiet, nodded along—though Estelle noticed her hand kept inching closer to Kairo’s knee like she was reminding herself, he’s mine now. Estelle hated that for her. Hated that whatever power Kimbella thought she had in this moment was illusion. Kairo wasn’t a man you had. He was a man who let you think you did.

Chantel hadn’t spoken in a few minutes. She wasn’t sulking—Chantel didn’t do sulking—but she’d retreated somewhere behind the glassy shimmer of her expression. And that made Estelle uneasy. Chantel Brooks knew how to mask like a pro, but when she got quiet like this, it was because she was protecting something. Or someone.

Estelle glanced down at her phone—two missed calls from her managing partner, another from a client she’d just freed from a six-month-long legal noose. She was the reason they were even celebrating tonight, but suddenly, none of it seemed to matter. Because something about this night felt like a shift. A page about to turn. Estelle reached for the charcuterie fork, speared a cube of manchego, and leaned toward Naomi. ❝ You think Black women ever really get to be soft in public? ❞ She asked, voice low but genuine.

Naomi blinked, caught off guard. The question cut through the energy like incense smoke—slow and sacred. ❝ Only if they bleed quietly. ❞ Naomi said after a beat.

❝ Or make it look like poetry. ❞ Kimbella sighed, finally finding her voice. ❝ I don’t wanna be a poem tonight. ❞ She said. ❝ I just wanna feel good without explaining it. ❞ Chantel smiled faintly at that. Not at Kimbella, but at the sentiment. Estelle caught it—the flicker of resonance. There she is.

Kairo cleared his throat like he was ready to re-enter the conversation. ❝ I mean, if y’all wanna feel good, you definitely in the right spot. ❞ He said, smirking. ❝ Monroe Crest don’t sleep, but it does know how to sin. ❞ His voice was smooth, but Estelle clocked the edge under the charm. He was growing restless. Chantel’s silence was cutting him. Chantel didn’t respond. Didn’t even look his way. Estelle bit back a smile and reclined in her seat. Let him squirm. For the first time in a long while, the balance of power was right where it needed to be—in the hands of the women who built this city from pain, pleasure, and purpose. And Estelle planned to enjoy every moment of it.

━━ ❍ KIMBELLA’S POV. ❍ THIRD PERSON.

Kimbella could feel it brewing, slow and silent, like the heat that gathers behind your knees on a humid day—unseen, but undeniable. Everyone was playing their part. Naomi waxing poetic with that preacher-girl cadence. Estelle asking the kind of questions that made you want to sip slower. Chantel sitting there like her throne was carved out of moonlight and myth. Even Kairo, arrogant and simmering, knew better than to push too hard—at least not yet. But Kimbella wasn’t blind.

She saw the way the air bent around the two of them—Chantel and Kairo. How they refused to look at each other but couldn’t quite stop performing for the same invisible audience. It was like watching lightning flirt with a match. And Kimbella? She was just the space between. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back, letting her face relax into something unreadable. Not cold—just neutral. She’d perfected that look after her divorce. When the tabloids painted her as the desperate housewife and her ex paraded his new arm candy all over Crestwood Hills. Let them think what they wanted. She was always two moves ahead.

This moment? This wasn’t about romance. It never had been.

Kairo Ventura was not her type. Too loud, too shiny, too many women on his phone who thought proximity equaled permanence. But he was valuable. Monet Sound Syndicate needed a heavyweight, and Kairo came with mass, momentum, and a fanbase rabid enough to turn a brand into an empire. And if she was being honest…

This was about Chantel.

Months ago. Cabo. Drunk off añejo and hot girl freedom, Chantel had said it with that sharp little smirk she wore like lipstick: ❝ Monet Sound? Cute. If you ever want to be taken seriously, though… don’t go signing loud boys with weak pens. ❞

It wasn’t the words. It was the tone. Like Kimbella’s wins were always just one notch below real success. So when Kairo’s manager slid into her inbox, offering up a meeting after his public split from his label, Kimbella didn’t hesitate. She signed him. Negotiated his comeback campaign. Put his album on the summer calendar. And tonight?

Tonight was her silent I told you so.

Except now, watching the crackle between him and Chantel, that vindication felt … complicated. Kimbella took a sip of her hibiscus spritz, her gaze flicking sideways to Chantel’s still-perfect posture. Not a single curl out of place. Not a single emotion slipping through. She didn’t even flinch when you walked in with him. And that? That stung more than it should’ve. Kimbella’s smile faltered for just a second. Then—

❝ Chantel. ❞

It wasn’t loud. But it cut. Every woman at the booth paused. Just for a breath. Kairo leaned in, not touching her, but too close not to feel. ❝ Let me talk to you for a minute. Just you. ❞ A hush bloomed around the table. Naomi looked up from her drink. Estelle’s brow arched, lips pursed. Kimbella didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Chantel didn’t say anything right away. But her eyes—those dark, smoky eyes—finally slid toward him. Slow. Icy. Dangerous. The moment hung heavy. A fuse lit.

Kimbella didn’t move. She kept her face still, her drink in hand, her legs crossed like she had nothing to react to. But inside? Oh, she felt it. The shift. The weight. The way the entire mood of the booth dipped like a record slowing down mid-song. Chantel looked at Kairo like he was the last cigarette in the box—dangerous, unwanted, and still… tempting. And for a second, Kimbella thought—maybe—she’d shut him down cold. Deliver one of those slick, icy brush-offs she was so famous for. Let him drown in his own audacity right there between the velvet shadows and candlelight.

But then Chantel stood. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough to let everyone know she wasn’t running—but she also wasn’t ignoring him anymore. The table went quiet. Even Naomi, who always had something layered to say, pressed her lips together and leaned back like she didn’t want to get caught in the blast radius. Kairo followed—of course he did—moving with that trademark swagger, all low-slung confidence and that slight, infuriating smirk. Like he’d won something. Like she hadn’t just made him wait in that silence for the better part of the hour.

