✨PREVIEW✨ Raised Wrong, STILL Right - EsSense Of Ebony Books

Five sisters. One baby. Zero shame.

Imani hustles wigs and sugar daddies. Chardonnay stays in designer—her man’s got Rolexes he didn’t buy. Zariah’s 17 with an “older” and full glam by 7AM. Destiny’s 14, rude, loud, and TikTok famous. And baby K’Myrah-Moneté? No clue who her daddy is—just know he ain’t broke.

Raised Wrong, STILL Right is South London chaos, scandal, and sisterhood—served hot.

The Girls

Imani (23): Lace front perfection, sharp tongue, hustles luxury wigs and men with money. Main man Cruz? Scammer. Side man in Dubai? Still sending dollars.

Chardonnay (25): Wears heels to Tesco. Her man “Flips” owns a vape shop and three stolen Rolexes.

Zariah (17): Moves like a grown woman. Full glam for sixth form. Has an “older” who drives a tinted Audi and calls her “wifey.”

Destiny (14): TikTok obsessed, teeth always sucking, attitude louder than her phone speaker. Already planning her BBL.

K’Myrah-Moneté (baby, 2): Obsessed with Cocomelon, loves attention, allegedly belongs to “no broke man ever.”

Chapter One:

Raised Wrong, Still Right

"Move your crusty foot from off the sink before I mash it up an bruck EVERY bone, Destiny!"

"Bruv, why you always on your period emotionally?"

It was 9:47 on a Saturday morning, and already the house was moving mad. The TV was on, but no one was watching it. Channel U blared old-school Bashy while someone’s wig dripped water in the bath like it had been through war. The entire two-bed flat in Croydon — converted into a three-bedroom with a sketchy partition wall — was vibrating with a five-way argument.

"Swear down, if one more person uses my hot comb without asking—"

"Shut up, Chardonnay. Your edges been screaming since 2019."

"Mum! Zariah's got her friend in here again and they taking Snapchat pics in my good bra!"

From the hallway: “Rah, this house stinks of bad vibes and hair glue!”

Welcome to the Rose household. Five sisters. Four different baby daddies. One overworked, over-partied mum who hadn’t paid a bill herself since Shabba was relevant.

Imani, 23, was halfway through doing her lashes, hoodie off one shoulder, body like she knew it caused problems. She's the one who worked at a nail salon part-time but made most her real coin from a link in Birmingham who paid for feet pics and attitude.

Next came Chardonnay 25 — two baby hairs away from a breakdown. Always posting up in Nova with captions like "Broke who? I’ll wait." Her man sold “crypto” — which was code for trap, fraud, and reposting other man’s drip on Insta.

Zariah, 17, swore she was grown. She was the type to quote City Girls and still ask her mum for top-up. Loved to scream "Bad Bitch Energy" while failing Maths and moving to twenty-something-year-olds on TikTok.

Destiny, 14, said nothing — she just recorded the madness for her Finsta. She knew how to keep receipts, fake tears and her location.

And then there was Marlene, their mother.

Marlene came into the room from the night before like a hurricane in Fashion Nova jeans with glitter still clinging to her shoulder. It was 10:03am.

She slammed the door. “Which one of you text my man at 2 a.m. saying the Wi-Fi gone?! He not your damn tech support!”

Everyone froze.

Chardonnay side-eyed. “Mum, it was gone though.”

“He’s not EE! Learn to fix tings yaself. When mi was your age—”

“Here we go,” Destiny mumbled.

“—mi had two pickney and mi own flat in Lewisham! Unnu still deh yah a tek selfie fi man with rip up bedsheet!”

Zariah was doing her makeup in the microwave reflection. “Mum, you was also lying to the council and living under Auntie Sharon name, so let’s not.”

“Don’t mek me box yuh with the rent book!”

Silence.

Then everyone started cackling.

“Why is the bath full of clothes?” Imani called out from the bathroom. “And someone’s frontal is floating like it died in there.”

“Rah,” Chardonnay said. “That’s from Tuesday. That wig been through trauma. I’m soaking my whites lowe mi.”

She grabbed a lighter and ashtray off the side and lit a freshly rolled spliff in the living room. “Anyway, mi nuh deh pon waa unu deh pon with this aggy vibe. Rico’s picking me up in fifteen.”

“Rico?” Marlene frowned. “The one with the ankle monitor or the one with the dreads?”

“Yea. Dreads. Ankle monitor’s on tag until April and can’t step out.”

Zariah leaned in. “Isn’t he the one who tried to gift you a PS5 box filled with drugs?”

