NALANI
When I drag myself to the door to answer after the third ring, I speak without even looking up because I fear that the tears will break free.
“I’m sorry for answering so late, please come in.”
“No need to apologize,” comes a reply, and a small gasp escapes my parted lips as my head snaps up to the sound of the familiar voice.
It’s him.
The stranger who saw everything at the party yesterday, came after me, and promptly left after I yelled at him.
“You. You’re…”
“Keith Pierre,” he supplies with a warm smile, cutting me off politely. “The director whom you and your husband are having dinner with tonight,” he adds in a distinct accent, but the sound of “my husband” is the last thing I hear before my thoughts overtake me.
For years and years, I have loved Daniel wholeheartedly
