Page 3 of Before I Say I Don’t
I had gone all out for dinner—juicy, pan-seared ribeye steaks cooked to perfection, loaded baked potatoes piled high with cheddar, bacon, sour cream, and chives, and a side of creamy cheese broccoli.
I cooked those kinds of meals when I wanted the room to smell like effort, luxury, and love all at once.
I even broke out the good wine glasses Danica gifted me last Christmas.
It wasn’t just dinner; it was my way of celebrating my win in court—a little victory feast for two when one of us achieved something big.
I’d even picked up a small Walmart cake on the way home—per Danica’s suggestion. It had white frosting and black flowers with Congratulations Kamira written in cheap cursive icing. It wasn’t fancy, but it made me smile when I saw it in the display case.
Viangelo said he’d be home by six. Despite never telling him what I had planned, six o’clock came and went.
By 6:45, I was halfway through a glass of wine; the deep crimson liquid swirled as I tried to convince myself that traffic could’ve been his reason for being late.
By 8:30, I hadn’t received a single call or text…
just silence. The carefully prepared dinner had cooled in the fridge, and the cake sat lonely on the counter, still encased in its plastic dome, as if waiting for a celebration that would never come.
Sitting on the couch, I stared at the ticking of the clock, each second gnawing at my insides.
It takes a lot for me to cry, but there’s something about waiting on someone who said they’d be there… something about feeling like your presence isn’t enough to be urgent… that wears you down.
When the clock struck nine o'clock, I reached my breaking point.
I marched to the kitchen, grabbed a plate, and sliced into the cake. Then I returned to my spot on the sofa, feeling an odd mixture of defiance and self-pity.
I lifted my fork and whispered softly, “Congratulations, Kamira,” as I clinked my wine glass against the edge of the plate.
It wasn’t the celebration I had envisioned for such a momentous occasion, but it was the one I found myself having.
Truth be told, Viangelo had been “working late” more often lately—a euphemism that had begun to grate on my nerves.
He claimed it was all for the sake of bringing in extra funds for our wedding—the one that was, in all honesty, primarily funded by me.
I’d never thrown it in his face or anybody’s; that wasn’t my style.
However, Viangelo was running around, having everyone believing he was the one carrying the financial burden, being the big provider, acting like the generous fiancé—the picture of a devoted partner.
The lies!
When it came to the wedding, Viangelo's contributions were limited to paying for the venue, while I bore the weight of everything else—my wedding dress, the flowers, the photographer, catering, DJ, and even compensating my sister for her efforts. All of it came out of my pocket, the result of countless late nights and billable hours at work. I told myself it didn’t matter because we were a team…
and teams show up for each other. But I was starting to have the kind of doubts I couldn’t shake off with a pep talk—the kind that creep in when I was signing checks alone, when my email inbox looked like a battlefield, and the man who was supposed to be my partner was nowhere in sight.
I kept telling myself, this is temporary, he’ll show up when it counts.
But deep down? I already knew I was carrying the wedding—and maybe the whole relationship—on my back.
Thirty minutes later, I'd showered and dressed in an oversized t-shirt. I sat on the sofa and flipped through the options on the TV, searching for a good movie to ease the tension of the evening. Just then, the front door finally creaked open.
Fine as sin in a black button-down, sharp fade, and lips that knew how to lie like a preacher on Sunday, my fiancé walked in smelling like Creed cologne and excuses.
“Hey, baby.”
Viangelo kissed me on the cheek—not the lips—and dropped his keys in the bowl on the table like a man who lived in a hotel, not a home.
“Working late again, huh?” I asked, brows knitted.
“Hell yeah,” he replied, removing his jacket. “I had a client call come in last minute. Numbers weren’t adding up, and the whole damn team had to stay behind and fix it before morning. You know how it is—if I don’t keep these accounts tight, somebody else will snatch ‘em up.”
Viangelo was a financial consultant for high-profile clients—athletes, entertainers, rich folks with more money than sense, all of whom contributed to his impressive annual income of approximately $175,ooo.
His work often demanded late nights at the office, especially during the chaotic peaks of tax season or when handling significant portfolio overhauls.
Still, it wasn’t as though he was burning the midnight oil every single night, despite his recent claims that suggested otherwise.
My job required more unpredictable hours than his, but somehow, I still managed to be home, in the moment, and present for the people I loved… especially when it mattered most.
As I observed him with a hint of skepticism, I replied, “Mm-hmm. A call… or even a simple text would’ve sufficed, Angelo,” before rising from my seat to follow him into the spacious kitchen.
“We were hella busy tonight, baby,” was his excuse.
I arched a brow.
Oh, so your phone didn’t die this time?
That was Viangelo’s go-to lie whenever he wanted to duck accountability. It was like he swore the battery jumped out and ran away. I guess he had to pull something new out of the excuse drawer that night.
Viangelo swung open the fridge door and then reached for a bottle of water.
His eyes briefly scanned the interior until they landed on the glass containers neatly stacked on the second shelf, each holding leftovers from my recent culinary endeavor —still perfectly plated like they were waiting for a magazine shoot.
"You cooked?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“I did,” I replied, giving my neck a slight roll for emphasis.
“I bet that shit was good.”
“I wouldn’t know. I was waiting on you to find out,” I shot back in the same sassy tone.
“Damn, I wish I would’ve knew; I already ate. I hate you went through all that trouble. But I’ma fuck that shit up tomorrow.”
It won’t be the fuckin’ same, I wanted to say, but I swallowed the words.
Viangelo finally noticed the cake sitting on the counter.
“Oh, damn, baby,” he said, realization dawning. “I… I forgot about your big day.”
“Yeah… you seem to be very forgetful these days.” My voice climbed a notch. “But how, Angelo?! I’ve been talking about this case for the last six months straight!”
“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 said let’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.