Sabine gripped the bedrails, screamed until her voice tore, cried out for Adair even as her body gave up every ounce of fight. Everything happened fast. Too fast for her to even recall exactly what happened or maybe she blocked it out.
And then—it was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.
The nurse whispered something. Another nurse cried. Someone gently asked if she wanted to hold her. Sabine nodded. Couldn’t speak.
They laid her baby girl in her arms—still, and cold, and perfect.
Sabine kissed her forehead, her lips trembling against skin that would never warm. She wept like her soul was being torn out. And through the FaceTime screen, Narri and Parthenia wept too. Listening. Watching. Hearing the shattering in real time.
Sabine rocked her baby girl in silence, whispering apologies, whispering prayers. Not even knowing which was which.
WhileSabine was crying out alone in that sterile hospital room, Adair wasn’t there. Wasn’t answering. Wasn’t anywhere he should’ve been and when she needed him most—when the weight of loss crushed her from the inside out—he was across town, doing something he’d never be able to take back. Something that would hollow out the very foundation of their marriage.
ADAIR
It was past 9:00 PM when Adair finally left the office. The building was nearly empty, the cleaning crew just starting their rounds. He loosened his tie, rolled his sleeves, and glanced at the time on the office wall clock. He should’ve gone straight home. Sabine was due any day now. Ade had been fighting bedtime lately and she…she had been needing him more than ever, even if she didn’t say it out loud.
But he stayed.
Staring at spreadsheets. Reworking briefs. Drowning in distraction.
Putting in the hours, overdelivering, always on-call—that was the unspoken rule for interns. They piled on caseloads not just to test you, but because no one else wanted to do them. You either drowned or came up a shark.
When Corrine passed by his office and asked if he was coming to the team happy hour, he almost said no. Almost. But then she smiled like she always did, just a little too familiar, and said, “Come on, Dayne. One drink won’t kill you.”
He almost said no.
Almost.
But God, he was tired. Tired of being perfect.Of being the husband who never cracked. The father who never fumbled. The partner who was always on his A-game. The man who carried everything on his back and still came home gentle. He didn’t want to return to bedtime tantrums and swollen ankles and the quiet, aching space between him and Sabine. Not tonight.
So, he went.
Adair was the only married intern. The only father. The only Black man in the room—again. If he wanted to make it in that world, he had to be twice as sharp, twice as good, and ten times as unshakable. And the fucked-up part? Hewas.Even the paralegals came to him for answers but none of it ever felt like enough.
Corrine lingered by his doorway a second longer, like she knew all that. Like she could see the weight in his shoulders, the fatigue he never admitted to and maybe she could—because lately, she’d been noticing everything. When he skipped lunch. When he rubbed the bridge of his nose mid-brief. When he stared at his phone a little too long before putting it face-down on the desk.
“Just one drink,” she said again, soft now. Less playful, more...intentional.
Adair stood, grabbed his coat and followed her out.
One drink turned into two. Laughter turned into low lighting. Music played through the bar speakers, something old-school and sexy, and Corrine danced like it was just them in the world. Adair chuckled, shook his head, and said he was heading out but she pulled him back. Just for one more song. One more drink.
They danced.
Not close. Not at first.
But then she looked up at him—those eyes seductive, knowing—and pressed her body closer. He didn’t push her away. He should have. And when she leaned in—slow, deliberate—he didn’t stop her fast enough. Their lips met. Just for a moment but long enough.
Long enough to feel like a betrayal.
Long enough to become one.
Adair stumbled back, heart thudding in his chest. “I can’t—nah, I can’t do this.”