Page 31 of Before I Say I Don’t

“Let’s just get this shit out of the way,” he said finally, forcing casual back into his voice. “Pick what you wanna pick.”

“Thank you,” I voiced sweetly, and turned back to the chef like I hadn’t just gutted him in front of his mama. “Entrees, please?”

She inclined her head toward the servers as they gracefully approached, presenting tasting plates that resembled tiny culinary masterpieces.

Each dish was a feast for the senses: braised short rib with a buttery parmesan polenta, drizzled with a rich red wine reduction that glistened like liquid velvet; herb-crusted salmon, accompanied by a luxurious dill beurre Blanc, tender fingerlings and a charred lemon, that exuded smoky citrus aroma; lemon-garlic roasted chicken, glistening with pan jus and embellished with fragrant sprigs of rosemary; and a tantalizing wild mushroom risotto, finished off with an earthy drizzle of truffle oil, thoughtfully crafted for the vegans at the table, who would’ve undoubtedly judged us the hardest.

As I cut into the short rib, the meat yielded effortlessly to my knife.

“Yes,” I approved, before it even hit my tongue. When I finally tasted it, I closed my eyes in pure bliss. “Double yes.”

Danica interjected, analyzing the polenta with a discerning expression.

"This needs just a whisper more of salt,” she mentioned, her tone affectionate yet critical. "I do appreciate you for not drowning it, though.”

Diane, ever the critic, frowned at the salmon’s skin. “It’s not crispy enough,” she grumbled, prodding at it with her fork in disdain.

“It’s not intended to be crispy when prepared in a hotel pan,” the chef explained, kind but firm. “We keep it silken to prevent it from overcooking for over 150 guests.”

“I personally enjoy it,” I chimed in, sampling the fish again. “However, the dill is rather overpowering... perhaps we could temper it by five percent.”

“That chicken tastes like it came from a cafeteria,” Danica said.

“It’s meant to be simple and classic,” Diane shot back defensively.

“Bland is more like it,” Danica countered with a smirk.

Viangelo perked up, like he’d found a place to contribute. “Chicken’s safe. Everybody eats chicken.”

“We aren’t doing safe ,” I said, still looking at my plate. “We’re doing good. Our goal is to deliver a memorable experience. The short rib and salmon will shine as a duo, while the chicken should only be offered as a third option, specifically requested in RSVPs.”

Diane clicked her tongue in disapproval. “People enjoy having choices.”

“They’ll have choices,” Danica replied wittily. “Choices like which fork to use with their joy.”

As the side dishes made their entrance, I felt a sense of satisfaction because that meant we were nearing the end.

“Mashed potatoes are non-negotiable,” I stated decisively. “Green beans, yes. Carrots, yes. Salad, absolutely yes.”

“We can’t do both green beans and carrots,” Diane said. “Too many orange and green things.”

“Is that… a problem?” Danica inquired with a perfectly straight face.

“It’s a dish, not a stoplight,” I said, trying to diffuse the tension and inject a sense of levity into the discussion. “We’re good.”

Under the table, Viangelo discreetly rechecked his phone again, ensuring the screen was hidden from view.

Diane caught the movement; she palmed her pearls, a gesture of both anxiety and poise.

Danica, ever observant, mentally noted the distraction without comment.

I noticed but smiled at the chef and asked about portion sizes.

When the dessert sampler arrived, it was a visual delight: elegant lemon tarts adorned with perfectly bruléed tops, rich chocolate mousse cups topped with a delicate shard of dark chocolate, velvety vanilla panna cotta garnished with a vibrant mix of macerated berries, and hand-rolled chocolate truffles dusted with cocoa like tiny jewels on the plate.

“These are perfect,” I exclaimed. “Let’s consider adding mini peach cobbler shooters—just a little tribute to family traditions.”

Diane’s eyes brightened. “Yes—peach cobbler! I can jar preserves as favors?—”

“No jars,” Danica stated before Diane could reach into the tote. “We’ll set up a recipe card station for the late-night snack area. Same love, less stickiness.”

Diane pursed her lips, a hint of discontent dancing in her eyes.

“Hmph,” she replied, clearly disappointed.

Viangelo shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt as if it were suddenly too tight.

“Are we almost done here?” he muttered, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice as his eyes darted around the crowded room.

“What’s the hurry when you’re the one who showed up late?” Danica said, clearly eavesdropping.

Danica’s patience with him, his mother, and the whole damn wedding was clearly hanging by a thread.

I felt the same—every smile I forced, every polite nod, was stretched so thin it could snap at any second.

The only difference was, she didn’t care who saw her irritation, while I was still busy disguising mine under lip gloss and small talk.

Diane's head popped up like a startled bird—nostrils flared and expression fierce as she locked eyes with Danica.

“Don’t you dare speak to my son that way! He’s doing the best he can!” she exclaimed, voice rising defensively.

Danica turned her head slowly, a thin, almost predatory smile curling her lips.

“If this is truly his best effort, I’d hate to see his average,” she retorted.

“Aye, check yo’ sister. ‘Cause last I checked, this is our wedding," Viangelo called himself, reminding me and others.

“And last I checked—” Danica leaned in, eyes glittering, ready to set the whole room on fire.

Recognizing the escalating tension, I held my hand up to intervene because I knew Danica could and probably would run out.

“Enough!” I shouted.

The whole table froze.

Mariah’s eyes widened like she was debating if she should fake a bathroom break.