“It wasn’t drugs. It was weed. Get it right.”

Marlene just rubbed her temples. “Lord, take these girls from mi now before mi end up pan BBC News.”

She stomped to her room.

Chardonnay looked around. “I swear down, we need a series.”

Zariah licked her lips, adjusting her tube top. “Nah. Netflix ain’t ready.”

Imani hit record. “Say that again but slower. I’m putting it on the intro of my YouTube vlog.”

And just like that, in a house full of lies, love, and lace fronts, the day began — one argument, one Rico, and one rubicon short.

Chapter Two –

Broke? Blocked.

“Zariah if you wear mi Fenty lip gloss again mi a go box you dung.”

The morning started like any other: loud, long, and laced with lies. Marlene, queen of the council flat, queen of chaos, stood in her hallway mirror in a robe from PrettyLittleThing pretending it was Versace. Hair? 28-inch Cambodian wet wave. Face? Beat like she was about to step on stage, not just down the street.

In her arms: K’Myrah — her “last life lesson,” a baby girl with a Chanel bonnet and no confirmed father. Could’ve been Reece, maybe Lano, possibly even the Turkish gym owner who gave her free PT and more. But Marlene wasn’t worried. The baby was pretty, and her latest man RayRay just sent her £300 for “bits.”

“Love mi life,” she whispered to herself, kissing K’Myrah’s cheek. “Love it bad.”

The two-bed in New Cross was tight but glamorous. Marlene didn’t play broke. Gold spray-painted mirrors, velvet curtains, stack of Shein parcels near the shoe rack. A candle always lit. The baby’s crib? Decorated with LED lights and a teddy bear in a Louis Vuitton scarf.

Her girls knew the vibe. If a man didn’t have money, looks, or a Mercedes, he wasn’t even “someone.”

By 10AM, Marlene was outside like she owned the whole borough.

She rolled her shopping trolley into Marks & Spencer, not because she needed quinoa, but because it looked better on Insta than Lidl. She walked with a Gucci bag bought on Klarna and an air of “don’t chat to me unless you got money or muscles.”

She spotted a tall man in Prada sliders, beard trimmed, airpod in one ear. “Excuse me,” he said as she reached for the brioche.

She turned slow. “You got money?”

He smiled. “What’s your name?”

She looked him up and down. “Marlene. Like the woman your mum warned you about.”

Imani’s Morning Mission

Brixton.

Imani was posting wigs on Insta while her main man Cruz counted cash in boxers.

“You ready to make that move to Paris?” he asked, stuffing notes into a Moncler bag. “Got the plug out there. Clean paper.”

Imani licked her lips. “Paris? Baby, I barely like Zone 3.”

He laughed. She pulled him close. They kissed. Then she whispered, “Send me £500 for my nails though.”

He transferred it before she could blink.

Zariah & School? Kinda…

Zariah sat outside school, edges laid, teeth gleaming. She wasn’t here to learn — she was waiting on “T”, a man with a gold tooth, a Glock, and a thing for teen girls who looked 25.

She FaceTimed her bestie.

“Girl, he’s five minutes away and I’m wearing that Fashion Nova dress he likes.”

The friend screamed. “Y’all having link-up sex?”

Zariah rolled her eyes. “Duh. But not till I get my nails done first. Ain’t no fingers going in this till they cashapped me for a French tip.”

Chardonnay’s "Work Play"

At the Peckham aesthetics clinic, Chardonnay answered phones like it paid more than £13/hour. Her real job? Trapping rich uncles and flogging home-done facials on the side.

Today, she was texting a man named Kwame with a Range Rover and a fake investment portfolio. He sent her a video: him pouring champagne on a pair of red bottoms.

“Come get these if you bad,” the caption said.

She smiled and typed: “Add a Gucci bag and I’ll let you ruin my credit.”

Back Home Vibes

By 9PM, the house was lit.

Laughter, wigs, fast food containers, cashapp pings, and drama.

Destiny was on TikTok doing a silhouette challenge. Zariah was in the kitchen whispering to T on FaceTime. Imani just got back from a wig drop and was counting £20s. Chardonnay was in her robe, legs oiled, waiting on an Uber XL from Kwame.

Marlene poured herself a glass of Echo Falls and smirked.

“Broke men can’t even text me,” she said out loud. “Not even accidentally.”

She looked around at her girls. Loud, fast, stunning, and spoiled. Just how she raised them.

“Raised wrong?” she said, sipping. “Nah. Raised right for the world we live in.”

Chapter 3

Pissed Off

Marlene was halfway through cussing Destiny for scratching her lace front with a fork when her phone vibrated.

