Page 25 of Before I Say I Don’t

Chapter Fourteen

KAMIRA

I didn’t know what I expected when the elevator doors opened, but it wasn’t that .

And I’m not just referring to the penthouse décor; I’m talking about Roman.

He stood there, wearing a fitted dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms sculpted like a masterful piece of art, as if he knew exactly how they affected my self-control.

His deep-set eyes held a magnetic pull that made me feel both vulnerable and daring.

They made me want to tell the truth—only to lie again just to hear him press for more.

“Hello, beautiful,” he greeted, voice smooth enough to trip my lewd thoughts.

“Hi, handsome.” I smiled bashfully. “I feel a little overdressed,” I sheepishly admitted, tugging at the hem of my dress.

“It’s cool. I can make you more comfortable,” he winked, stepping aside with an effortless grace that invited me in. “Come in.”

Inside, though, the penthouse spoke for itself.

The first thing that hit me was the smell—roasted garlic and rosemary drifting through the air, buttery warmth that wrapped around me.

The space was wide and open, floor-to-ceiling windows catching the whole city in glass.

Everything inside looked deliberate, polished, and expensive without being loud.

Just walking in made me stand a little taller, as if I were part of something prestigious.

“You sure you didn’t move back for good?” I teased, glancing around.

He flashed that slow, devastatingly charming smile that made my heart race. “Nah. I’m just renting for the month. The place came furnished. I just edited it to suit my taste.”

“Edited?” I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s a new spin on it. Seriously, this looks like a movie set.”

“Then come and take a seat like the star you are,” he murmured, seamlessly taking my bag with one hand while gently clasping my hand in the other.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I replied, feeling a thrill at the promise of what this evening might hold.

The table was a masterpiece, elegantly adorned and completely breathtaking.

“Wow. It’s beautiful,” I breathed, taking in the details.

“You ain’t seen the best part,” he said, pulling out my chair with that calm, controlled grace.

That’s when my gaze landed on it—nestled off to the side, a delicate white cake stood proudly. It was rimmed in gold. The script written across the top read: Congratulations, Kamira.

The sting behind my eyes was instant. “Roman…”

Roman froze like he’d misplayed the whole room. “What did I mess up?”

I chuckled softly, swiping a tear away with my thumb.

“They’re happy tears. You did everything just right. The cake…”

Relief uncoiled through him, warm and quiet.

“Some wins deserve cake… especially yours.” Roman’s voice brushed over me from behind, low and certain. “Sorry it’s two weeks later. I would’ve celebrated with you the night of, but…”

“I understand. Thank you,” I expressed, meaning more than I said.

I slid into my seat, eyes widening at the plate in front of me.

The lamb chops were seared to a golden perfection, their edges crisped just right. The fluffy mashed potatoes were whipped into a cloud-like silk, and bright green asparagus stood like proud exclamation points, adding a pop of color to the elegant arrangement.

"This looks so yummy," I gushed, practically salivating at the sight.

Roman’s lips curled into a playful smirk as he sank into the chair opposite me.

“’Preciate it.”

“You actually cooked all of this?” I asked, arching an eyebrow, genuinely impressed.

“Hell yeah,” he said, his grin broadening. “You can call me Chef Hill Ramsey . Don’t let the lawyer title fool you, girl.”

I burst into laughter, elongating the word with amusement. “Okaaaaaay.”

We bowed our heads for a moment of gratitude, whispering a quiet prayer before I took my first bite.

Cutting into the tender chop was like slicing through a perfectly executed apology.

It was so exquisitely flavored that it almost felt like a heartfelt conversation.

The mashed potatoes melted in my mouth, buttery and rich, while the asparagus snapped cleanly with each bite, as if it had something to prove.

“And you still want me to believe you’re single?” I teased.

That grin again. “I was engaged before,” he confessed, his tone steady and unruffled. “Two years ago.”

My fork hovered in midair, surprise washing over me.

“Engaged?”

He nodded slowly, taking a deliberate sip of deep red wine before placing the glass back on the table with measured care.

