Dakota Denise

Joined July 2017

66 stories

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Every story I publish is real lived, witnessed, survived, by myself or from others who trusted me to tell the story. Enjoy 😊

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Kush & Karma. Content Warning.
Kush & Karma A Dark Ride Through Friendship, Lies, and Murder Chapter One: The Girls Are Back There’s something about driving through the outskirts of Kansas City in the summer. The way the heat radiates off the pavement like a secret you can’t keep. The road is quiet—too quiet, like the calm before a high-ass storm. Tiffani Reed’s Tesla curved smoothly along the gravel drive of the Airbnb mansion, tires crunching as she slowed. She pulled her shades down her nose and looked at the massive estate that sprawled before her. “Bougie as hell,” she muttered, then exhaled a long breath, watching the curl of smoke drift from her wax pen. Behind her, Raelyn James rolled down the passenger window, letting sunlight and the scent of Missouri farmland pour in. “You really booked this whole mansion?” she asked, twisting her two-strand twists into a messy bun. She was already grinning. “Kamaria really did that. “It’s what judges do,” Tiffani said with a smirk. “Make rulings.” The mansion was old-money slick—whitewashed brick, wrought-iron balconies, arched doorways, and a hot tub already bubbling in the back. It sat on ten acres of pure quiet, the kind of place where you could scream and nobody would come running. Inside, the air was cool, the scent of sandalwood and sage lingering from whatever Airbnb ritual the host had done. Or maybe Simone had already lit something. Speaking of… “What took y’all so long?” Simone Carter’s voice rang from the second-floor landing. She leaned over the railing, her silk robe swinging open just enough to show the top of a lace bralette. Her hair was in big, soft curls, face beat like she was in court tomorrow. “I been here two hours and already did a walkthrough.” Raelyn gave her the middle finger. “Bet you cased the joint too.” “Only the safe,” Simone deadpanned. The front door burst open behind them. “Y’all hoes better not’ve started without me!” Kamaria “Kam” West shouted, dragging a Louis Vuitton duffel behind her. “I had to yell at a cop at the gas station, so we starting with tequila. I’m not playing.” Five minutes later, weed smoke floated through the vaulted ceilings like it belonged there. Everyone was barefoot, lounging in robe-chic, sipping infused watermelon juice, and surrounded by snacks so carefully curated it felt like a stoner charcuterie board. Alana Brooks had arrived last. Of course she had. She didn’t walk in—she *arrived*. Big sunglasses, dark red lips, blunt lit, and a designer weekender that probably cost more than Rae’s rent. She didn’t hug anyone. Just handed Kam a bottle of vintage cannabis wine, took one long drag from her blunt, and said, “Ladies.” The silence that followed was sharp. Alana had been the ghost. The one who vanished. The one who “died” back in college after that weird-ass incident with her roommate. But here she was—alive, fine, and apparently rich. “Did we just get visited by a hologram?” Rae whispered. “Shut up,” Simone whispered back. But she couldn’t stop staring. Alana flopped down on a white leather sectional, crossing her legs elegantly. “Why does it smell like cheap edibles in here? Don’t tell me y’all still shop local.” Kam puffed her joint and squinted. “Oh, so *now* your bougie ass got jokes?” “Always had jokes. You were just too high to catch them.” Everyone laughed. A little too loudly. A little too nervously. As the night rolled on, the house buzzed with high vibrations and suppressed secrets. The kitchen island was covered in rolling trays, THC gummies in crystal bowls, and Rae’s hacked Bluetooth speaker playing a mix of SZA and classic Erykah Badu. Kam had already disappeared upstairs to change into a swimsuit for the hot tub. Simone was FaceTiming a man who definitely had a girlfriend, and Tiffani was trying to teach Rae how to make THC cocktails. “No, Rae, you *stir* the syrup. You don’t dump it like cough medicine.” “Sis, I do lab work, not bartending. Let me live.” Alana wandered out back by herself. She stared into the woods behind the estate. The firepit crackled nearby, unattended. Something rustled in the trees. She didn’t flinch. She pulled out her phone. No signal. Of course. Back inside, Kam called out, “Yo, where Alana at? We starting the hot tub chronicles in five.” Tiffani peeked out back. “She ghosted. Again.” They found her sitting by the fire, staring at the woods like she expected something—or someone—to emerge. “You good?” Simone asked, adjusting her robe tighter. Alana glanced at her. Her eyes were unreadable. “I’m always good.” But that wasn’t the truth. Later that night, the weed got heavier. The laughter louder. But underneath it all, there was a beat of unease. An unspoken understanding. They’d all done something. Something unforgivable. And for the first time in years, all five were under one roof. That’s when the first phone alert hit. One by one, their phones vibrated. **Blocked Caller. No ID. Just a message.