“Aye!” she shouted, swatting the fork out her hand. “This is a kitchen utensil not a comb! You tryna get tetanus in your scalp?”

Destiny sucked her teeth and stormed off. “This house is toxic. I’m too sexy for this kinda trauma.”

Zariah chimed in from the corner, legs up on the dusty ottoman, glued to her phone. “Girl, you too broke to be dramatic.”

Imani lay on the floor in an old Juicy Couture tracksuit she swore was “vintage,” scrolling TikTok and letting the baby climb on her back like a jungle gym.

“Y’all arguing again?” she yawned. “It’s giving broke people Olympics.”

In the middle of it all stood Marlene — 43, hot, hard-faced and holding K’Myrah-Moneté, the baby with the long name and unknown father. The child had two teeth, no fear, and a habit of eating remote controls.

Marlene dropped her phone on the arm of the couch and pointed her spatula like a weapon. “One more time uno make me shout in this two-bedroom furnace, I swear to God...”

Just then, her phone buzzed again.

Private account. No profile pic. One message. A video.

Curiosity licked her spine.

She tapped.

The video opened with music — Arabic trap — and then a soft moan. Marlene squinted. A chandelier. Designer bags. A woman with long Brazilian bundles on all fours.

Then her heart dropped through her guts.

Chardonnay. Her firstborn.

In Dubai. Fully naked, except for Louboutins and shame. A group of men — Arab-looking, in white thobes were laughing, filming her, one of them holding a gold bottle of what she hoped was champagne. It wasn’t.

Marlene stared in horror as one of the men walked up behind Chardonnay, unzipped, squatted and—

“NAH MAN! JESUS TAKE THE PHONE!”

She flung it across the sofa like it had Ebola.

Zariah looked up. “Mum? You good?”

Marlene didn’t answer. She just stood there. Baby on hip. Mouth wide. Edges lifting from pure shock.

The group chat pinged.

Chardonnay:

“Landed xx don’t wait up.”

The nerve.

Marlene picked up the phone with trembling hands and typed nothing. She wanted to scream. Cry. Call her sister Sharon and say ‘Mi eldest is in Dubai being used like a public toilet!’ But she didn’t. She went into survival mode — what Jamaican women do best.

She deleted the video. Blocked the sender. Took a deep breath.

“Right,” she muttered to herself. “Dis ain’t mi first rodeo.”

But this? This one stung. Marlene had a past, yes. She got pregnant young just to get a council flat — didn’t work. Ended up sofa surfing till her big sister Sharon finessed one illegally. But this? This was generational embarrassment.

At midnight, Chardonnay walked in, dragging a silver suitcase and smelling like duty free and expensive sin. Hair laid. Skin glowing. Chanel from head to toe.

Marlene sat dead silent on the sofa. K’Myrah-Moneté was asleep on her chest like a tiny judge.

Chardonnay flicked her lashes at the mirror. “Mum, I need the flat to myself tomorrow. Private facial client.”

Marlene raised an eyebrow. “Is that what they call it now? Facial?”

Chardonnay paused. A flicker of tension.

“Come again?”

Marlene didn’t flinch. “Nah. You go bathe. Your sins loud. I bet mi wi smell gold piss through the door.”

Chardonnay froze.

“How do you—?”

“I know everything,” Marlene said flatly, picking imaginary lint off her Primark gown. “I just don’t always react.”

The silence was thick.

Chardonnay stared, tight-lipped, then walked off into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Zariah came in from the kitchen with a bag of grapes and one acrylic nail missing. “Mum, what’s facial mean?”

Marlene sipped her rum punch and didn’t answer.

Instead, she looked down at K’Myrah-Moneté, kissed her forehead and whispered, “God spare me… at least one a uno must turn out normal.”

The baby let out a fart in her sleep.

Then Marlene’s phone buzzed again.

This time, it was a screenshot — a group chat between some London roadmen. One of them had sent the same video. Except this time, it had been reposted on OnlyFans.

Under it: “Guess who’s in my next drop? London’s finest. £20 for the full video. DM for link.”

And in the comments?

“Isn’t that Marlene’s daughter?”

“Not her mum chatting bare about ‘class.’ LMFAO.”

“Mad ting. Marlene, she’s the one with the baby for the unknown ghost right?”

Marlene blinked.

She poured another drink.

And smiled.

Because now?

It was personal.

Next Chapter Teaser:

Chardonnay’s secret life starts leaking — in more ways than one. But when someone close is blackmailed for the real full video, the whole family’s forced into a scandal they might not survive…