Page 19 of My Only (My First, My Last)

A yla

“After you, Mrs. Franklin,” Hassani said, holding the restaurant door open for me.

I shot him a sidelong glance, and he chuckled, pressing a warm hand to my lower back as I stepped inside.

“Ayla, Hassani,” the hostess, Miranda, greeted the moment she saw us. “Good evening, and welcome back!”

“Thank you, Miranda,” I said, flashing her a bright smile. “Is our favorite table ready?”

“You know it is.” Miranda winked at me. “And if it wasn’t, you know I’d make sure it was.”

I giggled. “My girl.”

She laughed. “You two follow me.”

“Thanks, Miranda,” Hassani added, his hands settling at my waist as he gently guided me forward to follow our hostess.

Tonight wasn’t just any dinner. It was a makeup dinner. The night before, he’d missed my work mixer, something he had never done before. And while I’d forgiven him, I was still feeling some type of way about it.

“Here you are,” Miranda said, placing our menus on the table. “Your server will be with you in a moment. I hope you two enjoy, as always.”

“I’m sure we will,” I replied, settling into my seat. “Thank you, Miranda.”

“Yeah, thanks, Miranda,” Hassani echoed, following suit.

“Always my pleasure.” She gave us a knowing smile before walking away.

Hassani gripped the back of my chair, pulling it out a little more as if adjusting my position. “Your throne awaits, Mrs. Franklin.”

I rolled my eyes playfully. “Laying it on thick tonight, huh?”

He chuckled, pulling out his own chair. “Oh, I haven’t even started. I’m saving that for when we get home.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I shook my head, fighting back a smile.

We were at Vernon’s Prime & Seafood, an upscale yet cozy steakhouse in Manhattan, just a short distance from the Freedom Tower. The ambiance, as always, was perfect for date nights—intimate, warm, effortlessly romantic.

This place was a staple in the Franklin household.

Hassani’s parents, Percy and Joslyn, had been coming here for years before introducing us to it.

After one dinner with them, Hassani and I were hooked.

It became our go-to for special occasions or nights when we just wanted to indulge in good food and each other’s company.

The decor had a timeless elegance—rich mahogany interiors, plush dark green leather booths, and gold-accented details that whispered luxury.

Freestanding tables were spread throughout the dining area, offering the perfect view of the open kitchen, where fresh seafood swam in live tanks, waiting to be selected.

But what I loved most? The desserts.

One dessert in particular.

Which is why I pulled out my phone and said, “I gotta give Mrs. Franklin a quick phone call.”

“Of course you do.” Hassani smirked as he placed his phone on the table. “Y’all do this every time.”

I grinned, navigating to my contacts. It was tradition—whenever either of us dined here, we had to call the other to ask if they wanted dessert. The answer was always yes.

The moment she answered, Joslyn’s voice rang through the phone’s earpiece, warm and teasing. “Good evening, Mrs. Franklin.”

I giggled. “Hey, Mrs. Franklin.”

She laughed, the sound as rich as the coconut-rum sauce drizzled on the dessert I was about to order for her.

“Hassani brought me to Vernon’s,” I said, peeking up at him and blushing. “So you know I had to call and ask if you wanted us to bring you the guava & cream cheese bread pudding.”

“Oh, Ayla, you know the answer will always be yes, my love.”

I grinned. “We’ll stop by after dinner then.”

“Can’t wait!”

The guava & cream cheese bread pudding was one of Vernon’s best-kept secrets.

Joslyn adored it, always saying it reminded her of her Caribbean roots.

The warm, buttery bread pudding infused with sweet guava puree, the mascarpone cheese pockets, the coconut-rum sauce that added just the right amount of kick. It was nostalgia on a plate for her.

For me? It was the caramelized sugar crust and the toasted coconut flakes that did it. Not to mention the scoop of vanilla bean ice cream melting on top, sealing the deal every time.

“Thank you, love,” Joslyn said. “I can already taste it.”

I laughed.

“And tell Hassani I said thank you in advance.”

I placed the phone on speaker and said, “She said thank you.”

“No problem, Ma,” Hassani called out, leaning in just a little so she could hear him.

Joslyn let out a pleasant sigh. “I just love how you two still act like newlyweds.”

Across the table, Hassani and I locked eyes. He smirked, and I smiled despite myself.

“I love to see that,” she said with a smile. “Five years in, and you're still going to all your favorite places together. That’s beautiful.”

I nodded, offering an easy, “Yeah.”