**  “Enjoying the reunion? One of you won’t survive the weekend.” Raelyn froze. “Tell me this is one of y’all being messy.” “I swear on my weed stash it’s not me,” Kam said. Tiffani’s hands were shaking slightly. “Is this a prank? A joke?” Simone’s voice was flat. “No one outside this house knew about this trip.” They all turned to Alana. She took a slow drag from her blunt. “Bitch, don’t look at me. *I* didn’t send it.” But her eyes said something else entirely. And none of them noticed the sixth wine glass on the kitchen counter. Still full. Untouched. Waiting. Chapter Two: Smoke and Mirrors The next morning arrived under a thick fog, eerie and too quiet. The house that once buzzed with midnight giggles and clinking glasses now pulsed with suspicion. Each woman moved slowly, cautiously, hungover not just from THC wine gummies but from whatever had cracked open the night before. Kamaria West was the first to rise. Even in a sleep shirt and fuzzy socks, she carried the same energy as she did in court: poised, unshaken, and two steps ahead. She poured herself black coffee and stood by the massive kitchen window, staring out into the gray mist that hugged the woods around them. The note—the threat—still played in her head like a record with a scratch. She hadn’t told the others yet. She needed time. She needed to observe. Rae padded into the kitchen next, hoodie up, vape pen in mouth. “Morning, Judge Judy,” she mumbled, exhaling a slow puff. Kam gave her a side glance. “Thought you’d be sleeping off that sativa sangria you concocted.” Rae smirked, digging into a leftover croissant. “Woke up with my third eye twitchin’. Something’s off, Kam.” Kam didn’t answer. Just handed her the folded paper without a word. Rae opened it, her smirk melting. “What the fuck?” she whispered. “Exactly,” Kam said. “Don’t tell the others yet. Not until I know who left it.” As if summoned by secrets, Tiffani appeared next, wearing one of Kam’s oversized cardigans and sipping a protein shake like a model with a scalpel in her purse. “What y’all whisperin’ about?” she asked, eyeing them. Rae casually dropped the note into her hoodie pocket. “Just debating breakfast. Kam’s trying to make us go vegan today.” Tiffani rolled her eyes. “Girl, please. I brought bacon from Trader Joe’s. Don’t play.” The moment was saved, but it wouldn’t last. By midday, all five were gathered on the deck. Blankets, mimosas, and a tray of chocolate-covered edibles sat untouched. Alana, always the most photogenic, leaned against the railing with her shades on and a perfect pout. Simone, seated on a rattan chair with her legs crossed like she was prepping for court, narrowed her eyes. “Somebody say what we’re all thinking,” she said. Raelyn sighed, looking around. “This trip’s cursed. First that creepy-ass thunderstorm, then the lights cutting out, and now\... we all feeling it, right?” Alana pushed her shades up. “Don’t be dramatic. Bad weather isn’t a sign of murder. It’s Missouri.” Tiffani snorted. “Girl, you fake-died in college. You don’t get to define ‘dramatic.’” That’s when Kamaria finally spoke. “Someone left a note last night.” All heads turned. “What kind of note?” Simone asked slowly. Kam retrieved it from Rae’s hoodie pocket, unfolding it with precision. “Slipped under my door after y’all went to bed.” They read it again in silence: **”One of you never left the game. One of you never stopped killing. And one of you? You’re next.”