Page 72 of Before I Say I Don't
By the time we finished walking the venue space—picturing where flowers would go, deciding if the dance floor should be closer to the bar or the stage—I was over it. My feet hurt, my patience was gone, and the only thing that kept me from snapping was the thought of how it would all play out on the wedding day.
On the way out, I felt… accomplished. Merely one week from now, that venue would be full of flowers, music, and people who thought they knew the story. The food would be perfect. The lighting would be warm, and the head table would seat the ones who loved me most.
And when it was time, I’d stand up in the same amber light and do what I do best.
Tell the truth so clean it cuts.
After leaving the venue, I was drained. I swung by a restaurant, grabbed something quick to eat, then headed home and crashed. It was after midnight when I woke to the shrill punch of the alarm. My body reacted before my brain did. I snatched my gun from the nightstand and hurried downstairs.
Halfway down the steps, I froze.
It was Viangelo.
I hadn’t even realized he never came home or noticed his side of the bed was cold. That’s how long I’d slept and how little I cared those days.
I lowered the gun but kept my eyes on him.
Viangelo stumbled inside, reeking of liquor, women’s perfume, and his skin shining with the kind of sweat that belonged to someone who’d been everywhere except where they should’ve been. His shirt was halfway unbuttoned, exposing a patch of skin, and his tie hung loose around his neck like it had given up trying to keep him presentable.
I followed him into the living room.
He barely looked at me, mumbling something about “fellas night” before dropping himself onto the couch with his shoes still on and eyes half-shut.
I sat on the sofa mentally recording every detail: the slur in his words, the faint lipstick smudge blooming on his collar and the way his phone buzzed insistently in his hand before he finally let it slip from his grasp to the floor.
When his light snore confirmed he was out cold, I glanced at the phone lying there like an invitation. I didn’t move right away, though. I’d never been the “go through a man’s phone” type, but something in my gut whisperednow or never.
The lock screen glowed at me.
Four numbers. Easy, right? Wrong.
I went through hell trying to guess it— birthdays, addresses, jersey numbers. Each failed attempt made my chest tighter. I even tried his mama’s birthday, thinking he’d be that predictable.
Nope.
Finally, on my last attempt, I stared at him snoring, then at the whiskey glass he brought in as a souvenir. The light bulb went off. I typed in 2112—the number of his favorite whiskey brand—almost daring the screen to mock me one more time.
Click.
The screen opened.
I didn’t even know what I was looking for… until I found it.
A message thread at the top of the list. The contact was saved under a simple letter—T.
I clicked on it… and there they were—the late-night “wyd” texts, pictures of a baby, him talking about how he was gonna “be there more. He even slipped and revealed her name—Taryn.
Dummy!
I kept scrolling, my eyes catching on the dates.
“These aren’t old conversations; they’re from this past weekend,”I murmured.
My eyes were glued to one photo in particular—the baby.
God, that baby.
She had beautiful, bright brown eyes and cheeks that were radiant. There was no denying that she shared the same DNA as Viangelo. My chest clenched because, as much as the betrayal burned, I couldn’t stop staring. He made that beautiful life with someone else; someone who wasn’t me. And I sat there and listened to him practically dodge a conversation about starting a family like it was a death sentence.