"Her name was Jessica. She craved the glitz and glamour—the events, fancy brunches, the perfect photos, a ticket to a lifestyle and the unending media attention… but not me. I wanted a genuine connection… a real partner. Eventually, we realized we were living in two different worlds, so… we parted ways,” he simply explained, shrugging as if the whole chapter was just a minor plot twist in his life.

Something in me softened. “I’m starting to see the same thing about my fiancé,” I vented, the words tumbling out before I had a chance to veil them in politeness. “He loves the ‘look’ of us—the picturesque couple everyone admires—than with the actual effort it takes to sustain our relationship.”

Roman’s deep gaze locked onto mine, a mix of sympathy, understanding, and a bit of rage flickering in his eyes. “I was hoping you’d never have to say that out loud.”

“Never thought I’d find myself saying it,” I muttered, my frustration spilling over as I rolled my eyes at the mere thought of Viangelo.

I took a long sip of the rich, cabernet wine, letting its velvety texture ease my nerves.

“Speaking of, what did he have to talk to you about today?”

Roman leaned forward, his forearms pressing against the polished surface of the table.

“Kamira,” he started, his voice low and earnest, “there's something I’ve gotta tell you. I’ve been wrestling with my thoughts about it all day.”

Every nerve in my body snapped to attention, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling within me.

“Alright… I'm listening.”

His gaze bore into mine.

“I want to clarify that I’m not coming from a place of jealousy or ulterior motive.” His voice stayed level, but I could hear the caution in it. “But there’s no way I can watch you walk to an altar with a bag of lies on your back.”

“Roman…” I managed to say, my heart racing as I processed the gravity of his statement.

“Angelo has a two-month-old child,” he divulged cautiously.

The breath left me like I’d been hit in the sternum.

I fixed my gaze on him, then shifted it away to the sprawling cityscape outside the window, and finally to the barely touched meal on my plate—anywhere but at the harsh reality sitting between us.

“W-What do you mean by that?” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.

Roman leaned in slightly; a somber expression etched on his face. “There’s more,” he confessed, “There have been other women.”

My lips parted in shock, then snapped shut as the weight of his words sank in.

“H-He actually admitted that to you?” I managed to ask, disbelief flooding my mind.

“Yeah.”

He hesitated, then set his phone by my plate, face down. “I need your permission for this next part.”

“Permission for what?” I asked in confusion.

Roman took a deep breath, the corners of his mouth tightening slightly as he spoke.

“I recorded our conversation,” he admitted, his tone calm yet transparent.

“It’s off the record and compliant with one-party consent laws.

He doesn’t know. I didn’t do it to be messy; I did it so you’d never have to wonder if I made this up to get close to you.

You can walk out of here tonight and never call me again, and you’ll still have his words captured as proof. ”

My heart hammered so loud I could hear it. “Play it.”

“Kam—”

“Play it,” I insisted, my voice strained and tense as I clenched my teeth.

Roman turned the phone over, tapped it, and turned the volume just high enough. Viangelo’s voice filled Roman’s perfect kitchen, sounding small and real in a way texts never do.

“ I haven’t been completely faithful in my relationship with Kam.”

“How unfaithful are we talkin’?”

“A couple of side bitches. But… I fucked around and got one of ’em pregnant. I have a two month old daughter,” he confessed.

Roman paused the clip, his thumb poised over the play button. I gripped the napkin so tightly that it almost felt like it was struggling for its own survival.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

My heart raced as I looked at him, and a single nod was all I could muster, tears welling in my eyes, threatening to break free at any moment.

He pressed play, but fast-forwarded a bit.

“You love her, but you got a whole kid she don’t know about. That ain’t love, Angelo. That’s lying with better clothes on.”

“That was a one-night thing. I didn’t even know she was pregnant ‘til she hit me after the baby was born. We did the test. She’s mine. I send money, but I don’t know how to tell Kamira without it blowing everything up.”

“Stop! I heard enough!”

Roman stopped it. The quiet afterward roared.

“How—” I started, then couldn’t. My whole body shook, rage and relief fighting for space. “How could he do this to me?” The words tore out of me, raw and ugly. “I gave him everything! I paid for everything! I believed. I—I?—”

My throat gave up, and the tears came hard and shameless.