The chef, halfway through setting down the next plate, paused with tongs midair, pretending she suddenly found the ceiling tiles fascinating.

Even the servers went still—eyes shifting like kids who just saw their parents arguing and telling secrets at Thanksgiving dinner.

“I guess you’re about to defend her again ?” Viangelo sneered at me.

I turned my gaze on him, low but lethal. “My sister is protecting me; your mother is protecting optics. If you can’t tell the difference, that’s your problem.”

He gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Optics? You the queen of optics, Kam. You’re a lawyer, head table, ghost chairs?—”

“I’m the queen of execution. I pay for things. I make them happen. I show up on time. You… just show up.”

The vein in his temple jumped. Viangelo opened his mouth—something ugly loading on his tongue—but his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, then at me. Something flickered in his eyes.

“I’m stepping outside to take this,” he announced, already backing up.

“Tell your work I said hi.”

We moved on to the cake samples—red velvet with cream cheese frosting, lemon with raspberry filling, and a triple chocolate ganache that could have made a nun cuss.

Everyone disagreed again. Diane liked lemon, Danica liked chocolate, and Viangelo just said, “Red velvet’s fine,” like he didn’t care.

The ‘big’ cake tasting had been done months ago; that cake was locked. Everything else was theater.

By the time we finished walking the venue space—picturing where flowers would go, deciding if the dance floor should be closer to the bar or the stage—I was over it.

My feet hurt, my patience was gone, and the only thing that kept me from snapping was the thought of how it would all play out on the wedding day.

On the way out, I felt… accomplished. Merely one week from now, that venue would be full of flowers, music, and people who thought they knew the story. The food would be perfect. The lighting would be warm, and the head table would seat the ones who loved me most.

And when it was time, I’d stand up in the same amber light and do what I do best.

Tell the truth so clean it cuts.

After leaving the venue, I was drained. I swung by a restaurant, grabbed something quick to eat, then headed home and crashed. It was after midnight when I woke to the shrill punch of the alarm. My body reacted before my brain did. I snatched my gun from the nightstand and hurried downstairs.

Halfway down the steps, I froze.

It was Viangelo.

I hadn’t even realized he never came home or noticed his side of the bed was cold. That’s how long I’d slept and how little I cared those days.

I lowered the gun but kept my eyes on him.

Viangelo stumbled inside, reeking of liquor, women’s perfume, and his skin shining with the kind of sweat that belonged to someone who’d been everywhere except where they should’ve been.

His shirt was halfway unbuttoned, exposing a patch of skin, and his tie hung loose around his neck like it had given up trying to keep him presentable.

I followed him into the living room.

He barely looked at me, mumbling something about “fellas night” before dropping himself onto the couch with his shoes still on and eyes half-shut.

I sat on the sofa mentally recording every detail: the slur in his words, the faint lipstick smudge blooming on his collar and the way his phone buzzed insistently in his hand before he finally let it slip from his grasp to the floor.

When his light snore confirmed he was out cold, I glanced at the phone lying there like an invitation. I didn’t move right away, though. I’d never been the “go through a man’s phone” type, but something in my gut whispered now or never.

The lock screen glowed at me.

Four numbers. Easy, right? Wrong.

I went through hell trying to guess it— birthdays, addresses, jersey numbers. Each failed attempt made my chest tighter. I even tried his mama’s birthday, thinking he’d be that predictable.

Nop e .

Finally, on my last attempt, I stared at him snoring, then at the whiskey glass he brought in as a souvenir. The light bulb went off. I typed in 2112—the number of his favorite whiskey brand—almost daring the screen to mock me one more time.

Click.

The screen opened.

I didn’t even know what I was looking for… until I found it.

A message thread at the top of the list. The contact was saved under a simple letter—T.

I clicked on it… and there they were—the late-night “wyd” texts, pictures of a baby, him talking about how he was gonna “be there more. He even slipped and revealed her name—Taryn.

Dummy!

I kept scrolling, my eyes catching on the dates.

“These aren’t old conversations; they’re from this past weekend ,” I murmured.

My eyes were glued to one photo in particular—the baby.

God, that baby.

She had beautiful, bright brown eyes and cheeks that were radiant.

There was no denying that she shared the same DNA as Viangelo.

My chest clenched because, as much as the betrayal burned, I couldn’t stop staring.

He made that beautiful life with someone else; someone who wasn’t me.

And I sat there and listened to him practically dodge a conversation about starting a family like it was a death sentence.

My throat tightened, but I forced the tears back.

I backed out of the messages and opened Facebook. It took less than five minutes of searching his “likes” and mutuals before I found her. Thankfully, her profile was public.

And the first thing I noticed? She was tagged in a lot of pictures with Kendall.

My jaw clenched when I found out about their relationship.

The Taryn chick wasn’t just some random woman; she was Kendall’s best friend.

I sat back against the couch, phone still in my hand, staring at the screen while my mind did cartwheels. The urge to walk over, slap the hell out of him, and start throwing his clothes in trash bags was strong… but louder was the voice in my head saying:

Keep your cool. Play your part. Smile like the perfect fiancée. One more week, Kamira… then you burn it all down at the altar.

My chest rose and fell slow, controlled, like I was rehearsing a cross-examination.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself, nodding.

Okay to patience. Okay to the plan. Okay to letting Viang e lo dig his own grave while I handed him the shovel.

I locked the phone, slid it back onto the floor right where it had been, and headed back upstairs, like nothing happened.