Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Black Fem Reader ft. Mary
You kicked off your heels, leaving them scattered on the floor where they fell. You didn’t even bother turning on the lights. The apartment door slammed behind you hard enough to rattle the frames on the wall. You trod through the living room and didn’t bother to turn on the lights. Entering the kitchen, you grabbed the tallest glass in the cabinet. Grabbing a scoop of ice, I generously poured the brown liquor to the rim.
Crown Peach was the drink that Elias brought to your apartment. One he advocated was a better base for his mixed-drink cocktails. Your kitchen was a playground for his mixology skills. The Juke was experimenting with their bar menu, and before any drinks went on the menu officially, they were taste-tested by his brother, and business partner, Elijah.
The sound of another key in the lock drew your attention twenty minutes later.
“Baby?” Elias flicked on the lights and stopped in his tracks. You were in your wine-colored bodycon dress, your face beat with that smoky eye that turned him on when he saw you. The pieces clicked together in his mind.
“The party.” He choked out.
“The party,” you repeated, your voice hollow. Unsteady on your feet, you stood up slowly. Not allowing Elias to spin your head with his useless ramble.
“You promised me. You promised me you would be there, Elias.”
“I know, I got caught up with work.”
“You looked me in the eye and told me you wouldn’t miss this.”
“I didn’t want to miss it, baby, you've got to believe me.”
“Things just got complicated, and by the time I realized what time it was-”
“Where. Were. You?” You were shaking with anger. You weren’t listening to Elias, just waiting for the right trigger word to justify a tongue-lashing on him. Now in his space, you wanted to force him to look at you. Force him to decide whether he was going to lie to your face.
“I was at the Juke.” Your eyes immediately followed his Adam’s apple, as he had a pregnant pause when answering the question.
The muscle in your right eye twitched, eyes spotting the clear shine across his lips. A shine that would belong to none other than a tube of lip gloss, one that mirrors your favorite Nyx gloss. Your fists were clenched. You were breathing fast, and your vision was blurring.
“What don’t you believe me?” He had the nerve to give you an attitude. To avoid further escalating the situation, you returned to your seat in the kitchen. Shaking your head and picking up the glass to drink more alcohol.
“I don’t like being lied to.” You spoke in a calm voice, hiding your anger surprisingly well. “The light nights, the vague excuses, and the way you won’t look at me when I ask you a simple question. And the cherry on top was that you missed my birthday.”
“Vague excuses.” He recited back to you, like he was unsure of what you were talking about. Completely ignoring the rest of your complaints with him.
“I stood there alone! At my own birthday party. While everyone whispered and gave me those pitying looks. My own mother asked me if we were okay. Did you forget you were supposed to meet her, too, huh?”
Ellias’s shoulders sagged. “I said I’m sorry. What more do you want from me?”
“I want the truth! I want the man who made an effort to date me. The one who showed he cared about someone other than himself.”
Like a dam, you could feel the cracks building. You had never been worked up to this point. You weren’t sure if you were going to crumble in front of him or throw something at him.
“I’m going to ask you one last time, where were you?”
“I was at the fucking juke joint. Damn!”
The apartment fell silent except for your ragged breathing. You stared at him, the man you thought you knew, and felt the distance between you grow exponentially.
“Funny cause I called the Juke when you were an hour late to my party. Annie picked up and told me she hadn’t seen you that entire time.”
The color drained from Elias’s face.
“You need to leave.” You shooed him with your hand. You couldn’t take another sip of the liquor, pouring the rest down the drain. You curled your fingers around the counter, not hearing the front door close. Looking over your shoulder, you saw Elias standing where he had been.
“Leave!” You screamed at him. “GO AWAY!”
He took a step towards you, and before you realized it, the glass you had been drinking out of was in the air. The glass splattered across one wall, shattering on impact. Ellias's eyes looked at the pile of shards, then at you. Your breathing was more exaggerated. There was an unmistakable look to your eyes. One that your intoxicated state could partially amplify.
“Don’t ever come back here.” You muttered. All of your energy was swapped for a profound heaviness. Your shoulders dropped, and you didn’t even bother looking at Elias. You wanted nothing more than to lie down and forget this night even happened. When your head hit the pillow, you could hear the faint closing of your front door. And with that came silent tears that melted into your bedsheet as you closed your eyes.
The cafe was busy for a Tuesday afternoon, filled with the hiss of the espresso machine and the low murmur of conversation. You sat in the corner booth, your untouched latte growing cold in front of you, checking your phone for the third time in as many minutes.
