Page 6 of Before I Say I Don't
“Shit, work was crazy for me today!” he shot back, running a hand over his fade. “Look… I messed up, baby; I know I did. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Viangelo leaned in, closing the gap between us, and pressed a kiss to my lips—quick, soft, the kind of peace offering he expected me to take without question and one that saidlet’s just move on, even if my mind was still parked on the fact that he wasn’t there when it mattered.
“So… what was the verdict?” he asked, tilting the bottle back and swallowing like he’d just crossed the Sahara.
If you already ate, why the hell are you so damn thirsty?The question pressed against my teeth, but I kept it there, tasting suspicion.
“It was a win,” I answered, my tone clipped. “Closed the case. The client’s payout hit seven figures, and the firm bonus wasn’t bad either.”
“Damn,” Viangelo grinned, stepping closer with that smooth charm he always pulled out when he wanted to soften me up. “Look at you—Miss Top-Paid Attorney herself. My baby’s well on her way to becoming a billionaire. Hell yeah!”
It should’ve felt like pride, but for the first time, I caught something different in his eyes—dollar signs.
And right on cue, Danica’s words of wisdom slid back into my mind.
“Kam, some men don’t love you more when you level up; they just love your bank account.”
I told myself I was imagining it… and like a fool, I let it slide.
I had recently crossed the threshold into millionaire status—a milestone that felt surreal. Again, I was the youngest in the firm, yet I was making more than anyone else on the payroll. But that was a story for another day.
“I’m going to bed. Goodnight,” I announced, brushing past him with an air of finality.
“Kam, come on—” His voice trailed after me, laced with genuine regret. “I said I was sorry, baby.”
I kept walking, determined not to slow down or give him the satisfaction of a response.
“Yeah… and I heard you,” I muttered coolly, my strides unwavering and my back still turned to him.
My feet kept moving… so did my decision not to let him see the frown trying to climb my face.
Chapter Two
KAMIRA
That following Monday, I was already buried in another case—not nearly as high-profile as the previous one I’d wrapped up, but still meaty enough to consume my entire morning. After hours spent sifting through motions and preparing cross-examination notes, my stomach started begging for something more than caffeine.
As I stepped into the courthouse cafeteria, I was instantly assaulted by a smell that felt as if it were baked into the very vents—an unholy blend of burnt coffee mingling with a tired pasta sauce that had likely seen better days. After the tension of that morning’s motion hearing, the thought of settling for the same uninspired options made my stomach churn in protest.
I needed air.
I wanted to try something different; something that came on real plates, cooked by someone who actually respected seasoning. And maybe, if I were lucky, I’d find a reason to breathe that wasn’t chained to a court deadline.
I walked two blocks down to a charming little corner bistro I’d been meaning to try—Rose & Gavel.The moment I entered, the inviting scent washed over me—an intoxicating blend of citrus and something rich and buttery, tantalizing my senses.
Inside, a symphony of sounds greeted me: the lunch rush hummed, laughter rose and fell around the clink of glassware, and the low thrum of conversation wove through the air like background music I didn’t want to turn off. It was an atmosphere alive with energy—baristas hissing steam over frothing milk, servers deftly balancing three bowls of steaming pasta in one hand, as if performing a well-rehearsed dance.
As I scanned the chalkboard menu, my eyes darted over enticing options—roasted chicken panini, fragrant tomato bisque, and a salad dazzling with figs that I always promised myself I would try. Just as I was contemplating my choice, the door swung open behind me and the atmosphere shifted. It wasn’t merely the sound that changed, but the very focus of the room. Half the women at the counter instinctively straightened their spines, a server smoothed the fabric of her apron—her movements suddenly more purposeful—and the hostess flashed a smile that was a full watt brighter than the one she’d given me moments before.
And then I heard his voice—a familiar tone that instantly commanded attention.
“Is the grilled salmon any good?”
I turned around.
It took a heartbeat for my brain to catch up with what my eyes already knew, because time did that cruel-soft thing it does when it unveils your past in a body you weren’t prepared to confront.
“Roman?” I exclaimed, the word escaping my lips as a half breath, half question, laced with surprise and disbelief.
