Page 32 of My Only (My First, My Last)

“A pain she tries to hide from the world, but with me?” I clenched my fists. “She lets it all go. Because she trusts me, Harper.”

I leaned in just slightly.

“She trusts me with her life… and her heart… Harper.”

Harper swallowed hard.

“Ayla is the strongest person I know,” I continued, voice breaking just slightly. “But even though she’s the strongest…” I shook my head. “I’ll be damned if I ever add to her pain in any way.”

I straightened, then exhaled.

“And what you’re suggesting?” I lifted my chin. “That would bring my wife a lot of pain, and me a lot of shame.”

I let my words hang between us.

Shit.

I shook my head, chuckling darkly. “You’ve already done that, Harper.”

Harper’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“But I can’t blame you.” I said with a wry smile. “ I allowed it. I allowed all of it.”

My voice dropped lower.

“Damn.”

I ran a heavy hand down my beard, staring past Harper, lost in every mistake I’d made.

Every bullshit late night.

Every call I didn’t return.

Every moment I put work above my wife.

All because of her .

“You’re upset right now,” Harper said, voice too calm. “I get it. Completely.”

She leaned back, crossing her legs.

And then?

She had the audacity to smirk.

“But trust me, Hassani,” she whispered. “You won’t regret what we can have, too.” She fixed her gaze on mine. Certain. Unshaken. “I’ll see to it.”

I scoffed, closing my eyes tight. It took everything in me to swallow back the quiet rage building in my chest, locking up my muscles, making it hard to breathe.

I inhaled a sharp breath, opened my eyes, and zeroed in on Harper.

“Nah, I definitely would regret it.” I nodded. “Because I love my wife, Harper. So damn much that just you suggesting it is enough to make me lose it—let alone actually doing it.”

I watched as her chest caved in a little at that.

“I waited, and waited, and waited for years to make her my wife,” I added, voice hoarse.

“Ayla is my one and only. And I have no interest in sharing myself with you—or anyone else—when I have her .”

I leaned in slightly. Voice low. Steady. Unshakable.

“Are we clear, Harper? Because it’s very important that we are crystal fucking clear on that shit.”

She just blinked.

I exhaled sharply, lowering my attention to my sketchbook. Then my eyes drifted to the blueprints on my screen. Realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

I never had to stay late.

I didn’t have to be here right now.

Harper sabotaged my work.

And probably my marriage.

But what killed me? What truly gutted me?

I let her do it.

I let it all happen.

“I need to go,” I murmured, mostly to myself.

I pushed up from my desk, shoving my laptop into my bag and tucking my sketchbook under my arm.

“Harper.” My voice was thick, heavy. I sniffed back the heat in my nose, blinking fast against the sting in my eyes.

I don’t even know why I want to cry.

“I can’t trust you here with my things, and I need to lock my office door when I go. So…” I gestured at the door. “Please, leave.”

She parted her lips like she wanted to say something.

But instead, she nodded.

She walked to the door, then paused—turned slightly.

I turned and gave her my back.

Because what the fuck just happened here?

* * *

The entire drive home, I was in shambles.

I played back every bullshit late night.

Every moment of self-doubt.

Every second of imposter syndrome creeping in because of delays I never should’ve had in the first place.

Time. Energy. Stress. All of it… wasted.

And I couldn’t lie to myself. I knew why this happened.

I never stopped her.

I ignored the signs, believing it was harmless. That she was harmless.

But my father was right.

I’d been lying to myself.

When I pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car, I let out a breath.

But it didn’t help.

I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Darkness.

All the lights were off.

Except one.

The guest room.

I stared at the faint glow spilling into the hallway, my father’s words echoing in my mind.

“Never let her sleep in another bed.”

But I didn’t go to her.

I couldn’t.

I needed a moment. To think.

To process.

To figure out how the hell I was supposed to fix something that never should’ve been broken in the first place.

Ayla told me. She told me, and I told her she had nothing to worry about.

She trusted me.

And I let her down.

Upstairs in the master bedroom, I changed into my basketball shorts, heart still hammering.

My chest was tight. My muscles tense.

There was no way I was sleeping like this.

So I took the stairs back down.

Kept going.

Straight to the basement.

Ayla and I had turned it into a half-library, half-gym.

She had her books.

I had the treadmill, the stationary bike, the step machine.

I went straight for the treadmill.

Jumped on.

No warmup. No stretch.

Just ran.

Fast. Hard.

Like I could outrun the rage choking me from the inside out.

Like I could leave behind the self-loathing scraping my ribs raw.

Like I could erase the mistakes.

But the mistakes ran faster.

I was a solid twenty minutes in when I realized I wasn’t breathing at tempo.

I wasn’t just sweating.

I was burning.

Inside. Out.

Harper lied.

She played me .

I thought I was in control.

But I was being controlled.

I cranked the speed up higher.

Faster.

Harder.

I pushed myself to the absolute limit, until my legs gave out beneath me.

I barely caught the treadmill’s railing in time, hauling myself off the speeding belt. My feet landed on the outer frame, knees shaking, breath ragged.

I hit the stop button.

The treadmill slowed to a halt.

But my pulse didn’t.

I took a step, then collapsed.

Straight to my knees.

And I couldn’t fight it anymore.

The tears came full force.

I pressed my palms against the cool floor, body rocking as my chest heaved.

Silent wails—the kind that gut you from the inside out—echoed around me.

I balled my fists, lifted them, ready to punch the floor.

But at the last second, I didn’t.

Instead, I spread my fingers against the hardwood.

Steadied myself.

And I gave in.

I let myself cry...

Cry about letting Ayla down.

Cry about doubting myself.

I cried about questioning my own abilities to the point of being led to the slaughter.

And I cried about being so fucking blind.

Harper may have cost me my job.

A career I bled for.

But worse—so much fucking worse…

She may have cost me Ayla, too.

And that?

That hurt the most.

“Every night, since you started this project, has been hell for me.”

Ayla’s words. Words I could agree with but only understood from my point of view at the time…

They came roaring back with a vengeance.

Because I get it now, A. Boogie. I fucking get it.

But was I too late?