Kevin arched a brow. “You called an incubator ‘temperamental’ yesterday and told it to calm down.”
“Because itwasbeing temperamental.”
But even as I said it, the truth burned through me. I had been distracted—completely, irreparably distracted. While I should’ve been refining my proposal, I’d been too busy replaying every word he spoke that day, every lingering glance, every near-admission that never made it past his lips. I’d let him live rent-free in my head—no, I’ddecoratedthe damn space—and in return, he couldn’t even confess he felt something.
I groaned, dropping my pen. “Fantastic. I can’t wait to eat overpriced air while listening to someone else win.”
Robert smirked. “Oh, come on, you love a good gala. And you’ll have your husband there. What’s his name again—Dark, and Emotionally Constipated?”
Kevin choked on his coffee. “Khalifa,” he coughed. “And yeah, he’ll be there, right? You two are like, the department’s power couple. People are still talking about how he acted during the lawsuit. Bad ass.”
My stomach twisted. I forced a smile, too bright, too rehearsed. “Of course he’s coming.”
Kevin’s mouth pulled to one side, like he didn’t quite buy it. “Good. Because half the staff has bets on whether he owns a tux.”
Robert added, “And if he doesn’t, please make him wear one of yours. I bet you’ve got the sharper jawline anyway.”
I managed a weak laugh.
When they turned back to their argument—something about whether caviar counted as seafood—I stared at my reflection in the dark window. My hijab was perfect, my posture composed, my face unbothered. But I could see it—the fatigue behind my eyes, the rejection sitting heavy in my chest.
I could bring babies into the world, stitch skin, restart hearts. But I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out how to fix my own.
Once I got home, the loft was dim. My feet hit the floor hard, each sound ricocheting down the hall like a reminder of how alone I’d managed to make a shared space feel.
His door was cracked, light spilling faintly into the corridor. I stood there for a long moment, debating whether to knock or just let it go and pretend I hadn’t promised an entire room of people that my vulnerability-phobichusband would make a public appearance.
I knocked once. Then again, harder.
He made me wait. Of course he did. When the door finally swung open, he leaned against it, damp hair curling at his temples, t-shirt rumpled, eyes too calm.
“You’re physically coming to my door to initiate fights now?” His voice was smooth, lazy, a tad amused.
I bit down on the first retort that rose, forcing my tone to stay even. “I need you to come to the gala with me tomorrow.”
“Not interested.”
He started to close the door, but I shoved my hand between it and the frame. “Please.” The word scraped out. “I worked really hard on it, and people are expecting you to be there. I just—I don’t want to be embarrassed.”
He didn’t say anything. I could feel the weight of his gaze, the guilt flickering beneath all that composure.
When silence stretched too long, I exhaled roughly. “You owe me.”
His expression shifted—something small, something human. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened.
“Okay.”
I stepped back, tucking a loose strand of hair under my hijab. “Tomorrow. Seven o’clock. Wear a tux.”
His mouth quirked slightly, like he wanted to say something else but decided against it.
I didn’t wait around to find out what. I walked into my own room, each step echoing with everything we weren’t saying.
I’D SPENT THE BETTERpart of an hour getting ready, and yet I still felt like a fraud in silk. The dress was a deep crimson—long-sleeved, floor-length, its shiny fabric catching the light each time I moved. It cinched gently at my waist, the color pulling the emerald from my eyes until they looked mystical in the mirror. My makeup was soft and glittery, saving the full force of attention for my bold red lip. My hijab, a shimmery black, draped neatly across my shoulders.
I eyed the heels first—small, harmless things that whisperedconfidenceandgood posture. Then I remembered my date was half an inch shorter than me. Marriage, apparently, required flats. I slipped them on, pretending it was for comfort and not because I refused to let towering over my own spouse like a judgmental giraffe be a conversation starter.
Everything was perfect except for the zipper.