The message had come two days after the fight. Unknown number. Simple and direct: We need to talk about Elias. Cafe on Morrison Street. Tuesday, 2 PM.
You’d almost deleted it. Almost convinced yourself it was spam, or a prank, or something you didn’t need to deal with on top of everything else. But something in your gut told you to come.
The bell above the door chimed, and a woman walked in. She was tall, with chocolate-brown hair, slightly parted to the left. She wore a soft baby pink knitted dress that seemed too cheerful for the weight on her shoulders. Like she was leaving a brunch she had on white gloves and a matching pink burette. Her eyes scanned the cafe until they landed on you, and something in her expression—recognition, maybe, or resignation made your stomach drop.
She walked over slowly, her heels clicking against the tile floor.
“You must be her,” she said, her voice thick with a Mississippi drawl that turned each word into something slow and measured. “Lord, you’re even prettier than your pictures.”
You blinked. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“No, honey, you don’t.” She slid into the booth across from you without waiting for an invitation. “But I know you. I’ve known about you for about six months now.” She set her purse down carefully, her hands shaking slightly. “My name’s Mary. And I think we’ve got ourselves a problem.”
Your heart started hammering in your chest. “What are you talking about?”
Mary’s laugh was bitter. “I’m talking about Elias Moore. Six foot, works at a club, has that little scar above his left eyebrow from when he fell off his bike as a kid.” She paused, watching your face carefully. “Tells real pretty lies when he needs to.”
The world tilted sideways. “How do you—”
“Because he’s my boyfriend too, sugar.” Mary’s voice cracked on the last word. She pulled out her phone and slid it across the table. “Or at least, I thought he was.”
You stared at the screen. It was a photo of Ellias—your Ellias—with his arm around Mary, kissing her temple. They were at some outdoor festival, both smiling, looking exactly like what they were supposed to be. A couple.
The timestamp read three weeks ago.
“That can’t be right,” you whispered, but even as you said it, pieces were clicking into place. The late nights. The vague excuses. Your birthday party. “That’s not—we’ve been together for two years.”
“Three for us,” Mary said quietly. “Well, three this November. Was gonna be, anyway.” She pulled her phone back, swiping through more photos with a kind of mechanical precision. “Met him at an entrepreneur conference in Jackson. He said he traveled for work, came down South about twice a month. I thought…” She swallowed hard. “I thought I was lucky. Thought I’d found someone good.”
You felt like you were going to be sick. “He goes to Mississippi twice a month.”
“For me. Or, well.” Mary’s drawl thickened with emotion. “That’s what I thought. But then he missed my mama’s funeral last month. Just didn’t show up, didn’t call. And when I finally got hold of him, he had this whole story about being stuck at the stupid juke joint.” She looked up at you, her eyes red-rimmed. “But here’s the thing, honey. I got suspicious. Started doing some digging I probably should’ve done a long time ago.”
“He bailed on me, too,” you said numbly. “He didn’t show up to my birthday party.”
Mary’s face crumpled. “Oh, sweet Jesus. That son of a gun.”
The cafe noise faded to white static. You thought about every trip, every late night, every time Ellias had kissed you goodbye and promised he’d be home soon. How many of those times had he driven straight to her? How many times had he held her the same way he held you?
“How did you find me?” you managed to ask.
“Found a receipt in his jacket pocket. Some jewelry store up here.” Mary twisted her hands together. “Had your name on it. Then I did what any self-respecting woman with a smartphone does. Started looking through his social media, his tagged photos, mutual friends.” She shook her head. “You weren’t hard to find once I knew what I was looking for. He’s got you hidden pretty good, but not good enough.”
You thought about your own social media, how Ellias always said he preferred to keep his private life private. How you’d thought it was mature, respectful even. Now it just felt calculated.
“There might be more,” Mary continued, her voice dropping. “If he could do this to both of us, who’s to say we’re the only ones?”
The latte in front of you suddenly seemed filthy, this normal thing in the middle of your life falling apart. You pushed it away.
“What do we do?” you asked.
Mary’s expression hardened, something steel replacing the hurt in her eyes. “Well, honey, I didn’t drive eight hours just to compare notes and cry into our coffee.” She leaned forward. “I think it’s high time Mr. Moore learned what happens when you underestimate Southern women.”
Despite everything—the shock, the betrayal, the way your entire relationship had just been revealed as a lie, you felt something spark in your chest. Not quite hope, but something close to it. Something like anger, sharp and clarifying.
“Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned,” you said.
Mary smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who’d been hurt and decided to hurt back. “Oh, sugar. I like you already.”
