Shuri’s POV

I hate events like these, bright lights, fake laughs all day long. Galas to promote countries that never deserve the money. I don’t understand how my parents or brother ever came to these weekly, luckily I only come yearly. T’Challa used to drag me along with him and he’s often stare at Nakia or get along with a couple leaders.

I remain seated at my round table, fiddling with Wakandan cloth thrown over my suit. I count the amount of waiters in the room to pass time. Soft classical music plays and it’s live, I appreciate the musicians dedication but damn it’s not my taste. I’d much rather listen to something more upbeat. My Doras for today are Okoye and Aneka, they’ve been entertaining each other for the last half hour.

“Your highness, will you go speak to sponsors?” Okoye scolds from behind me. It’s good to make connections but Wakanda has never been keen on them anyway. We don’t need help nor do we offer it unless it’s through our outreach programs.

“Excuse me,” I tell her before excusing myself out of the table. I shift pass a lot of people, many of whom are leaders trying to greet me. It’s no secret that we’re the most powerful nation in existence but I greet them respectfully and don’t give them time to loop me into conversation.

The location is nice. It’s a lavish hotel in Washington DC, full snobby rich people that I need a break from. I see a sign to the bathroom and offer small smiles to the employees working before entering.

The stalls are empty and I sigh, staring at the mirror beside stuffing my hands in my pocket. I remember my last meeting, I was happier then, back when I used to tag along with T’Challa on these. Back when life was easier and I’d see my family on a day to day basis.

The black suit I’m in almost reminds me of him and my shortened curls remind me of my mother. She cut hers too when T’Challa passed. I did when she went to join the ancestors.

Okoye jokes that I should go join the Doras but I refuse to, I would never. It’s too much, I laugh at thought before hearing a voice sounding In one of the stalls.

“Ma, I’m tryin’ my best-…I don’t know, mom, who wants to talk to the kid who’s Dad caused mass genocide…I’m not tryna be smart,” the voice mutters, wavering a little as it sounds. It sounds familiar, very clear and stern.

“Jesus fuck,” I hear before hearing the clicking of heels and the stall unlocking. I state ahead at the mirror and glance at her in the mirror.

Riri Williams. We’ve met before. The woman i danced with two years ago, I haven’t seen her since. The news barely broadcasts her nation, granted many don’t want to because of her father.

She’s not in the best state, her eyes glassy but her makeup is perfect. She doesn’t look much different than she did less than three years ago but she’s absolutely gorgeous. She pulls one of her long ginger locs out of her face (that happen to stop by her hips) and doesn’t pay me any mind. She can probably barely see me through those glassy eyes.

I grab a tissue next to the sink and hand it to her.

“Whatever it is, I’m sorry,” I apologize and she tilts her head back and begins to fan at her eyes.

“You don’t need to fake-pity me,” She murmurs, still having not made eye contact with me.

“If I didn’t two years ago, why would I now?” I ask and she pauses for a moment and takes in my face. She smiles just a little and her sighs in relief.

“I’m so glad you’re not some stranger, sorry. I remember you, Shuri,” She says and my heart can’t help but jump a little at the fact that she remembers my name.

She finally accepts the tissue and wipes at the corner of her eyes. I notice her long nails, jet black to match her dress.

“Is everything alright?” I ask and she nods her head. We’re strangers..barely acquaintances but I’m worried for her. Even I’m not sure why.

This event is boring. And me being here makes no difference for my nation. I can’t imagine the pressure she’s under, even at the last United Nations meeting all those years ago, she’s only wished for forgiveness from her countries especially after her fathers rule.

An idea pops into my brain as one usually does but the idea is close to being borderline insane.

“Did you want to go out?” I ask and her brows furrow like I’ve offended her.

“I don’t mean it like a date unless you do, I hate coming to these, I’m sure you do as well, You seem sad, I’m extremely bored, go out with me,” I suggest and she rolls her eyes playfully I think and then speaks.

“You’re fucking crazy, How would that look?”