Kimbella’s jaw clenched. Just barely. Just enough for her to feel it. This wasn’t the plan. Not that she expected Chantel to beg, or break, or even blink. But Kairo wasn’t supposed to matter. Not enough to warrant a private sidebar. Not enough to turn her night—their celebration—into this slow, burning mess of old wounds and unspoken things. As Chantel and Kairo slipped through the low-lit corridor leading toward the back of the lounge, Kimbella stared at the place where they’d been seated. The space felt colder now. Emptier. Like someone had taken the bassline out of the song.

Estelle leaned over, not unkind but unfiltered. ❝ You didn’t know? ❞

Kimbella tilted her chin, the picture of calm. ❝ That it was still this deep between them? ❞ She shrugged. ❝ No. ❞ She didn’t need Estelle’s sympathy. Didn’t want it, either. This wasn’t about love. It was about pride. Power. And maybe—maybe—a part of her had wanted to prove to Chantel that she could build something better than her. Bigger. Stronger. Louder. But now? Now all she could think about was the way Chantel’s jaw had tightened before she stood. The way she didn’t look back. And how much it cost her to not flinch. Kimbella looked down at her drink, her reflection rippling across the deep red surface. Damn. She didn’t know if she’d just won something—

—or set it all on fire …

━━ ❍ NAOMI’S POV. ❍ THIRD PERSON.

The silence that followed Chantel and Kairo’s exit was thick. Not awkward, but weighted—the kind of silence that happens right before the weather turns. Naomi stirred her drink absently, watching the last curl of condensation trail down her glass like a thought she didn’t want to have. The booth, which had been buzzing with easy laughter and celebratory energy just minutes before, now felt like a velvet-lined confession box. She glanced from Estelle—tight-lipped and calculating—to Kimbella, who still wore that beautiful, dangerous stillness like a gown. Naomi took a slow breath and finally broke the silence. ❝ Well… ❞ She said, her voice low. ❝ This just got… biblical. ❞

Estelle snorted softly, a rare crack in her polished composure. But it was Kimbella Naomi was watching. And Kimbella… didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink. Naomi had always admired that about her—that curated composure, that poised elegance that bordered on performance. But tonight? It was stretched thin, like a silk slip tugged too tight over bruises. She could tell Kimbella was folding something in behind her spine. Pride, probably. Pain. And maybe—though she’d never admit it—regret.

Naomi leaned back against the booth, draping one arm casually over the velvet cushion like she wasn’t carefully reading the emotional temperature of the entire table. She was always reading. It was both her gift and her curse.

Chantel and Kairo.

The way she left without theatrics. The way he followed without hesitation. It reminded Naomi of something she’d once written: Some ghosts don’t haunt—they orbit. Always just close enough to make you question your healing. She didn’t trust Kairo. Never had. Men like him were charismatic traps—slick talk and slow apologies. The kind of man who only showed his heart after he’d stolen yours. And Chantel? She didn’t trust her either. But not because Chantel was untrustworthy. No—because Chantel was unreachable. Even when she let you close. Especially then.

Naomi glanced down at her phone vibrating against the table—another DM request from some journalist wanting a quote on her recent op-ed. She silenced it with a flick of her thumb. The truth was, all four of them were carrying wounds dressed up as wisdom. Estelle had her legacy. Kimbella had her reinvention. Chantel had her fortress. And Naomi? Naomi had her righteousness. Her curated identity. Her perfectly packaged purpose. But watching Chantel walk away like that—shoulders squared, walls up, exhale caged—Naomi felt a flicker of something uncomfortable. Not jealousy. Not judgment. But recognition. Because no matter how eloquently they dressed it up, all of them were still haunted by something they swore they’d left behind.

Naomi set her drink down, the ice clinking like punctuation in the low throb of the music. She didn’t rush. Didn’t tip her hand. But the question had been simmering for too long to stay unspoken. She turned slightly toward Kimbella, her expression soft but her tone surgical. ❝ Sooo…. ❞ A pause. ❝ Is there something going on with you and Kairo? ❞

Kimbella didn’t react at first. She just blinked—slow and deliberate—then lifted her glass and took the kind of sip that buys time and stalls truth. Estelle looked up from her phone, one brow arched with surgical precision. ❝ Seconded. ❞

Kimbella let out a short breath that could’ve passed for a laugh if it didn’t sound so… tight. ❝ Wow. Y’all act like I walked in here holding his hand. ❞

Naomi leaned forward, chin resting lightly in her hand, eyes focused. ❝ You walked in here with him period—on Chantel’s night. So yeah, sis, I think the question’s valid. ❞

There it was. The unspoken turned tangible. Kimbella rolled her lips together, eyes flicking between them like she was deciding how much to give. ❝ I’m not sleeping with him, if that’s what you’re asking. ❞

Estelle raised her glass. ❝ Clarification noted, but also… not exactly comforting. ❞

Kimbella’s gaze sharpened. ❝ I signed him. That’s it. He’s good for business and he needed a label. I’m building something real—Monet Sound isn’t a hobby. And I don’t ask for permission to do business just because someone I know used to fuck the artist. ❞

Naomi’s eyebrows lifted slightly, not at the words but the heat behind them. ❝ No one said you needed permission. But c’mon, Kimmie. You know what it looked like. ❞

Kimbella set her glass down. Carefully. Deliberately. ❝ I’m not here to look harmless. I’m here to win. ❞

Estelle tilted her head. ❝ At whose expense? ❞

That question hung in the air like incense—sweet and suffocating. Kimbella met her stare, unblinking. ❝ That’s not mine to answer. ❞ Naomi studied her for a long, silent beat. And underneath the steel and silk of Kimbella’s delivery, she saw it. Not guilt, but something adjacent. Not shame, but something that ached. A crack in the marble.

