Page 13 of My Only (My First, My Last)

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Hassani turned off the car the moment he pulled into the reserved space inside the parking garage.

“I didn’t even know this place had a garage,” I said, scanning the cars parked around us. “I’ve been here for so many class trips in elementary school. How did I not know The Met had a parking garage?”

Hassani chuckled as he reached behind him, grabbing his sketchbook from the backseat.

“Do me a favor,” he said, handing it to me. “Put this in the glove compartment.”

I took the sketchbook and arched a brow. “We’re at one of the most famous museums in the world, and you’re worried someone’s gonna steal your sketchbook, Hassani?”

He smirked. “That sketchbook is my life, baby. I don’t take any chances.”

“You have a reserved parking pass—” I pointed at the rearview mirror where Bryant Greene’s signature was stamped on the permit— “and you really think someone’s gonna break into the car just to take your book?”

“You said it yourself.” Hassani grinned. “We’re at a well-known spot. Anything can happen. Now close them pretty lips and put my book in the glove compartment so we can go.”

I giggled, shaking my head as I did what he asked, then stole another glance out the passenger window.

“You ready?” he asked.

It was a loaded question.

Tonight was The Greene Gardens Visionary Night —an exclusive work event, and judging by the all-white, embossed invitation Hassani had brought home, it was a big deal.

He had officially started working on the Greene Gardens Project last December.

Since then, it had been all meetings, with the real work set to begin that coming Monday.

But so far, everything seemed to be going well.

He made it home at the same time every night for dinner, and we spent time together before heading to bed, just like always.

With school out for the summer, I had extra time on my hands.

I’d considered teaching summer school. Park Avenue Prep gave teachers the flexibility to work with other grades.

But in the end, I decided to focus on planning our annual trip instead.

I still didn’t have a solid date from Hassani, though.

I didn’t push him on it, figuring he needed time to settle into his new role first. If worst came to worst, we could stay local.

He was starting a huge project. I wasn’t about to make him focus on anything else that wasn’t as important.

“Am I ready?” I scoffed. “We’re only in the garage, and I already feel underdressed.”

He snickered. “You look great. Amazing. Like always.”

“Maybe I should’ve worn a gown,” I noted quietly, glancing into the rearview mirror to check my makeup. “I feel too casual.”

I’d gone with a slim-fitting button-down tucked into a green denim pencil skirt, paired with silver sandals that sparkled under the car’s lights. I was dressed for brunch, and the setting made me feel like I should’ve done more.

“Baby, I’m wearing a Henley tee, slacks, and Jordans,” Hassani reasoned.

“Yeah, but everything you wear is designer, so even your casual outfit looks upscale.”

He chuckled. “Bryant told us to come as we are. Nothing fancy. He literally said, ‘ This will be nothing fancy. ’”

“So much for that,” I muttered. “Hosting an event at The Metropolitan Museum of Art but claiming it’s nothing fancy ? That’s ironic.”

Hassani pulled me into his arms and pressed a kiss to my forehead—then another. “Let’s go, scaredy cat.”

The first time he mentioned the event, I’d been floored.

“I didn’t know people could rent out museums for private events,” I’d said over coffee.

“Me neither,” Hassani replied, sipping his. “But this is Bryant Greene, so…”

“How much does something like that even cost?”

Hassani shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but I overheard the interns whispering about it. Apparently, Bryant dropped over $50K just to rent the space for the night.”

Now, standing here, I understood why.

To reach the event space, we had to take an elevator from the parking garage to the museum’s ground floor. The moment we stepped inside, I was hit with awe.

I’d been to The Met countless times, but tonight, with only a handful of guests present, it felt completely different—like we’d been swallowed whole by the vastness of the museum, the art pieces looming over us like silent spectators.

At the direction of an event organizer, Hassani and I walked through several galleries, following signs for The Greene Gardens Visionary Night .

And then, I gasped.

We had stepped inside The Temple of Dendur in the Sackler Wing.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, glancing up at Hassani to see if he was as taken by the space as I was.

It was breathtaking. Ancient Egyptian architecture, floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and a massive reflecting pool that made the space feel even more expansive.

“Okay.” I swallowed hard. “ This is next level.”

