On the ground floor, the lobby was dark, only a few security lights glowing. Our footsteps echoed. It felt like walking through a long, slow goodbye. We passed the glass-walled executive lounge just off the main corridor. Empty. Dim. The city blazing behind it like a backdrop we never asked for.
“Imani,” he said abruptly, stopping short. “I need you to look at me.”
“I don’t—”
“Please.”
That word, from him, landed like something sacred and wrong all at once, so I turned to him.
He looked wrecked. No tie. Shirt open at the throat. Eyes darker than I’d ever seen them, like that press conference, like the aftermath, like the moment I’d walked away with our boys while he just stood there and took it.
“This might be the last time you’re alone with me,” he said, voice raw. “Really alone.”