Naomi exhaled. ❝ Just be real with us. If it’s just business, fine. But don’t pretend like that walk-in didn’t have a little… performance energy. ❞ Kimbella didn’t deny it. Didn’t affirm it either. Just offered a slight, inscrutable smile and picked up her glass again. ❝ And what’s life without a little theater? ❞

Naomi sat back, watching her with the sharp gaze of someone who could dismantle an entire argument with silence alone. ❝ Just make sure you know who’s writing the script. ❞ She murmured. Kimbella looked away. And for a moment, none of them spoke. The bass thumped. The candle flickered. And somewhere in the distance, the sound of a door closing echoed faintly through the lounge.

━━ ❍ CHANTEL’S POV. ❍ THIRD PERSON.

The heavy door clicked shut behind them, swallowing the music whole. In here, the bass didn’t follow. Only the silence did. And Kairo. Chantel walked a few steps ahead, deliberately slow, letting her heels speak louder than anything she was willing to say yet. The lighting shifted in her private headquarters—cooler, more restrained than the warmth of the lounge outside. Concrete, glass, clean lines. A large abstract canvas loomed behind her desk—crimson brushstrokes slashed across black like a wound caught mid-healing. She stopped by the liquor cart, poured herself a shot of Reposado without asking if he wanted one. She didn’t offer and he didn’t ask. Of course he didn’t—he knew better.

Kairo stood near the door, watching her like he didn’t know whether to fight or fold. His jaw was tight, that gold ring still on his finger, gleaming faint in the low light. The space between them pulsed with memory—too loud to ignore, too fresh to forgive. She downed the shot in one smooth tilt, the burn just enough to keep her grounded. Then finally—finally—she turned to him. ❝ Whatever you’re here to say, say it. ❞ She said. Her voice was cool, velvet-laced steel. ❝ You’ve already hijacked my night. ❞

He scoffed. ❝ I didn’t hijack shit. I showed up. Your girl made a move. ❞

❝ Kimbella signed you, not branded you. ❞ She shot back. ❝ There’s a difference. ❞

Kairo stepped forward, that slow, prowling energy she hated—because it still worked. ❝ Then why are you acting like this? ❞

Chantel folded her arms. ❝ Acting like what? ❞

❝ Like I’m a ghost you forgot you buried. ❞ His eyes narrowed. ❝ You don’t look surprised to see me. You look… scared. ❞

Her laugh was sharp. Cruel. Too loud for the small room. ❝ You wish I was scared. ❞

❝ I wish you were anything. ❞ The words landed heavy. ❝ I’d rather take rage than this… fake indifference. ❞

She took a step forward now, toe to toe. ❝ You don’t get to control how I moved on. ❞

He stared at her, jaw working. ❝ You didn’t move on. You ran. There’s a difference. ❞ Silence surged like a second heartbeat between them. Chantel felt her pulse quicken, but she didn’t let it show. She’d built this place from nothing. Brick by brick. Beat by beat. She didn’t invite ghosts in. She exorcised them. And yet here he was.

Too solid to be forgotten. Too familiar to be forgiven.

❝ Why are you really here, Kairo? ❞ She asked quietly. ❝ Because this doesn’t feel like business. ❞ His gaze flicked over her face. Her mouth. Her neck. His voice dropped. ❝ You know why I’m here. ❞

Chantel didn’t flinch. Not visibly. But something in her jaw ticked—a muscle tightening like a lock being tested. She hated how easily he read her. Still. He moved closer, just enough to make her breath catch in her throat before she masked it behind a cool exhale. He always did this—stepped just into her space without touching her, like his presence alone could peel back her armor.

And it could. That was the problem.

❝ I should’ve left you outside. ❞ She murmured, more to herself than him.

❝ But you didn’t. ❞ He said, voice low, dragging gravel and velvet. ❝ You let me in. Same way you did before. ❞

❝ This isn’t before. ❞

He tilted his head. ❝ No. Now you’re hiding behind polished floors and designer shadows. Calling it power. ❞ That stung. Because it was too damn close to something she didn’t want to name. He stepped in again, closer this time—his cologne hitting her like memory: deep amber, worn leather, sweat, heat. ❝ You can fake it for them. ❞ He said, voice a notch lower now. ❝ All that cool girl shit. But I know what your skin sounds like when you stop pretending. ❞ Her throat went tight.

Don’t blink. Don’t fold.

But he was right there, eyes heavy on her mouth like a question he already knew the answer to. He reached out, one hand brushing her waist—softly, like he was reminding her how he used to hold her when the world got too loud. And for one reckless second, her body remembered. The way his hands knew her rhythm. The way her name sounded when he murmured it between breaths. The way she used to let go in the dark.

But then—

Her hand caught his wrist. Firm. Cold. ❝ Don’t confuse access with consent. ❞ She said, gaze like cut glass. ❝ That door might’ve opened tonight, but you’re still on borrowed time. ❞ He didn’t pull back. Didn’t flinch.

❝ I never needed your permission to feel you. ❞ A breath caught in her throat. ❝ I only ever needed your honesty. ❞

Her pulse thudded at the base of her neck. The shot was long gone, but the fire had returned. This was why she couldn’t be near him. Because with Kairo, it was never just touch.

It was recall.

It was relapse.

It was revelation.

She straightened her shoulders, chin sharp. ❝ Get out. ❞ He studied her for a beat, that smirk gone. Something older—deeper—moved across his face. But instead of backing off, Kairo just stared at her—long and hard—like he was reading past the edge in her voice, past the blade in her posture. ❝ Get the fuck out, Kairo. ❞ She said again, firmer now.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t fold.

❝ You always say that. Why? We both know you don’t want me to leave. ❞ He murmured, stepping forward.

Her breath hitched, just slightly. Her body stiffened. But she didn’t retreat. ❝ I say it because I mean it. ❞ she snapped, eyes flashing.

