For a split second, my brain refuses to supply her name.
Brittany?
Beth?
—No.
Bekki.
With an i.
I mentally sigh, then school my expression into something polite. “Can I help you with something?” I ask, tone neutral.
She looks up at me in a way I immediately don’t like—eyes lingering too long, smile sharp instead of warm.
Before she can say anything else, I take a deliberate step back, breaking contact.
My eyes lift instinctively, searching the room.
Finding Sabrina.
She’s looking right at me.
And the look on her face punches straight through my chest.
Hurt.
Uncertainty.
That old, familiar instinct to pull away before she gets left behind.
“No,” I mutter, already moving. “Excuse me.”
But just as I start toward her, someone intercepts me.
A man I recognize as a potential major investor for the nonprofit—important enough that I can’t brush him off without consequences for her.
“Langston Blackwell,” he says warmly, extending a hand. “Wonderful evening. Truly impressive.”
I shake his hand, my smile practiced, my focus fractured.
“Thank you for coming,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “My wife put her heart into this.”
We exchange a few pleasantries—numbers, impact, follow-ups. I nod at the right moments, respond when necessary.
All the while, my eyes keep flicking down the hall.
By the time the conversation wraps, Sabrina is gone.
I don’t hesitate this time.
I excuse myself and head down the corridor toward the bathrooms, my pulse quickening with every step.
Because I know that look.
I don’t even hesitate.
I don’t care that it’s the women’s restroom. I don’t care who sees me. My only thought is to find her.