But the truth was, doubt flickered beneath that agreement. The only reason we were here tonight was because he’d missed my work mixer. This wasn’t impromptu. This wasn’t just because. This was a stop on his sorry tour.

“Anyway,” I said, sitting up straighter. “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Looking forward to it,” Joslyn said warmly. “Enjoy yourselves.”

The moment I ended the call, Hassani asked, “Getting your usual?”

“Surf and turf,” I confirmed with a nod. “As always. You?”

“ Aw , baby.” He winked. “You know I gotta be twins with you.”

I laughed, shaking my head.

I wanted to stay mad. He’d stood me up the night before. And even though I understood the reason, even though he’d explained everything, it still stung.

But I was doing my best to let it go. Because that’s what a mature, understanding wife would do.

I was lost in my thoughts when Hassani reached across the table, taking my hand in his.

I blinked down at our fingers before lifting my gaze to his.

The restaurant’s golden light reflected in his hazel-green eyes, making them glow. And just like that, I felt my frustration slipping through my fingers. I could never look this man in the eyes and stay upset.

He smirked, running his thumb over the back of my hand. “Am I doing good so far?”

I pressed my lips together, fighting back my own smile. “ Mm-hmm .”

He was doing great.

Last night, I’d planned to give him the silent treatment for days.

When I got home from the work mixer, I made myself something to eat, showered, and got into bed.

But I didn’t sleep. I waited. For the sound of his car pulling into the driveway.

For the soft thud of his footsteps climbing the stairs.

I’d been waiting up to vent. To ignore him. To be petty.

But Hassani wasn’t having it. And as much as I hated him missing my event, I couldn’t deny that I appreciated how deeply sorry he was.

And now, here we were—out to dinner on a school night. He was doing great.

Our server arrived, took our drink and food orders, and disappeared toward the kitchen.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom and wash my hands,” Hassani said, pushing his chair back.

“Okay, I’ll go after you.”

As he disappeared down the hall, I turned toward the large windows, my gaze naturally drawn to the Freedom Tower.

There was always something comforting about it—even though I never had the chance to visit the Twin Towers when they still stood, and while my father worked in the North Tower.

Maybe that’s why this part of the city didn’t trigger me. Maybe it grounded me instead.

A sudden buzz rattled against the table.

I glanced down, fully prepared to ignore it—until I saw the name on the screen.

Harper.

I jerked my head back.

Checked my phone for the time. 8:07 p.m.

Why the hell was she texting my husband after hours?

A prickle of unease skated down my spine.

Since meeting Harper at Hassani’s work event, I hadn’t given her much thought. Hassani never brought her up. He mostly talked about Jordan, Levi, and other members of the team.

But for someone he never mentioned, it was strange that she felt comfortable texting him at this hour.

I folded my lips into my mouth, dragging my gaze away from the screen.

It wasn’t my business.

I wasn’t that kind of woman. I never felt the need to check my man’s phone. I always believed if you had to, then you probably shouldn’t be with him in the first place.

But Hassani wasn’t just my man.

He was my husband.

And why was this woman texting my husband after work hours?

Before I could stop myself, I picked up Hassani’s phone, eyes locked onto the screen.

The notification only showed her name and the word “message.”

I hesitated.

Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I quickly typed in his code and unlocked the device.

The phone opened straight to his messages.

There was no need to scroll, because there she was.

Harper Royce.

A string of texts dating back to December 2021—right when the Greene Gardens Project began.

And in every exchange, the same pattern: paragraph after paragraph, most of them sent by her.

Harper: It was great meeting you today, Hassani. I’m looking forward to working with you.

Harper: You are SUCH a visionary. I hope you know that.

I scrolled.

Hassani had responded… but barely.

Hassani: Thanks, Harper.

Hassani: I appreciate that, Harper.

That should have been enough to ease me. He wasn’t entertaining her. He wasn’t encouraging this.

And yet…

She texted a lot.

At first, her messages were strictly about work. But over time—especially in recent weeks—her texts had started to shift.

Harper: Late nights at the office are way more fun when you’re around. I swear. I’d lose my mind dealing with these design delays if I didn’t have you to keep me sane. Hope you got home safe.

That one was from last night.

I inhaled slowly, letting the air fill my lungs. Exhaled through my nose.

But the calm I was searching for never came.

Hassani hadn’t responded to that message.

That was good. That was something.

But it did nothing to soothe my frustration when I saw the message she’d sent him tonight.

Harper: Saw this today and thought of you. Would look great in your office.

Attached was a photo of a D-Slam sculpture. Another ugly, overpriced mess, just like the one sitting on our coffee bar.