❝ No. ❞ he said, eyes locked on hers. ❝ You say it because you’re scared of what happens when I don’t. ❞ And then he closed the space. In one deliberate stride, his body aligned with hers—no room left between them, no space for her to hide in. His heat poured over her, his breath grazing her cheek, his scent—dangerous and devastating—pulling memories to the surface like silk drawn over flame. His hands didn’t rush. They explored.

Confident.

S L O W .

KNOWING.

Fingertips skimming the curve of her waist, sliding to the small of her back, pressing her closer until their breaths synced, until the ache she’d buried for months pressed tight against his thigh. ❝ You wear this ice like armor. ❞ He murmured, lips hovering at her ear. ❝ But I know that fire underneath. I’ve touched it. I’ve burned for it. ❞

Her hands rose, caught somewhere between pushing him away and pulling him closer. Conflicted. Shaking. ❝ This changes nothing. ❞ She breathed, but her voice cracked in the middle, betraying her.

He tilted his head, lips brushing the edge of her jaw. ❝ Then stop shaking like it does. ❞ She hated how her body betrayed her. How his touch pulled want out of her like a song she never meant to sing. And still—

Still—

She didn’t stop him. His hands roamed lower, gripping her hips like a question, and when their eyes met again, it wasn’t about power anymore. It was about surrender. Tethered history. The kind of want that never really dies.

His mouth found her neck before she could form another excuse. Slow. Searching. Like he wasn’t just trying to taste her—but to remember her. To remind her. Chantel’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt, gripping fabric like it might keep her grounded, but all it did was draw him closer. The hard press of his body met the slow roll of hers, and it was electric—like something old waking up again beneath the skin. He kissed her jaw, then lower, his breath dragging heat across her collarbone. His hands mapped the swell of her hips, curved with memory, then slid up her waist with reverence, not rush.

❝ I fucking hate you. ❞ She whispered. It was barely audible, but her voice trembled like a confession.

He pulled back just enough to look at her—eyes heavy, mouth inches from hers. ❝ No you don’t. ❞ He said, voice deep and steady. ❝ You hate what I make you feel. ❞

Then he kissed her. And God—he still knew how. Not the kind of kiss meant to seduce. The kind that claimed. Mouth to mouth, past and present colliding with every slow drag of lips, every syncopated breath. She melted into him, even as her mind screamed to retreat. But the truth was this: her body had already made the decision. It had made it the second his hands touched her. The second she didn’t stop him. His hands slid beneath her blouse, fingertips tracing bare skin, warm and unhurried. She felt the drag of his teeth against her bottom lip as they broke the kiss, both of them breathless now.

❝ You don’t get to do this. ❞ She said, her voice raw.

❝ Oh, but baby … I’m doing it. ❞ He growled, lifting her effortlessly onto the sleek edge of her desk.

Her legs parted instinctively, wrapping around his waist as his hands slid up the backs of her thighs. Her skirt rose. His grip tightened. Their mouths found each other again, deeper now—hungrier. The sound of their breathing filled the room, a staccato rhythm tangled with need and refusal, want and defiance. His lips found the dip beneath her ear, his voice a whisper against her skin. ❝ Tell me to stop and I will. ❞

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Instead, her hands tangled in the back of his neck and pulled him closer—mouth to mouth, chest to chest, heart to heart. And just like that, the last of her resistance shattered. Not because he’d taken it from her. But because she’d finally stopped pretending she didn’t want to be undone. By him. Again.

━━ ❍ KAIRO’S POV. ❍ THIRD PERSON.

Kairo hadn’t planned this. He hadn’t expected to need her this badly again. But the second her fingers dug into his shoulders, the second her mouth melted beneath his, all the months without her collapsed into this one moment—thick, hot, unbearable. She didn’t even know what she did to him. Not fully. Not yet. Her breath ghosted against his lips, and when she let out the softest whimper—half protest, half surrender—something broke open in him. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. Dark. Daring. Dilated. A storm he’d never stopped wanting to drown in. ❝ Let me taste you. ❞ he rasped. His voice cracked at the edges, thick with hunger and restraint that was rapidly unraveling. She didn’t answer, but her thighs pressed tighter around him, hips arching into his body in a way that said everything she wouldn’t voice. Still, he needed to hear it. Needed her yes like breath. ❝ Chantel. ❞ His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts through silk. His forehead rested against hers. ❝ Let me have you … all of you. Just this once if that’s all you got to give. ❞

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—soft, defiant, aching:

❝ Okay. ❞

It was all he needed. He gently pulled her into his grasp, turning their encounter into a more sexual one as he whispered into her ear. His hands began to slip up her dress, ghosting over the thin material of her thong, teasing and promising. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, his breath hot and heavy, stirring her desire. He trailed kisses down her body, pushing her dress up further, exposing more of her creamy skin. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her thong, pulling it aside to reveal her most intimate place. He took a moment to appreciate the sight, his breath hitching with anticipation. ❝ She’s so fucking beautiful, mama. ❞ He murmured, his voice a low growl.

He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place. He leaned in, his tongue flicking out to taste her, slow and deliberate. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her sensitive flesh, sending shocks of pleasure through her body. He began to explore her with his tongue, his fingers digging into her hips, holding her steady as she started to tremble. He licked and sucked, his movements purposeful, knowing exactly how to drive her wild. He slipped a finger inside her, curling it to hit that sweet spot, his tongue never stopping its relentless assault. He added another finger, pumping them in and out of her, his thumb circling her clit, his mouth never leaving her. He could feel her tightening around him, her body coiling like a spring, ready to snap.

❝ K-Kairo… ❞ She moaned, her head falling back, her hands gripping the desk for support. ❝ Oh god, baby. ❞

Just as she was on the brink, a sharp knock echoed through the room, jolting them both. Someone was at the door, interrupting their intense moment. Kairo paused, his fingers still inside her, his breath hot against her skin. He looked up at her, a mix of frustration and amusement in his eyes. ❝ Ignore it. ❞ He rasped, his voice low and insistent. ❝ They’ll go away. ❞ He returned his attention to her, his tongue and fingers working in sync, pushing her closer to the edge. But the knock came again, more insistent this time, accompanied by a muffled voice calling her name.