** The silence hit hard. Alana blinked. “Is this a joke?” Kam shook her head. “No one’s laughing.” Tiffani rubbed her temples. “Okay, but… why now? Why here?” Rae’s eyes were already darting around the woods. “Because someone planned this. Whoever wrote that note knew we’d be here.” “And knew our secrets,” Simone added. “We never talked about our past. Not really. Not all of it.” “That’s the point,” Kamaria said. “We’ve all done things. Things no one else should know. But someone does. Someone wants us paranoid. Distrusting. Vulnerable.” Alana crossed her arms. “Or maybe one of us is playing games.” “No,” Rae snapped. “Don’t even start with that. You disappeared for a decade and came back with a new face, Lana. You the last one who gets to play innocent.” Alana didn’t flinch. “I came back with a brand. A business. Not a vendetta.” Simone held up a hand. “Enough. This isn’t helping. What we need to do is figure out who else knew we’d be here. Who we told. Who might want revenge.” Tiffani suddenly looked pale. “What?” Rae asked. Tiffani hesitated. “Last week… I got an email. No sender. Just a file. Pictures of my ex. Dead. Before the cops even found her.” Silence. A long one. Kamaria stepped forward. “You think whoever sent that note sent the email too?” Tiffani nodded. “They know things. Things only the killer—or someone watching—could know.” Alana whispered, “What if it’s not just about revenge? What if it’s a game?” Kamaria clenched her jaw. “Then we better win.” The wind picked up, carrying the smell of pine and distant smoke. Someone, somewhere, was watching. And Chapter Three would start with blood. Chapter Three: Red Wine and Old Ghosts** The first full night at the mansion rolled in like velvet. The moon was swollen and glowing low through the tall evergreens surrounding the property. It cast a silver haze over the wraparound porch where the women lounged in plush robes, passing around a wood-tipped blunt and sipping on THC-infused wine coolers Alana had personally curated from her own brand. Each of them had claimed their rooms—Kamaria’s was crisp and cold like a judge’s chambers; Rae’s was dimly lit with LED lights pulsing from her tech gear; Simone’s space smelled like high-end perfume and Chanel lotion; Tiffani had unpacked surgical scrubs and a 6-pack of edibles like she was on call for a surgery. Alana’s room? Completely rebranded. Not a trace of her old identity, just velvet robes, cashmere throws, and a walk-in closet that whispered *money and secrets.* They sat in a circle now, faces hazy under the patio heater. “Alright, bitches,” Rae said, flicking ash from the blunt. “Let’s talk ghosts. Dead ones. Old ones. The kind we don’t admit to nobody but each other.” “We really doing this?” Tiffani asked, her leg draped over the arm of a wicker lounge chair. “You know Rae can’t resist a truth-or-dare moment,” Kamaria replied, her robe tied tightly, a small THC gummy between her fingers. She popped it in her mouth like communion. Simone leaned back with a glass of red, lips glossy. “I’ll go. Since Rae wants blood.” Everyone quieted. “The day I walked into court and saw *him* in the front row—her boyfriend—I wanted to walk back out. But I couldn’t. He was mine too. And he had killed someone. I knew it. Still defended him. And he walked.” Tiffani blinked slowly. “You knew he killed somebody?” Simone took another sip. “I did. And when I found out who it was—one of our own clients—I wanted to turn him in. But by then, he’d disappeared. Vanished. Nobody ever found him.” “Damn,” Alana muttered. “Still got his number?” They laughed, but it was strained. Kamaria passed the blunt to Rae. “Alright hacker, your turn.” Rae exhaled and let smoke trail up. “I shredded a report. Three years ago. The DNA from that murder at the gas station? It matched someone I knew. One of y’all. I couldn’t let it happen.” Eyes widened. Jaws clenched. “You what?” Simone asked, sitting up straighter. Rae stared out at the forest. “I didn’t say which one. And don’t ask. I didn’t want to know what happened. Still don’t.” Silence. Alana looked around, twirling the stem of her wine glass. “Y’all still think I faked my death just because I wanted to?” Kamaria raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?” “Part of it, yeah,” Alana said. “But also… that girl I killed? She had my passport. My debit card. She was trying to *be* me. And after I caught her, it was either disappear forever—or wait around for her to try again. So I chose the wax blunt and the new name.” Tiffani’s voice cut in, dry and even. “She dead-dead?” Alana didn’t flinch. “Was. Might not be.” The women sat still. The forest creaked. Somewhere, a branch snapped. Inside the mansion, the door to the kitchen slowly creaked open. They all turned. “Y’all locked that?” Kamaria asked. “I did,” Rae said, already standing up. The women moved like one—quiet, cautious, slipping inside with instincts that hadn’t dulled in all the years since. The kitchen was empty. But a fresh glass sat on the counter. One they hadn’t poured. Next to it, a note. **“Not everyone stays dead.”