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29 Candles, One Empty Chair

The clock struck midnight, and London kept breathing outside my window—rain on glass, taxis hissing, someone laughing too loud. I didn’t light the candles. Just poured Macallan into the same glass he used to hold, watched the amber catch the streetlight like his eyes once did.

Twenty-nine.

I still set two glasses on the counter. Habit. Stupidity. Grief wearing perfume.

The empire runs smoother now. Product moves, cash stacks, no one dares touch what’s mine. I’m untouchable.
But the bed’s too big. The silence too loud. The weed helps, the vodka-Red Bull helps, the deals help—but nothing fills the space where his hand used to rest on my throat when I slept.

I miss being owned.
I miss being wanted.
I miss the fight in his voice when he said my name like a threat and a prayer.



Tonight I’m not the queen.
I’m just a widow with a joint and a ghost.

But tomorrow…
Tomorrow I’ll blow out the candles I never lit.
I’ll open the door.
I’ll let someone new try to fill the chair.

Not to replace him.
Never that.
But to remind me I’m still breathing.
Still dangerous.
Still allowed to want.

Here’s to 29.
To loss.
To the next hand I let touch me… and mean it.

— M.