Chantel’s breath hitched, her body tensing as she struggled to focus on the pleasure Kairo was giving her despite the interruption. Kairo, undeterred, continued his relentless assault, his fingers curling inside her, his tongue swirling around her clit. ❝ Daddy! ❞ she gasped, her voice a mix of pleasure and frustration. ❝ Someone’s at the door. ❞

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire. ❝ Let them fucking wait. ❞ He growled, his voice a low rumble. ❝ You mine right now. This pussy is mine. ❞ He stood up, his fingers still inside her, his other hand gripping her hip, holding her in place. He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth, his fingers never stopping their movement. She moaned into his mouth, her body arching into his, her hands gripping his shoulders for support.

The knock came again, more urgent this time. ❝ Chantel, are you in there? ❞ The voice called out, louder and more insistent.

Kairo pulled back slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. ❝ Yo, tell them to get the fuck from ‘round here. ❞ He murmured, his voice a low growl. ❝ Or better yet, don’t. Let them wonder what’s taking you so long. ❞ He kissed her again, his fingers picking up their pace, his thumb circling her clit with renewed vigor. She moaned into his mouth, her body trembling, her orgasm building despite the interruption.

❝ Kairo! ❞ she gasped, her voice hoarse with desire. ❝ They’re not going to— ❞

He cut her off with another kiss, his fingers curling inside her, hitting that sweet spot that made her see stars. ❝ Then let them in. ❞ he rasped against her lips. ❝ Let them see what they’re interrupting. ❞ He looked up at her, his eyes dark with need, a challenge in his gaze. ❝ Or better yet, let them watch. I don’t give a fuck. ❞ He returned his attention to her, his tongue and fingers working in sync, pushing her closer to the edge. The knock came again, more insistent this time, but Chantel was beyond caring. Her body was coiled tight, ready to snap, and Kairo was determined to make her fall apart.

Kairo looked up at Chantel, her eyes glazed with lust, her cheeks flushed, and her breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel her inner muscles clenching around his fingers, her body begging for release. He smirked, knowing he had her right where he wanted her. ❝ That's it, baby. ❞ he murmured, his voice low and husky. ❝ Let go. I've got you. ❞ He increased the pace of his fingers, curling them to hit that sweet spot inside her, his thumb circling her clit with relentless pressure. He could feel her tension building, her body coiling like a spring, ready to snap.

❝ Daddy! ❞ She gasped, her voice a mix of pleasure and desperation that came off as a whine. ❝ I’m about to cum... ❞

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. ❝ Then cum for me, baby. Let me feel that sweet pussy squeeze my fingers. I want to feel that mess you're going to make. ❞ As if his words were the final push she needed, her body exploded with pleasure. She cried out his name, her voice loud and unashamed, her body convulsing as wave after wave of orgasm crashed over her. He could feel her squirt, the hot liquid gushing out of her, coating his hand, his fingers still buried deep inside her. He groaned, the sound primal and satisfied, as he continued to finger her through her orgasm, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure. He pulled his fingers out slowly, a wicked smile playing on his lips as he looked at the mess he'd made. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking her juices off his fingers, savoring her taste. ❝ Fuck, you taste so good, baby girl. ❞ he murmured, his voice a low growl. ❝ Mm, exactly what I needed. ❞

Chantel was still trying to catch her breath, her body shaking with the aftermath of her orgasm. Kairo leaned in, kissing her deeply, sharing her taste with her, his tongue exploring her mouth, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place. There was another knock at the door, more insistent this time. ❝ Chantel, are you okay in there? ❞ The voice called out, concern lacing their words. Kairo pulled back, a smirk playing on his lips. ❝ Aye, go tell them you're busy. ❞ he said, his voice firm and commanding. ❝ Tell them you'll be back downstairs soon. I ain’t done wit’ you yet. ❞

━━ ❍ KIMBELLA’S POV. ❍ THIRD PERSON.

The silence at the table had begun to curdle. Whatever easy, celebratory rhythm they’d had earlier was long gone—suffocated beneath unspoken questions and lingering side-eyes. Naomi’s question still hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

Kairo. You and him. What’s really going on, Belle?

Kimbella had dodged it, sure—laughing it off, swirling her drink like it could distract from the heat rising up her neck—but Naomi hadn’t bought it. Neither had Estelle. And now the air between the three of them buzzed with a quiet judgment Kimbella couldn’t quite name. Or maybe it was guilt. Because yeah, she’d signed Kairo. Yeah, she’d stood on business and made the power move. But deep down—beneath the press release polish and industry pride—this wasn’t just business. Not anymore. Not since Chantel had made that flippant, tequila-laced remark in Cabo three months ago.

❝ Monet Sound Syndicate ain’t ever gon’ be real competition if y’all keep signing these YouTube heartbreaks. You need a legacy artist if you wanna play with the big girls. ❞

It had slipped from Chantel’s mouth easy, like a joke, like shade—but it stuck. Branded itself across Kimbella’s ambition like a dare. So when Kairo’s contract crossed her desk weeks later, she hadn’t hesitated. Not because she wanted him. But because she wanted to prove her wrong. Because something petty and pointed inside her wanted Chantel to see her power now—and maybe choke a little on it. She hadn’t expected them to still have this kind of heat between them though. That was the part she didn’t factor in. Didn’t prepare for.

Now, fifteen minutes had passed.

Then twenty.

Then twenty-five.