** Tiffani picked it up with gloved fingers—surgical gloves she kept in her robe pocket like a stoner Batman. “This someone’s idea of a joke?” she asked. Simone stepped forward. “Nobody outside this group knows we’re here.” Alana’s voice dropped. “That’s not true.” All eyes turned to her. “My old roommate? The one I replaced? The one y’all think I killed?” Rae swallowed hard. “Alana, don’t—” “She might not have died,” Alana said. “I never checked her pulse.” The room stilled. Kamaria backed toward the door. “Lock this house down. Now.” Rae pulled out her phone. “I installed security. Let me tap in.” Tiffani grabbed a scalpel from her robe. Simone poured another glass like it was a regular Tuesday. Outside, the wind howled. The ghosts were no longer metaphorical. And they had just started arriving. Chapter 4: No Smoke Without Fire** The sun was barely peeking through the gauzy curtains of the Airbnb mansion when Kamaria awoke to the distinct absence of laughter. The air felt different—still heavy with last night’s haze of wine and weed, but quieter, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Her head pounded as she sat up in the luxurious four-poster bed, still fully dressed. Her phone buzzed again. It was a text from Rae: **”Downstairs. Now. Shit’s bad.”** Kam didn’t bother brushing her hair. She threw on a hoodie and padded barefoot down the long hallway. The mansion’s opulence had gone from bougie to eerie overnight—the curated minimalism of the space now felt cold, sterile, almost mocking. She found Rae pacing in the massive kitchen, vape clutched in her hand like a rosary. Her eyes were bloodshot, but not from the weed. “Where’s Tiffani?” Kam asked immediately. Rae gestured to the back patio with a stiff jerk of her head. “She’s out there. With… what’s left.” Kam’s gut tightened. She moved outside, the sharp morning air slicing through the remnants of their high. Tiffani was crouched near the firepit, her surgical gloves already on, face pale, eyes wide. Laid out in front of her on a woven mat was a body. It was Simone. Dead. Kamaria dropped to her knees, the world tilting. Tiffani looked up, her voice flat. “She’s cold. Rigor’s started. I’d say she died between three and four a.m.” Kam blinked. “Of *what*?” “That’s the part that doesn’t make sense,” Rae cut in, stepping forward with her tablet. “No blood. No trauma. But her pupils are blown out like she OD’d… except we all smoked and drank the same stuff.” Kam’s brain spun. Simone, always composed and calculating, dead? And not just dead—*mysteriously* dead? Alana emerged then, barefoot and draped in a velvet robe, her expression unreadable. “We have a problem,” she said, holding up her phone. “Someone sent me a video.” She pressed play. It showed Simone at around 2:47 a.m., stumbling through the hallway with a half-lit pre-roll, mumbling to herself. The camera was from a high angle, grainy but clear enough to make out. There shouldn’t have been any security cameras in the Airbnb. Kam stood slowly. “We need to talk. All of us.” They gathered in the living room—no longer stoned, no longer relaxed. The mood had turned sharp, suspicious. The velvet and marble décor felt suffocating now. “Let’s be honest,” Alana said, breaking the silence. “We’ve all done shit we’re not proud of. Some of us have killed. Some of us have *covered up* killings. Now one of us is dead. You really think that’s coincidence?” Rae’s jaw tightened. “And you think we’re being targeted?” Alana’s eyes darkened. “I think someone knew Simone’s secret. And I think this place is a trap.” Tiffani stood, wiping her hands on a towel. “That would mean someone lured us here. Someone who knows everything.” Kam’s mind raced. “What if it’s not someone from the outside?” That landed like a grenade. The silence thickened. “Kam,” Rae said slowly, “you’re saying *one of us* did this?” Kam didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Outside, the wind picked up. Inside, paranoia bloomed like smoke. And upstairs, a sixth bedroom door creaked open, though no one had gone in… or come out… Chapter Five: The Truth Bleeds Green They were supposed to be celebrating. But now, Kamaria stood barefoot in the rain, staring at the smoldering remains of what was once their luxury hideaway. The Airbnb mansion was reduced to ash and smoke, flickering blue and red lights bouncing off puddles like kaleidoscopes of chaos. The remaining women were scattered in shock, bloodied, bruised, and forever changed. Three of the original five were still alive. One was in custody. And one—Raelyn—was gone. But her secrets weren’t. 48 Hours Earlier… The second death shook the women to their core. After Tiffani’s girlfriend’s body washed up near the bluff—just hours after they’d mentioned her in conversation—the group went silent. Suspicion brewed. Old grudges crept in. Everyone looked at each