Page 31 of Before I Say I Don't
“So don’t stand there and act like I’m sitting on a money tree just because I win cases! That’s not cash in hand; it’s promises on paper. And even if it wasn’t? That’s not the point, Angelo.”
I jabbed my finger against his chest.
“You were supposed to handle this! You had six months! The biggest take from this is I’m yourfiancée! You couldn’t tell me if you came into a financial bind? You couldn’t say, “Baby, I’m tight right now, can you cover me?” We’re supposed to be a team! But instead, you kept me in the dark so I can look like a damn fool when the venue callsmechasingyou!”
My voice cracked, hot with anger. “Sono, it’s never about the money, Angelo! It’s your procrastination! It’s your failure to keep me in the loop! It’s me being blindsided in my own wedding planning like some side chick who doesn’t deserve the truth!”
I shook my head, heat burning in my chest. “A woman’s wedding day is supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life! It’s a day I’ve worked for, prayed for, and dreamed about since I was a little girl walking around in Mama’s heels! And instead of feeling joy, I’m sitting here angry, humiliated, and carrying everything on my back while you walk around like it’s nothing!”
The room went quiet, thick as smoke.
“You know what?” I whispered, my anger finally cracking into something colder. “Just forget it. It seems like that’s the one thing you’re good at.”
I pivoted and walked toward the bedroom, shutting the door behind me before the tears could spill. Once inside the bathroom, I turned the lock with a quiet yet resolute click, seeking refuge from the world outside. I leaned over the sink, gripping the counter until my knuckles turned white from the pressure. Looking in the mirror, I hardly recognized the reflection staring back at me. My eyes were puffy and red, while my makeup, once carefully applied, now smeared dramaticallyacross my cheeks like war paint from a battle. That face—marred and sorrowful—bore no resemblance to the image of a radiant bride prepared to walk down the aisle in just a few weeks.
Before I could overthink it, I grabbed my phone and typed:
Me: Hey… are you free to talk? I need a friend.
The typing bubbles popped up almost instantly.
Roman: For you… yes. What’s wrong?
I swallowed hard. My thumbs hovered before I wrote back:
Me: I just need to get out of here tonight. I can’t be in this house… with him.
There was a pause, then his reply:
Roman: I’ll book you a room somewhere… somewhere quiet.
That simple offer had my chest fluttering in a way I didn’t want to analyze. Viangelo couldn’t even remember to pay for our wedding venue, but here was this man, no hesitation or excuses, just action.
Me: Roman, you don’t have to.
Roman: I want to. I got you.
A few minutes later, he sent me a hotel confirmation with my name on it, along with the address.
Roman: Text me when you’re settled. I’ll come to you.
I looked at myself again in the mirror. My soft lounge pants and faded tee didn’t fit the mission. I peeled them off and swapped them for a pair of fitted jeans and a black top. That night, I needed armor, not comfort.
When I made it downstairs, Viangelo was still in the kitchen, seemingly absorbed in his phone screen, carelessly scrolling through social media as if we hadn’t just exchanged heated words about the most important day of our lives.
“I’m going to Danica’s for the night,” I lied flatly.
He looked up. “For what?”
“Space.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Maybe. But I need it,” I said, grabbing my purse and keys before he could say anything else.
“Kam—”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I finalized, already at the door.