Estelle’s gaze flicked toward the hallway. Naomi drummed her fingers on the tabletop. The silence grew suspicious. ❝ Alright. ❞ Naomi said finally, smoothing a hand down the front of her dress. ❝ It’s been too long. ❞

Estelle raised an eyebrow. ❝ Maybe they’re talking. ❞

❝ Maybe… ❞ Naomi said dryly began. ❝ …they’re doing a whole lot more than that. ❞

Kimbella rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Not with the way Chantel had looked—tight-lipped and storm-eyed—when she left. Not with the way Kairo had followed, shoulders squared like a man ready to settle more than just a conversation. ❝ Someone should go check. ❞ Estelle added.

Naomi turned to her with that too-calm smile. ❝ You brought the man. Maybe you should be the one. ❞

Kimbella blinked. ❝ Excuse me? ❞

Estelle sipped her drink, trying ( and failing ) to hide her smirk. ❝ C’mon now… ❞ Naomi nudged. ❝ You the connector here. Besides—if things went left in there, she’s more likely to come down off the ledge if it’s you. ❞

❝ Since when am I the emotional whisperer? ❞

❝ Since you signed the fuse that just walked off with her. ❞

Kimbella groaned, pushing back from the table. She straightened the hem of her satin pants and tossed her curls off her shoulder. ❝ Fine. But if they’re in there dry-humping on top of invoices, I’m turning right back around. ❞ Estelle snorted. Naomi grinned wide. And with the weight of curiosity, a little guilt, and maybe something else tightening her chest, Kimbella made her way down the hallway—heels clicking like punctuation. She didn’t know what she was walking into. But she had a feeling whatever it was…

It wasn’t going to be simple.

The hallway stretched longer than she remembered. Or maybe it just felt that way—each step echoing louder than the last, a steady drumbeat to the mounting tension coiling low in her belly. The deeper Kimbella walked into the back corridors of The Velvet Box, the more the mood shifted. The hum of the club dimmed behind her, swallowed by velvet-draped silence and that signature Chantel energy: sensual, controlled, dangerous. Her heels softened on the plush runner rug as she neared the door to Chantel’s private headquarters. It was cracked open just an inch.

That was the first sign.

The second—

A sound. Low. Guttural.

A man’s voice—Kairo’s—rough with something between prayer and possession. ❝ Say it again. ❞ Silence.

❝ I hate you. ❞

Kimbella froze. But she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because Kairo’s laugh came next. Soft. Knowing. Wrecked.

❝ No, you don’t. ❞

And then—a shift. The subtle rustle of clothing. A gasp, cut short. A desk creaking beneath weight and want. Kimbella’s lips parted slightly, a flush creeping up the back of her neck. She should leave. She knew she should leave. But her body rooted to the spot, locked in place by the way Chantel moaned—quiet and low, like she was trying not to let go but failing all the same. She’d never heard her like that before.

Unraveled. Unmasked.

Chantel had always moved through the world like the boss of it—untouchable, unreadable, walled off in satin and smoke. But here—right now—she sounded human. Needy. Soft. Open. Kimbella’s stomach twisted. Not with jealousy—at least not the kind she wanted to name—but something knottier. More complicated. And it only deepened when she heard Chantel whisper:

❝ Don’t stop… ❞

Shit. Kimbella’s eyes fluttered shut for a second as if that might erase the intimacy of it. The heat. The reality. They weren’t just arguing. They were consuming each other. And she’d just stepped into the middle of something ancient and unfinished. She backed away slowly, careful not to let her heel catch or her breath betray her. When she finally reached the corner of the hallway, she leaned against the wall—hard. Pulse racing. Mind spinning. She needed a second. Because what she’d just walked in on? Wasn’t just sex. It was history. And Chantel was in trouble.

Kimbella didn’t mean to stay. She’d only meant to check. Tap the door. Call out once. Be a good friend and do what Estelle’s arched brow and Naomi’s concern had silently nominated her to do. But now? Now she couldn’t move. She stood, heart hammering like a guilty drumline behind the wall, her breath caught somewhere between scandal and shame. Chantel’s voice inside was not the voice she knew. It was ragged. Wild. Needy. And Kairo—God. His voice was lower than thunder, sweet and savage all at once, urging, commanding, worshiping her like he’d been starved for her for years.

Kimbella swallowed hard, her throat tight. She knew she was wrong for this. Knew she shouldn’t be standing here, listening. But something about the way Chantel sounded—so undone, so unguarded—it rooted her to the floor. Then came the cry. A name. Loud. Unapologetic. Kairo. Kimbella’s eyes widened and her lips parted. She felt like she was intruding on a secret ceremony. Something raw and sacred and not meant to be witnessed. But her feet wouldn’t move. Not until she heard her own name—muffled and behind a moan. It sounded like a hallucination. She blinked. Took a trembling breath. And finally reached out to knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Silence. No shuffle. No call back. But then—low again—his voice. A growl wrapped in velvet. ❝ Ignore it. ❞ Kairo murmured. Damn. She hesitated. ❝ Chantel, are you in there? ❞ She called out, voice louder now, threading concern through the curiosity, giving herself a reason to be there. A reason to interrupt. Still nothing.

A whimper. A moan.

Kimbella felt heat rise up her throat again—this time not from embarrassment, but from something deeper. More confusing. She crossed her arms, heart stuttering like it didn’t know what to feel. Then came her voice. Soft. Unsteady. ❝ Kairo … someone’s at the door. ❞

Another knock.

❝ Chantel, are you okay in there? ❞ Kimbella tried again, louder, hoping her voice would cut through whatever spell he had her under. But it didn’t. It didn’t even slow them down. In fact, Kairo’s voice came next, smug and husky.

❝ Tell them you’re busy. ❞

And just like that, Kimbella’s breath caught. Her eyes narrowed. Something twisted in her chest—part disbelief, part something she didn’t want to name. Jealousy? No. Vindication? Maybe. All she knew was that she had just been ignored. Not by Chantel. But by the moment itself. The air inside that room had no room for anyone else. Not even her. Kimbella stepped back from the door, slowly. The sound of Chantel’s pleasure still clung to the air like smoke behind her. And as she walked away, heels silent on the carpet, one word looped through her mind like a broken beat.