other a little too long. Paranoia set in, and so did the edibles. No one trusted the weed anymore. Simone started building a timeline, scribbling on napkins and receipt paper like a trial lawyer without a courtroom. Kamaria locked herself in the upstairs den, reviewing police records she’d downloaded on a burner tablet. Alana disappeared for five hours and came back soaking wet, high, and with blood on her designer sneakers. “It wasn’t hers,” she said calmly. “But someone knows who I used to be.” Rae was twitchy. Vaping more. Jumping at her own tech. She’d hacked into the security system of the mansion when they arrived—only to find the feeds didn’t exist. The cameras had been fake. So who was watching them? The next night, the power cut. Phones dead. Only candlelight and paranoia. That’s when Kamaria saw her. The sixth woman. The dead roommate. She wasn’t dead. Just different. The Final Night Her name was Danika Troy. She was supposed to be gone. Alana had confessed to her murder, had reinvented herself after setting her body and her past on fire. But Danika had lived. She’d crawled out of that lake half-dead and full of vengeance. And she’d been watching them ever since. Danika had followed them. Used Rae’s hacked systems. Drugged Tiffani. Planted evidence against Simone. She’d played each woman’s secret like a piano in hell. But what Danika hadn’t counted on was Kamaria. Kamaria didn’t just judge others. She judged herself. And she knew a setup when she saw one. The confrontation was brutal. Fire. Screams. Someone grabbed a wine bottle, another a cast iron skillet. A gun went off. Someone jumped into the flames. Another was pushed. When the police arrived, all they found was a burned-down mansion, a dead woman with no fingerprints, and three Black women too high to make sense. Kamaria claimed temporary insanity. Simone pleaded the Fifth. Alana disappeared—again. And Raelyn? Her body was never found. Epilogue: 2 Months Later Kamaria sits on a bench outside the courthouse, no longer in robes. Her license revoked. Her world shaken. Tiffani moved to Mexico. Simone is on a houseboat in Miami. Alana’s luxury weed brand? Bigger than ever. And someone keeps sending Kamaria dried edibles in the mail—with little notes: “Round 2.”
By Dakota Denise 8 months ago in Chapters
Clip: Bloodlines & Ballistics. Content Warning.
Clip: Bloodlines & Ballistics Chapter 1: The Beginning We grew up in a house where the walls were thin, the fridge was never quite full, and the love was loud. There were five of us: four girls and one boy. Our mother raised us by herself on the South Side of Chicago. She worked two jobs, sometimes three, just to keep the lights on and food in the kitchen. And somehow, even with all that, she still managed to teach us the difference between right and wrong—though, as life would have it, right and wrong blurred sometimes.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
Mind Yo Business Investigations . Content Warning.
Chapter 1: Bottom of the Deck Kansas City summers hit different. The heat stuck to your skin like cheap lip gloss, and the hustle moved through the air like bass from a car stereo. Skylar Nicole knew all about both. At 27, she was a mother of two, with a figure that made necks snap and a face that could stop traffic. But what most folks didn’t see was the weight she carried: the bills, the rent, the daycare, the shifts at that godforsaken casino—all of it riding on her back like it had paid rent to be there.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
The Blazzed Ride. Content Warning.
The Key and the Curse Kansas City hummed with a quiet electric pulse, the kind that danced between the high-rise shadows and snaked through late-night alleyways. Imani Cole, 42 years old and a powerhouse in her own right, stood outside her boutique, Blazzup—Kansas City's only luxury 420-friendly fashion line. Her designs were bold, unapologetically Black, and infused with a laid-back elegance that echoed her spirit. But this night felt different. The air was thicker. The moon, unusually low, cast a haze over everything.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
The Ghosts Don’t Whisper Here. Content Warning.
Title: The Message in Apartment 2B Serenity Black stood outside the aging apartment building in Bronzeville, her leather satchel heavy against her shoulder, the wind tugging at the hem of her coat like a child begging her not to go inside. She already knew what waited for her upstairs—death always left a scent, and Serenity had smelled it since dawn.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
The Thirteenth Thread . Content Warning.
