Page 15 of Before I Say I Don’t
Chapter Six
KAMIRA
W hen I finally stirred awake, a gentle stream of sunlight was filtering through the hotel curtains, casting a soft glow that danced across the room. Roman remained beside me, his muscular arm draped protectively over my shoulders, his breath deep and even, creating an atmosphere of peace.
I shifted slightly, and his eyes opened, still heavy with sleep.
“Morning,” he murmured.
“Good morning.” I sat up, brushing my hair out of my face. “Thanks for last night… for staying.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, stretching before sitting up. “But I’ll take it anyway.”
There was a small smile there—not cocky, just warm.
We moved around the room quietly, him grabbing his jacket while I slipped on my shoes. When we reached the door, Roman turned to face me.
“I guess this is goodbye,” I said.
“For now,” he corrected, his tone firm. “Don’t be a stranger, Kam. If you need me—for anything—you text or call. No overthinking it, no wondering if you’re bothering me. I’m here.”
I swallowed, feeling that same strange mix of comfort and guilt. “Okay.”
Roman leaned down and kissed my cheek, the scruff on his jaw brushing my skin.
“And remember… I meant what I said. You deserve better than you’re getting.”
Before I could reply, he opened the door and walked out, his cologne lingering long after the click of the latch.
I walked over and powered my phone back on. The screen lit up with a long, rambling, worthless “I’m sorry” text from Viangelo. Normally, I would’ve sighed, softened, and typed back It’s okay, baby.
Not that day.
Instead, I tapped out two words— Good morning —and closed the screen like I was shutting a door.
Instead of putting on my suit and heading to court, I emailed in another personal day—not because I was sick, I lost a case and needed a day to lick my wounds, or burnout finally pinned me to the mattress.
But because once again, I had to play accountant, crisis manager, and fiancée-in-denial all at once…
handling a bill that wasn’t even mine to handle.
I pulled on a lounge set—comfortable enough for home, polished enough for running errands.
The peace I’d woken up with started to unravel. By the time I pulled into the venue’s parking lot, my mood was somewhere between “keep it professional” and “curse everyone out in sight.”
The building stood like a glass castle, sunlight catching on its polished edges—exactly the kind of place I’d dreamed of saying I do in .
Once inside, my eyes quickly found Mariah, stationed behind the front desk and animatedly conversing with the receptionist. When she finally looked up and noticed me, her initial polite smile transformed into a warm and genuine beam of joy.
“Kamira! Hey, girl!” she exclaimed, her voice ringing out like a friendly melody as she pushed herself away from her desk. “Follow me to my office!”
I managed to return her smile as I trailed her down the corridor, taking in the elegantly decorated hallways adorned with soft, neutral colors that made the space feel inviting yet sophisticated.
Her office was a cozy reflection of her personality—picture frames of her family on the bookshelf, a neatly stacked pile of contracts on the desk, hinting at the whirlwind of weddings she was juggling.
Mariah motioned me into a chair.
“Whew,” she sighed, sinking into her chair with an expression of exhaustion mixed with humor. “It’s been absolutely chaos around here! With spring weddings in full swing and these fall brides acting like Beyoncé’s about to perform at the reception… I barely have a moment to catch my breath!”
I chuckled softly. “Tell me about it. Court has been a relentless string of back-to-back trials. And on top of that? Planning my wedding feels like adding yet another full-time job!”
“Girl, trust me, I completely understand.” Mariah shot me a knowing look that communicated an unspoken bond of solidarity before pulling her keyboard closer, ready to dive into the details of my wedding plans. “Okay, let me pull up your file.”
I smoothed my shirt and crossed my legs. My purse sat on my lap like it knew why we were there.
“Alright,” she said after a few clicks. “As I mentioned during our phone call yesterday, your outstanding balance stands at twenty thousand dollars. That payment must be made today in order to keep your reservation secured.”
I didn’t flinch. I dug into my purse and retrieved the thick envelope containing the money I’d grabbed from my safe that morning, then slid it across the desk.
Mariah’s brows lifted. “Cash?”
“Cash,” I confirmed coolly, feeling a mix of pride and irritation. “I keep an emergency fund. However, I didn’t think my wedding venue would be the thing I needed to dip into it for.”
She nodded sympathetically, then started counting, bills whispering in her hands. I tapped my nail repeatedly against my purse, a small gesture of my rising annoyance.
Twenty thousand dollars.
My mind raced with all the wild and extravagant possibilities that money could have afforded me—an impromptu getaway to the lush beaches of Bali, a stunning Chanel handbag in a color only connoisseurs could pronounce, or even a down payment on a luxury car that turned heads.
But instead, all of it was being put toward that—cleaning up a mess for a man who claimed he had everything under control.
When Mariah finally finished counting, a smile spread across her face. “Congratulations, you’re officially all set! This clears the balance! I’ll print out your receipt for both our records and yours, and I’ll send you an email confirmation as well."
I picked up the pen she slid across and signed the receipt with the same hand I wanted to wrap around Viangelo’s throat.
Mariah tore off my copy, sliding it into a neat folder before passing it to me. “Thank you for choosing Landry Hall,” she exclaimed, her tone genuinely warm. “We look forward to your big day.”
I offered a terse nod, carefully tucking the paper into my bag as I stood up to leave. “So am I,” I lied.
Just as I approached the door, Mariah’s voice called me back.
“Kamira?”
I turned around, catching her inquisitive gaze.
Mariah leaned forward slightly, the professional facade fading to reveal something softer and more personal.
“I see a lot of brides come through this office,” she shared, her voice now tinged with understanding.
“Most of them come in excited; some are clearly nervous. But every once in a while I see a bride who has the dress, the ring, the flowers, yet when she speaks about the wedding, there’s this tightness…
like the whole thing is being carried on their back and not shared.
I can tell you from experience, the happiest unions begin with both partners fully present, not just standing at the altar but showing up for each other beforehand.
Because if you’re carrying it alone now, chances are you’ll be carrying it alone later, too. ”
You would say that after you took the money, huh? I thought, though the bite in my mind softened as her words settled around me like pebbles dropped quietly into still water.
She smiled, genuinely kind and careful, as if wanting to protect me from the weight I carried.
“You deserve to feel celebrated, Kamira—not stressed. Please don’t forget that.”
For a second, I was at a loss for words, my throat constricting as emotions welled within me. Finally, I nodded, pressing my lips tightly together to hold back the swell of feelings.
“Thank you, Mariah,” I managed to say, a touch frailer than I had intended.
When I left her office, her words felt heavier in my bag than the twenty thousand I’d just left behind.
By the time I walked out of Landry Hall with the receipt in my bag, the knot in my chest had loosened. Not because I was happy—hell no—but because it was done.
The date was safe. The venue was secured. And once again, I had saved the day.
When I got back in the car, I texted him a screenshot of the “paid in full” balance.
Then, just because my pettiness was louder than my restraint, I almost followed it with:
Invoice: Covering your ass—again. Amount due: one grown man who actually does what he says he’ll do.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: I could cross-examine a hostile witness in a courtroom, command a jury’s attention, and argue circles around seasoned attorneys—but in my own house, I was babysitting a grown man who thought “responsibility” was a group project.
And the part that really made me laugh—bitter, not funny—was that my actual day job came with less paperwork and fewer excuses than that relationship.