Mess.

This wasn’t just sex. This was a reckoning. And she was the one who’d walked straight into the middle of it.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄.. ꨄ

[thelovebelowseries]

In honor of the love below series teaser dropping tonight, I think it’s time to formally introduce myself. To new and familiar faces, I am Honey Maguire ( waaay more Gigi than Lizzie, of course ). I am a writer, author, curator … and everything in between. There is no need for this post to be even more drawn out than it already is so under the cut, you’ll find out some more information about who I am, what I do, and what to expect from @thelovebelowseries .

𝐱𝐨𝐱𝐨, 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞. ꨄ

❛ All the money in the world couldn’t even amount to a teaspoon of 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 when it melts in your mouth. ❜

🏹. ALL ABOUT HONEY MAGUIRE.

✮ WHO IS HONEY MAGUIRE?

Alias. ━━━ Honey Maguire ( Honey Leoni ) .

Age + Zodiac. ━━━ Twenty5 + Aquarius .

Occupation. ━━━ Author / Writer + Budtender .

Timezone. ━━━ Eastern Standard Time .

Ethnicity. ━━━ African-American .

Sexuality. ━━━ Bisexual .

NAV. discord ( # TIFFANY6LUE ). playlist. pinterest.

✮ WHAT EXACTLY IS TIFFANY6LUE?

About. ━━━ TIFFANY6LUE is the sultry digital sanctuary of Honey Maguire, the bold and evocative mind behind The Love Below Novel Series. Equal parts personal diary, creative playground, and cultural moodboard, this tumblr blog pulses with late-night confessions, behind-the-scenes peeks into the world of Monroe Crest, and the raw, unfiltered musings of a woman who writes like she lives—sensually, stylishly, and on her own terms. Expect moody R&B loops, vintage e r o t i c a aesthetics, soft-lit selfies, black femme iconography, and sneak previews of steamy scenes and character backstories. TIFFANY6LUE is where the velvet pages of fiction blur into real-life inspiration—dripping in lust, layered in legacy, and always a little dangerous.

Purpose. ━━━ To create a clearer connection between readers and the author, I decided to separate the personal content from the novel-related material. As someone who is highly detail-oriented and a bit of a perfectionist, it was important for me to establish a dedicated space solely focused on the novel series and reader feedback. This distinction allows those interested in the story to engage with it directly, without needing to navigate through unrelated or miscellaneous blog posts.

NAV. aesthetics. answered. inspiration. thoughts.

🏹. FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS.

✮ WHAT IS THE LOVE BELOW?

About. ━━━ The Love Below is a sultry, emotionally charged urban contemporary romance and e r o t i c a series set in the heart of Monroe Crest, a fast-rising, culturally vibrant city hailed as The New Black Mecca. Here, ambition is currency, desire simmers just beneath the surface, and love—messy, liberating, consuming love—is always close enough to touch but never quite in control. At the center of this character-driven saga is a fiercely bonded sisterhood of four dynamic African-American women, each carving out her own empire while navigating the highs and heartbreaks of modern Black womanhood. Each book in the series peels back the layers of their lives—through lovers that ignite obsession, secrets that threaten everything, and a city that’s as seductive as it is unforgiving. Beneath the glitz of Monroe Crest’s elite lounges, luxury brownstones, and power circles lies The Love Below—a metaphor for the rawest places within us all where love, sex, ambition, and vulnerability collide.

Inspiration. ━━━ The Love Below draws its inspiration from a rich tapestry of iconic Black storytelling that celebrates sensuality, sisterhood, and unapologetic ambition. Echoing the erotic boldness of Zane’s S E X Chronicles, the series doesn't shy away from the raw, intimate explorations of desire and power. It channels the timeless camaraderie and wit of Living Single and Girlfriends, the millennial self-discovery and vulnerability found in Insecure and Sistas, and the stylish, contemporary backdrop of Harlem. The grit, glamour, and emotional complexity of P-Valley and All The Queen’s Men also inform the world of Monroe Crest—where the nightlife is electric, the stakes are high, and every woman is both a lover and a force. Blending eroticism with emotional truth, The Love Below is a love letter to Black women owning their stories, bodies, and power on their own terms.

Fanfiction Elements. ━━━ With visual readers in mind, myself included, The Love Below series walks the fine line between original fiction and fanfiction. While the series is, at its core, an urban contemporary romance novel, it carries some of the immersive, character-driven elements often found in fanfiction. To help bring the story to life and enhance the interactive experience, I’ve assigned faceclaims to each of the characters. These serve as visual references for readers who enjoy putting a face, or image, to the characters they’re engaging with. With that being said, I wholeheartedly encourage readers who prefer to use their imagination to continue doing so. The faceclaims are simply a fun, creative addition—think of them as part of a fictional casting call. I'm always open to hearing how readers envision the characters themselves; your interpretations are just as valid and valued.

NAV. meet the ladies. the love below novel blog. the teaser.

✮ WHAT SETS THE SERIES APART FROM OTHERS?

More Than A Novel. ━━━ The Love Below Series is crafted for readers who crave feel-good stories with irresistible charm and addictive twists. Inspired by some of my favorite television shows, this series features multiple points of view from our main characters—and occasionally, supporting ones—woven into each chapter. While many multi-POV books alternate perspectives by chapter, The Love Below takes a different approach. We aim to deliver a dynamic, comedy-drama/sitcom-style experience that allows readers to stay connected to each woman’s journey in real time, even when their paths diverge.

Interactive Character Hub. ━━━ “Step into their world, not just the story.” The Interactive Character Hub is your all-access digital portal into the lives, lies, and late-night confessions of The Love Below’s leading ladies. Ask them anything. Catch the hottest gossip. Scroll through their social feeds. This isn’t just a story—it’s a living, breathing universe where characters talk back, receipts drop in real time, and nothing stays secret for long. You can read more about that here.