Chapter One: Messages in the Flesh New Orleans wasn’t exactly quiet, but tonight felt unnaturally still—like the air was listening. Serenity Black knew that feeling too well by now. It meant someone on the other side was trying to scream through the silence.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
Chi-Town Smoke & Blazers
Fire in the Blazer The South Side of Chicago had its own soundtrack—one part hustle, one part heartbreak, and a whole lot of heat. Dakota Jean moved through it like she owned every block her stilettos touched. And in a way, she did. Her boutique, #Blazzup, was more than a store; it was a cultural landmark—420 fashion with an unapologetic edge. Her dispensary, 1st Ladies of Cannabis, sat next door like a quiet revolution. Dakota didn’t just sell clothes or weed; she sold power. She sold a vibe.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Chapters
Puff Puff Twist. Content Warning.
Chapter 1: “Light That Shit” The blunt was fat, like *ignorant* fat—two grams easy, rolled so perfect it looked store-bought, but that’s how Rissa always did it. She called it her “therapeutic art.” I called it her only damn skill, but whatever. We were five hits deep in my living room, incense burning like somebody summoned the ancestors, and somebody—probably me—had just dropped Hot Cheeto crumbs on the carpet.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
The Blazz'n Truth..
Dakota Blaqq wasn’t your average private investigator. Sure, she had a license, a loaded Glock in her glove compartment, and a smartphone full of shady contacts. But Dakota also ran a cannabis-friendly clothing line called *BlazzUp Boutique* and had a booming following on TikTok, where she spilled tea and smoked weed while giving life advice under the hashtag #HighStandards. She lived by her motto: "Stay lifted, stay woke."
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
The Messenger. Content Warning.
I’ve never liked the term *ghost whisperer*. It sounds like some gimmick you see on late-night TV—fog rolling in, someone murmuring to shadows. That ain’t me. I’m Serenity Black, and my gift? It’s raw, unfiltered, and doesn’t care who you are or how long I’ve known you. Whether I met you ten minutes ago or twenty years back, if the dead need to reach you, I’m their voice.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
420 Private Investigators Presents: Undercover Lies: A 420 Investigator’s Tale"
Dakota never expected that a single date could turn into something so twisted. It started on Facebook Dating. After a few awkward matches and dull conversations, she stumbled upon James. He was charming in his messages—funny, confident, a bit cocky, but not obnoxiously so. A good-looking Black man in his early fifties who sold cars for a living. He had that salesman swagger, but with just enough humility to keep her curious. Their date was simple and perfect. They played pool at a local dive bar, then grabbed lunch at a barbecue spot downtown. Conversation flowed easily between bites of ribs and sips of sweet tea. They ended the afternoon browsing thrift shops, joking about the odd things they found. James mentioned he liked old vinyl, and Dakota picked out a Curtis Mayfield album just to tease him. There was chemistry, undeniable. Dakota, a Black woman with sharp eyes and a sharper wit, felt something electric in their interactions. She even told James that day, half-jokingly, that she might use him as inspiration for a character in one of her books. He laughed and told her she better make him a heartthrob. It was light, fun, promising. But something about him didn’t sit quite right. After that day, things fizzled fast. No arguments, no drama—they just didn’t click beyond that spark. Dakota, used to following her gut, trusted the feeling that James wasn’t someone she could see herself with long-term. What surprised her, though, was how quickly he disappeared from her real life and reappeared in her inbox—sporadic emails every few months, nothing romantic, just checking in. What she didn’t know then was that James had started dating someone else almost immediately after their date. Wendy. Wendy was white, worked in a call center, and had a kind of soft, clingy vibe that seemed to attract men like James. Dakota didn’t know Wendy existed until much later. James never mentioned her—because she wasn’t in the picture when he and Dakota went out. He jumped into that relationship right after, and maybe it was coincidence, maybe not, but Dakota always suspected that being with a Black woman made him confront something he wasn’t ready for. A year and a half passed. Dakota’s life had taken off. Her TikTok account exploded—she was pushing hundreds of thousands of followers now, sharing storytimes from her job as a private investigator. That was her bread and butter—Mind Yo Business Investigations, a firm she’d run for over twenty years. Dakota was sharp, experienced, and unapologetically good at her job. She used her platform to give tips on red flags, share wild case stories (without breaching confidentiality), and empower other women to trust their instincts. Then