Hassani chuckled, his deep voice echoing softly around us.

On the invitation Hassani brought home, there had been a printed explanation of why Bryant had chosen to host the event here.

The artistic nature of the project aligned with the museum’s setting, subtly reinforcing Bryant’s belief that everyone involved in the Greene Gardens Project was contributing to something historic.

I already knew Hassani’s role in the project was major. He was helping build a community—a place where people would live, work, and raise families—so I understood it was a big deal.

But that night, in The Temple of Dendur , I realized just how enormous of a deal it truly was.

Well-dressed servers moved gracefully through the space, offering champagne and hors d’oeuvres at every turn. My nerves had me reaching for a glass, hoping at least half of it would take the edge off.

I took a sip and immediately cringed, rolling my tongue around my mouth in search of any hint of sweetness. Missing entirely.

“It’s not Moscato,” Hassani teased, smirking. “So take it easy, baby.”

“ Ha , ha ,” I said flatly, my eyes still scanning the room.

The soft lighting reflected off the water, giving everything an ethereal glow. The air buzzed with conversation, expensive perfumes mingling with the faint sound of classical music playing from unseen speakers.

We’d only been in the gallery for two minutes before people started coming up to Hassani, pulling him into conversations. Each time, he introduced me as, “ My wife, Mrs. Ayla Franklin ,” and without fail, they responded, “ It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Franklin. ”

And every single time, my heart swelled.

Watching Hassani work the room, seeing him in his element, was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

The man I’d known since I was a teenager had transformed before my eyes—still himself, but different.

A polished professional. No slang, no casual banter.

Just easy confidence, sharp intelligence, and an undeniable presence.

It was so sexy.

I stayed back when he was deep in conversation. I couldn’t contribute to most of them—listening to architects discuss frameworks and fault lines went in one ear and out the other—but seeing so many Black professionals brimming with passion, talking about making history , that part?

That was inspiring.

Still, every time Hassani noticed I’d gone quiet for too long, he’d slide his fingers down my hand to interlock with mine, or wrap an arm around my waist, pulling me into the moment. It was those small gestures that mattered.

I was so damn proud of him, I could barely breathe evenly.

He had wanted this for so long. Since we were teenagers, he’d dreamed of being an architect. He had worked his ass off to get here, and now? He was doing it —doing it in a big way.

And yet…

I couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, I was standing outside of it all.

Clink, clink, clink.

The sound of glass chiming rang through the gallery, drawing everyone’s attention to the steps leading up to one of the Egyptian structures. Heels clicked against the stone floor as the crowd shifted toward the source, and before I could react, Hassani had already taken my hand, guiding me forward.

“Welcome, welcome,” a deep voice boomed, effortlessly commanding the room. “I’m grateful I didn’t insist on having a microphone—my voice is carrying just fine, isn’t it?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

When we got close enough to see who was speaking, I inhaled sharply, my breath catching.

It was Bryant Greene.

The Bryant Greene.

A man I’d only ever heard about by name, whose face I’d seen on magazine covers. And now? He was standing just feet in front of me.

And my husband was working for him.

Bryant’s suit was perfectly tailored, fitting him like it had been painted onto his body. In one hand, he held a sparkling glass of champagne, exuding effortless confidence. His beard was immaculate, his skin flawless, and his posture imposing. The same stacked, powerful build as my husband.

The hype around the multi-billionaire was definitely justified. Respectfully.

“Tonight,” Bryant began, his smooth baritone settling over the room, “we are not just celebrating the beginning of a project.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the gathered crowd. “We are celebrating the beginning of a legacy.”

A murmur of agreement cascaded through the space.

“Greene Gardens is not just about infrastructure,” he continued. “It’s about culture . It’s about creating something that will outlive us. Something our children and grandchildren… and their grandchildren will look at and feel proud of.”

The room erupted into light applause.

“That is why I chose The Met as our venue tonight.” He smiled, flashing a perfect set of white teeth.

“This museum is filled with masterpieces that have stood the test of time. That is what we are building with Greene Gardens.” He raised his glass.

“And every single one of you in this room… you are the artists , the visionaries , the creators . This isn’t just work —this is history in the making. Here’s to you.”

The room erupted in applause again, even livelier this time.