Page 1 of Before I Say I Don’t

Chapter One

KAMIRA SINCLAIR

T he courtroom was thick with anticipation, and the tension was palpable among the seated jurors and the spectators crowded in the gallery as I rose from my seat at the plaintiff’s table.

My palms were warm, but not sweaty. That was my space—the wood-paneled walls, the faint smell of polished oak, the low murmur of the spectators in the gallery. I knew that arena better than I knew my own living room.

The jury foreperson stood, his hand clasping a folded piece of paper that contained the answer to six months of my life—six months filled with detailed strategy sessions, long nights spent poring over deposition transcripts, and the relentless tension of cross-examinations.

The judge, a gray-haired woman with a face carved from stone, nodded toward the foreperson.

“Madam Foreperson, has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Please read it.”

As I prepared to hear that verdict, the weight of each decision, each moment of doubt, loomed large in my mind. No matter the outcome, I was aware that moment was the culmination of a battle fought not just in the courtroom, but within my own heart and mind.

I held my breath as the foreperson unfolded the paper.

“In the matter of Harrison vs. Golden State Freight,” she announced clearly, “we, the jury, find in favor of the plaintiff… awarding damages in the amount of four point seven million dollars.”

My shoulders dropped. The relief hit me first, then the satisfaction.

Four point seven million! Hell yeah! I almost screamed right there in the courtroom.

That kind of money didn’t just restore my client’s career; it rebuilt their life.

And for me? It meant another cool million in my account.

But more than the paycheck, I loved what I did for a living—fighting, winning, and knowing I’d tilted the scales of justice in my client’s favor.

That rush? I’d chase it every day if I could.

I could almost feel the weight of the oppressive burden lifting off my client’s shoulders, too, as I glanced at him. He sat motionless in his seat, his eyes wide, processing the victory that had eluded him for far too long.

On the opposite end, the defense attorney shifted uncomfortably, his expression growing increasingly tense as he realized the gravity of the verdict. I could sense his thoughts racing, already strategizing about his next move.

The judge thanked the jury and dismissed them.

My client, Mr. Harrison, turned to me with glassy eyes. “You saved me,” he whimpered.

I smiled. “No, we told the truth; they just listened.”

When the gavel banged for the final time, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding since that morning.

My colleague, Aaron, leaned toward me, grinning from ear to ear.

“That’s the win you needed, Kamira. Not many thought you’d pull it off, but damn—you did. Four-point-seven million? You just made history in there.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “History’s nice, but you and I both know I’m already eyeing the next one. I don’t slow down, Aaron. You should know that by now.”

Aaron smirked. “Still… take a second to let this one sink in and actually focus on your wedding. Stop living in this courthouse. You earned it.”

And I did.

I’d worked for every single piece of that life—the respect, the salary, the stability.

None of those things were handed to me, and nobody could say I didn’t earn any of it.

I was the youngest employee at the firm where I worked.

Not to mention, I had recently made partner.

At the age of thirty, I had a title people twice my age had been clawing after for years.

I specialized in corporate litigation and high-stakes contract disputes, which meant I lived in a world where sharks swam in suits and smiled while they waited for you to bleed.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine—my hard-earned domain in the relentless world of law.

The hours were brutal, often stretching late into the night, and coffee became my lifeline as I balanced case files and court dates.

The competition was cutthroat, filled with seasoned attorneys who would do anything to gain an edge, and I had amassed a list of enemies in the legal world long enough to fill a filing cabinet.

Some were colleagues I had outsmarted in court, while others were simply unable to accept that I, a thirty-year -old BLACK woman, had claimed a seat at a table they believed belonged to them.

But I loved the strategy, the mind games, and the rush of winning.

I’d worked my way up from unpaid internships to the courtroom, from being the quiet associate no one thought twice about to the attorney they dreaded seeing on the opposing side.

Each late night spent pouring over case law, every missed holiday with family, and every relationship that faded as I threw myself into my work, all contributed to the life I had carved out for myself.

As I gathered my files into my leather briefcase, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn’t even have to look at the screen to know who it was.