came the email. Subject: “Private Investigation Inquiry.” The message was from a woman named Wendy, who said she suspected her boyfriend might cheat if given the chance—and she wanted Dakota to test him. The job: pose as a potential temptation and see if he’d bite. Dakota had done this kind of job before. It was shady but legal, and sometimes the only way to give a woman the clarity she needed. When Wendy sent over the name and photo of her boyfriend, Dakota nearly dropped her phone. It was James. For a second, she laughed. Of all the people in Atlanta, Wendy’s man had to be the one Dakota had been on that one, strange, electric date with nearly two years ago. She debated saying no—this was messy, complicated—but something about the whole thing pulled her in. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was justice. She took the job. Dakota crafted the approach carefully. She reached out to James via email, under the guise of reconnecting. She kept it light, breezy. Said she’d been thinking about their old date, wondering what he was up to. He responded quickly—too quickly. Said he remembered her, thought about her often, and yes, they should catch up. That was her first flag. Over the next few weeks, they exchanged messages. Dakota was meticulous. She never pushed, only followed his lead. James flirted, reminisced, asked about her TikTok. He even asked if she could help him grow his own following—said he was thinking about starting something to boost his car sales. Dakota played along, dropping influencer tips, subtly pulling him in. All of it went into the report for Wendy. Then something unexpected happened. James mentioned her to Wendy. Just in passing, he told Wendy about a woman named Dakota he’d gone on a date with a long time ago, who was now a TikTok influencer and a writer working on a book. He mentioned—lightly, maybe even innocently—that Dakota had once joked about turning him into a character. And that’s when Wendy put the pieces together. Dakota. The same name as the woman she had hired. The same woman her boyfriend had gone on a date with. The same woman he was now emailing again. Wendy was furious. She never confronted James about what she realized. Instead, she ghosted Dakota completely. No final payment. No email. Nothing. Dakota waited for days, then weeks. Still nothing. She tried reaching out, but Wendy had vanished. And that’s when Dakota, fed up with being played, did what she did best—she got creative. She made a fake Facebook profile. On it, she posted screenshots of the email exchanges between her and James—blurring names and details, but leaving enough for Wendy to recognize the truth. She set the profile picture and cover photo as images from their flirty conversations. Then, she sent Wendy a friend request. Wendy accepted. The reaction was almost immediate. Wendy sent a message: “I don’t know who you are. Please tell me who you are.” Dakota didn’t respond. Another message came: “You must have something to say. You sent me a friend request, so go ahead and talk to me.” Dakota stared at the message. In that moment, she realized Wendy had flipped the script. Instead of acknowledging the truth, Wendy was acting like the victim—like Dakota had been trying to break them up for personal reasons, not professional ones. It was a slap in the face. Wendy had hired her. Wendy had gotten her feelings hurt. And now Wendy was pretending that Dakota was the villain. Dakota didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Instead, she closed the case and moved on. She told the story—carefully anonymized—on TikTok. The video went viral. Thousands of women commented, sharing their own stories of betrayal, confusion, and clarity. The message was clear: women were tired of being gaslight, tired of being left with the mess. Dakota never heard from Wendy again. James never knew the full truth. As far as he was concerned, he’d just reconnected with an old flame who mysteriously vanished again. But Dakota knew what really happened. She’d done her job. She’d played her role. And she’d walked away on her terms. Because in a world where everyone plays games, Dakota played to win.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
Hustle & High Heels: Love and Ambition, Blazz’d Empire Style. Content Warning.
The CEO Who Can’t Find Love The city of Kansas City stretched out before Dakota Blazz, its vibrant skyline bathed in the soft glow of sunset. From her high-rise apartment in the heart of Downtown KC, she could see the traffic snaking through the streets below, the sun casting long shadows over the iconic Power and Light District, and the bustling energy of a city on the rise. Kansas City was a place of reinvention—where ambition met opportunity, and where dreams could be built brick by brick. And Dakota Blazz was nothing if not a woman who had mastered the art of reinvention.
By Dakota Denise 11 months ago in Chapters

Dakota Denise

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Hustle & High Heels: Love and Ambition, Blazz’d Empire Style. Content Warning.

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