✮ WHAT EXACTLY IS AN INTERACTIVE CHARACTER HUB?

Chat With Your Fav Character. ━━━ “Got questions? They've got answers—sometimes with shade.” Readers will be able to drop their burning questions into the askbox and get answers straight from the characters themselves. Whether it’s Estelle’s legal finesse, Chantel’s sex-positive power plays, Naomi’s spiritual unraveling, or Kimbella’s post-divorce glow-up, nothing is off limits (unless they leave you on read).

Latest Gossip Updates. ━━━ “If the streets are talking, we’re listening.” This is where whispered rumors, scandalous sightings, and messy receipts come to light. From DMs gone public to side-eye at Sunday brunch, every piece of gossip mentioned in the series gets its own full post—complete with context, speculation, and clapbacks.

Latest Social Media Posts. ━━━ Scroll through curated Instagram posts, tweets, and text threads as seen (or hinted at) in the series. From Naomi’s cryptic story posts to Chantel’s thirst traps, Estelle’s carefully filtered vacation pics, and Kimbella’s late-night playlist drops—this is where you see the girls how they want the world to see them.

Worldbuilding. ━━━ “This isn’t just a story—it’s a whole damn ecosystem.” Honey isn’t just writing characters—she’s building a world rich with rhythm, secrets, and soul. The Love Below and Monroe Crest were crafted with obsessive detail, emotional depth, and cultural reverence. Every district has a history. Every club has a code. Every woman has a past worth peeling back. This series is a living, breathing love letter to Black complexity, sensuality, and survival. You don’t just read it—you move through it.

✮ WHAT IS MONROE CREST?

About. ━━━ Monroe Crest is a thriving, culturally magnetic urban enclave located somewhere in the American South—nestled between the artistic pulse of Atlanta, the coastal cool of Savannah, and the historic depth of New Orleans. With its roots in Black excellence, political rebellion, and sensual reinvention, Monroe Crest has evolved into a glittering mosaic of ambition, art, and unapologetic Black identity. It’s where Southern charm meets cosmopolitan heat—equal parts soul food, sex clubs, and startup brunches.

Background. ━━━ Monroe Crest is a city born from survival and defiance. Originally an unmarked refuge whispered among Black families fleeing post-Reconstruction terror, it was founded in 1872 by formerly enslaved people led by the visionary Alma Monroe. Built on disputed, overlooked land, the settlement became a bastion of Black resilience—home to underground schools, radical thinkers, and cultural pioneers. Over generations, it transformed from a hidden haven into a bold epicenter of Black excellence, creativity, and rebellion. By the 1980s, Monroe Crest pulsed with new energy—an electrifying blend of spiritual roots and sensual revolution, where places like The Love Below embodied the city’s spirit: seductive, defiant, and deeply free.

Concept. ━━━ Monroe Crest was developed with the immersive storytelling potential of The Sims in mind. Created as the foundation for The Love Below Series, this fictional city serves as a rich backdrop for both narrative depth and character evolution. While the early chapters center on the lives of our four leading women, the broader vision of the series is to gradually expand the focus to include the dynamic individuals who shape, challenge, and support them. This approach not only keeps the story engaging, but also allows for expansive, nuanced worldbuilding. Much like our beloved television series, The Love Below Series and Monroe Crest will invite readers into the lives of those often overlooked—ensuring that every voice has the chance to be heard.

[thelovebelowseries]

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[thelovebelowseries]

⌗ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒. ⧽ is a vibrant, character-driven novel series set in 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐨𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, a fictional thriving, culturally rich urban enclave that has been recently affectionately dubbed “𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐂𝐂𝐀.” The story follows a dynamic sisterhood of four ambitious, stylish, and emotionally complex african-american women navigating love, power, and purpose in a city pulsing with opportunity and desire. At the heart of the series is 𝐄𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬, a savvy entertainment attorney torn between legacy and freedom; 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬, a bold and unapologetic entrepreneur making waves in the nightlife scene; 𝐊𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, a newly divorced music exec rediscovering her sensuality and spirit after the lost of her family’s matriarch; and 𝐍𝐚𝐨𝐦𝐢 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐬, a rising social justice socialite and writer wrestling with her faith and fame.

As they climb the social and professional ladders of 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐨𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, their friendships are tested by scandal, secrets, ambition and the magnetic pull of the powerful men who orbit their world. Balancing steamy romance, razor-sharp humor, and deep emotional truths, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 is a celebration of black womanhood, resilience, and the pursuit of joy in a city where love is as thrilling, and dangerous, as ambition. This original novel series will explore themes such as black womanhood, dating + relationships, black love + sexuality, career aspirations, and the importance of friendship. Sit back and relax as you indulge in your new favorite guilty pleasure. Loosely inspired by shows such as: Sistas, Insecure, Harlem, Girlfriends, and Living Single.

WORK IN PROGRESS: BOOK ONE.

✰ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

( 𝒊. ) ⸺ the table of contents .

( 𝒊𝒊. ) ⸺ learn more about monroe crest .

( 𝒊𝒊𝒊. ) ⸺ meet the residents of monroe crest .

✰ 𝐌𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓.

TEASER. — Velvet Toasts.

CHAPTER ONE. — Serial Lover. ( coming soon )

CHAPTER TWO.

CHAPTER THREE.

CHAPTER FOUR.

CHAPTER FIVE.

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑. All content on 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 is the original intellectual property of the author, 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐑𝐄 ( 𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐘𝟔𝐋𝐔𝐄 ) unless explicitly stated otherwise. This includes but is not limited to all written works, poetry, essays, and creative content. Unauthorized use, reproduction, or distribution of any material without prior written consent from the author is strictly prohibited and may result in legal action. Please honor the integrity of this work—these words were born here.

WARNING : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 is intended for mature audiences only. All content—including the novel, blog, and related materials—is strictly for individuals aged 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 and 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫. Minors are advised not to engage with this content. Any minor found interacting will be blocked. Thank you for your understanding.