“Hey, sisssssss,” I greeted, as I stepped out into the hallway outside the courtroom.

"Okay. This sounds good. How did it go?” My sister Danica’s voice came through, tinged with a mix of curiosity and that unmistakable big-sister pride she wore like a badge.

“We won!” I squealed, the happiness spilling out in my words. “Four point seven million in damages!”

The victory felt even sweeter as I shared it with her.

I could almost hear her smile. “Yassssssss! You go, baby sister. You know Mom would be?—”

“So proud,” I cut in gently. “I know. I thought about her when they read the verdict.”

There was a beat of silence—not awkward, just heavy in the way only certain moments could be between us. Then Danica cleared her throat, sliding right back into her usual no-nonsense tone.

“Well, we will be celebrating this weekend! So pick a place! But victory or not, don’t forget we have your dress fitting today !”

I froze mid-step, my heels clicking against the marble.

“Dress fitting?” I asked, in an almost puzzled tone.

“Yes, Kaaaaaaam,” she replied, drawing out my name like she was scolding a child. “As in the one you’ve rescheduled twice already because of work! It’s at four and I’m not letting you push it again!”

Was I under a lot of pressure? Absolutely.

Between court cases, client meetings, and wedding planning, I’d been moving at a hundred miles an hour for months.

I closed my eyes and exhaled. “I completely forgot it was today… but I’ll be there.”

“You better!” she playfully warned. “You only have one month before you walk down that aisle, and if you think I’m letting you show up with a dress that doesn’t fit like it was poured onto you, you’ve lost your damn mind!

I’m not just your sister, Kam; I’m your wedding planner, your stylist, and the only person standing between you and a tragic bridal moment that will haunt you for the rest of your life! ”

I chuckled at how dramatic she was being.

But that was Danica in a nutshell—equal parts blunt and brilliant, with a side of crazy if someone got on her bad side.

She could turn a disaster into a masterpiece with nothing but her willpower, a hot glue gun, and a prayer, but she’d also curse a person out while doing it.

Danica was the kind of sister who’d fight my battles, drag my enemies, then fix my hair so I’d look good in court.

And as much as I’d never say it to her face without her making a big deal out of it, I trusted Danica more than anyone on this earth.

I loved her in that deep, unconditional way that came from surviving life’s storms together—even if she sometimes drove me crazy in the process.

“I’ll be there. I promise,” I assured her.

“Sounds good! I love you. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“I love you too.”

When the call ended, I slipped my phone back into my bag and leaned against one of the cold marble columns, letting the victory of the case settle in alongside the exhilarating reality of my upcoming wedding.

Four weeks…just four weeks until I became Mrs. Viangelo Grant.

The thought filled me with a rush of excitement, yet an undercurrent of anxiety swept through me at the same time.

Viangelo.

Just the mere act of saying his name in my mind brought an involuntary smile to my lips.

We had met when I was twenty-eight, at an elegant charity gala that Danica had practically dragged me to, insisting that I needed a night out.

He was standing at the bar in a perfectly tailored navy suit, talking with a group of men, but somehow still noticing me the second I walked in.

We talked for hours that night. Our conversation flowed so easily that I forgot about the glass of champagne in my hand until it went warm.

Viangelo had this confident, deliberate way of speaking, like every word was placed exactly where it was supposed to be.

By the end of the evening, I knew without a doubt that it wouldn't be our last encounter.

And it wasn’t.

I saw him again… and again, until “seeing him” turned into dating, and dating turned into love, and love turned into him slipping a diamond ring on my finger last Christmas Eve.

That past year and a half with him had been a blur of late-night dinners, weekend trips, and talks about building a future together.

I’d become so engrossed in advancing my career that I nearly overlooked the essential part of my life where I was supposed to be building a home.

In many ways, Viangelo felt like my anchor, a comforting presence that brought balance to my often chaotic life.

However, Danica wasn’t quite as convinced about our relationship’s stability. She wasn't 'sold' by his charm. Danica loved me—fiercely—but she’d always been protective, and her instincts sharpened after losing our mother.

Her words still echoed in my head sometimes.