Roman was around the table before the chair could scrape, arms open. “Come here.”

He wrapped me up like a promise. My face found that space between his collarbone and shoulder that felt pre-reserved. He didn’t talk at first; just breathed with me until my breathing remembered it’s rhythm again.

Then, low into my hair, he said, “Listen to me. You’re too strong to let a man’s half-ass effort make you feel small.

You’re Kamira Sinclair—men fold in courtrooms you walk into.

Don’t you dare fold in your own life. You hear me?

You deserve more than excuses and crumbs.

You deserve presence, not apologies. And if he can’t give you that, don’t flinch at the exit sign. Walk through it.”

I laughed through snot—a ridiculous, broken giggle. “You’re gonna make an excellent therapist when you get tired of law.”

“I’m hell on billable hours,” he joked, and I could feel the smile against my forehead. “But I know a good woman when I’m holding one.”

I pulled back, eyes burning, lashes wet.

Roman was close—too close—and he looked like the answer to a question my body had been asking for weeks.

The shirt hugged a chest that should’ve come with a warning label.

His mouth—God. My brain offered up a highlight reel of things that mouth could do, and I closed my eyes to stop myself from narrating.

“Roman…” I whispered.

“Yeah?”

“You… have a little sauce on the side of your mouth.” I chuckled, though what I wanted to say was, you’re so damn fine.

“Get it off for me,” he instructed, tone low, unbothered, like he knew exactly what he was asking for.

I blinked at him, caught off guard, but his eyes didn’t waver—he meant it.

Slowly, I reached for a napkin, then changed my mind. My thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. Roman’s skin was warm under my touch, his breath catching just enough to make my own stumble.

I should’ve pulled back after that—wiped, teased him about being messy and laughed it off. But I didn’t. My hand lingered, thumb dragging against the curve of his bottom lip.

“It’s been weeks since Angelo touched me, and I—” my words trailed off, heat crawling up my neck.

His eyes darkened, the control in them turning to something heavier. “Careful.”

“Why?” I asked, voice small and not small at the same time.

“Because if you say you want comfort, I’m a gentleman. But if you say you want honesty…” He let it hang.

“I want both,” I said, surprising myself.

“Then hear me. Kamira , y ou are the kind of woman men should plan better for. The kind they don’t deserve to practice on. If you walk away from him, it won’t be because you ran to me; it’ll be because you finally ran back to yourself.”

My mouth trembled. “And if I run… and end up back here?”

“I’ll open the door.”

I touched his wrist to say thank you and immediately regretted it, because that tiny skin-on-skin sound made my body file a formal request.

“Roman,” I murmured.

“Kamira,” he said my name like a prayer.

He moved slow—slow enough for me to stop it.

I didn’t. His hand came to my jaw, thumb warm, and he kissed me like he didn’t want to scare the truth away.

Soft at first—testing, tasting. Then deeper, when I rose to meet him…

when the sound I made got lost in his mouth.

He tasted like wine and something I hadn’t felt in too long: safety with a pulse.

When we finally came up for air, foreheads touching, I was smiling and crying again like a fool.

“Happy tears again?” he kidded.

“Messy tears,” I corrected, laughing against his mouth. “But yeah. Happy, low-key. Thank you for believing in me, proving it, the cake, the lamb chops, and for… this.”

Roman kissed the tip of my nose. “You deserve soft after months of hard.”

“Tell that to my mascara,” I sniffed.

He reached for a tissue and handed it over. “Eat your potatoes before they judge us.”

We sat again, like we hadn’t just changed something fundamental. I took a bite because the mashed potatoes looked offended, and he watched me like feeding me was a hobby.

“I don’t know what tomorrow looks like, but I know I’m not walking blind anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” he said.

I looked at the cake, the skyline, and the man who’d set a table and a boundary and asked nothing from me I wasn’t ready to give. The ring on my finger felt more like a question than an answer.

“Can we… kiss once more?” I asked, cheeks heating, surprising myself with my own voice.

Roman stood without a word or hesitation, came to me, and kissed me like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to prove.