She nodded. “You deserve someone who’s fully there.”
“I wantyou.But I’m not gonna beg.”
Her phone buzzed. A text.
Adair:Ade showed me the rocket again this morning. Said it’s on the fridge ‘so everybody remembers.’ I don’t think he was just talking about the picture.
Sabine’s fingers hovered over the screen, breath leaving her slow. Somehow, Adair always knew when another man was sniffing around. Like clockwork. He’d call or text at the wrong times, reminding her he was still there. Still tethered. She closed the message without replying.
“Malik…” she started
“You don’t owe me anything,” Malik held up a hand, not pushing. “I just want you to know, I’m not going anywhere unlessyoutell me to.” He nodded once, slow, and left without another word.
Sabine turned back to her screen. The model finished running. Her assumptions held. The logistics plan was airtight. Flawless.
But her chest still felt like a pressure point waiting to give.
ADAIR
The office was all glass and lines from the sunlight bouncing off every polished surface. Adair sat at the head of a long conference table, suit crisp, tie loosened just enough to suggest power without trying. He didn’t check his phone even though he wanted to. Sabine hadn’t texted back.
Across from him, the senior partners discussed contract revisions for a billion-dollar acquisition. Adair nodded, made a few notes, contributed strategically. He was the only Black attorney at the firm—a partner at that. Corporate law at a Fortune 500 wasn’t exactly teeming with brothers who looked like him, sounded like him, or moved through the world like he did.
Now at twenty-eight, he held equity, respect, and more than one national award under his belt for his role in reshaping corporate DEI policy—ironically at a firm that had only just started to acknowledge it.
Adair didn’t ask for seats at the table—he built his own. He was tall, broad-shouldered, skin the color of expensive mahogany. When he walked into a room, heads turned. When he spoke, people listened. And when he didn’t say anything at all? They listened harder.
He’d started at the firm as a summer associate, fresh out of Columbia Law, already married to Sabine and already too serious for the after-hours bar crawls the other associates used to bond. They’d called him “uptight.” Cold. Too focused. And now those same men asked him to review their bonus packages before contract renewals.
Adair took no pride in outpacing them. But hedidtake pride in how far he'd come from that small two-bedroom apartment with not enough counter space. Pride in the son whose future he planned every day between client calls. Pride in the woman who still hadn't texted back but who had been his backbone when he was still just vision and faith.
Outside the boardroom, assistants passed him glances and he wasn’t blind. He saw the double takes. The subtle lip gloss touchups when he walked past. The half-nervous, half-bold way they said his name.
“…We’ll revise the indemnification clause to match the new IP valuation by Thursday,” one of the senior partners said, closing his leather folio with a crisp snap.
“Sounds good,” Adair replied, standing as the others began filing out. A few back pats and nods were exchanged, a “great work, Dayne,” and a “tight analysis, as always.” He offered a polite smile, keeping his thoughts close and his expression measured.
As he moved to leave, he noticed her—Corrine. She’d been seated three spots down the table during the meeting, quiet, watchful, noting every pivot with that same sharpness he’d once respected and then got a little too comfortable around.
Now, somehow, she was beside him. Matching his pace as they walked the sleek hallway that led toward his office.
“Nice save on the indemnity clause,” she said, a small smirk curving her lips. “You made it look easy.”
“It was,” he said flatly, his tone not inviting but not cold either.
They passed the glass-fronted offices, her heels soft against the carpeted runner, her shoulder brushing his arm just slightly when they turned the corner.
“You got a sec?” she asked, already knowing he did.
Adair sighed inwardly. “What’s up, Corrine?”
She tilted her head. “Just wondering how long we’re gonna keep pretending we don’t see each other in rooms like this.”
He glanced at her. Impeccably dressed, polished, eyes a little too knowing. She was good at her job. Smart. Strategic. And the sex had been…easy.
Too easy.
“Nothing to pretend about,” he said, slowing as they neared his office.