Page 47 of In Another Time

“What? Ease your conscience?”

“No!” I snapped, heat rising in my chest. “This isn’t about guilt. This is about truth. I’m standing here trying to own something. Something I should’ve said a long time ago.”

He laughed, low and bitter, shaking his head. “You wanna talk about time? Where the hell was all this truth when I was telling you what it was from jump? When I was fucked up in silence after you left without so much as a fight?”

“I didn’t know how to stay!” I shot back. “I didn’t know how to choose my career and something new! I was scared, Omir!”

He stood up, pacing now. The moonlight lit up his expression—his anger, his pain, the way his fists clenched as he fought to stay calm. “You think I wasn’t scared? You think I didn’t have doubts? Hell, I don’t even believe in love at first sight type shit, but with you, I felt it. I knew what the fuck it was.”

I stood too. “I’m not here asking you to erase everything. I’m not asking you to take me back. I’m asking you to see me. Right now.”

He turned to face me fully, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “And what the hell am I supposed to do with this, Lennox? I’m engaged. I’m getting fucking married.” That sliced through me like glass.

“I know,” I said, barely able to breathe through the ache. “And I hate that I’m saying all of this now, when it’s probably too late. But if I didn’t, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. You deserve to know. Whether you can forgive me or not. Whether you want me or not, I had to say it.”

He stared at me, and for a second—just one second—I saw it. That flicker. That thing that had always lived between us. Raw and unspoken. It was still there. And then it was gone.

His voice was low when he said, “You don’t get to show up with the truth when it’s convenient. You don’t get to light a match and walk away from a fire you started, then come back later, talking about love. That’s selfish as fuck of you.”

Tears slid down my cheeks. Silent. Hot. “I’m sorry, Omir,” I whispered.

“So am I,” he said, and his voice broke just slightly. “Because I never stopped loving you.” I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to hold the pieces together. “But I don’t know how to let you back in without breaking everything I’ve built in your absence,” he finished.

I nodded, even though it shattered me. “I understand.” We stood there, inches apart, the lake reflecting every ache neither of us could say. “I, uh. . . I leave tomorrow,” I said, voice thick.

He looked like he wanted to say something. Maybe to stop me. Maybe to walk away first. But he just nodded. And I turned. Walked back to my car with every step tearing something insideme. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Because loving him meant letting him go this time. For real.

OMIR

The tailor shop smelled like starch, old wood, and tension. That old-school kind of tension. The kind that comes when two worlds don’t just collide they grind against each other, rough and loud and unforgiving.

I stood in front of the mirror in a black tuxedo jacket that had just been pinned, the tailor still adjusting the cuffs. It looked good. Sharp lines. Smooth shoulders. The kind of shit you see on magazine covers.

And yet?—

“It’s a bit snug in the shoulders, don’t you think?”

His voice sliced through the quiet like a razor. Anya’s father. Standing at the far end of the shop, dressed in some custom navy suit that probably cost more than my first car. Salt-and-pepperhair, glasses halfway down his nose, arms folded like a judge waiting to sentence someone.

I looked at him through the mirror, then down at the jacket. “It’s cool,” I said flatly. “I’ll take it.”

He tilted his head, smirking like he knew something I didn’t. “Well, I suppose it’s better than the. . . streetwear you usually go for. Or those basic slacks you seem to like so much.”

My jaw flexed. I didn’t move. I didn’t have to move. The tension in the room shifted on its own. Marcus and Jordan both looked up from where they were standing across the shop, near a display of silk bowties.

“Streetwear?” Jordan repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That's what we’re calling business casual now?”

“Bro,” I warned him, my voice low.

“What? I’m just saying,” he replied, his tone slick, ignoring me like always. “Man acting like we rolled up in hoodies and Forces.”

Mr. Hayes didn’t even flinch. Just kept his gaze locked on mine, like I was the help trying on clothes that didn’t belong to me. “It’s just. . . different, Omir,” he said, voice casual but every word dipped in condescension. “I’m sure Anya sees something in you, but I’ll be honest—I always expected her to end up with someone a little more. . . polished.”

I took a step forward, slow, deliberate. My fists clenched, but I kept my voice steady. “With all due respect, sir, I run two successful businesses. I provide for your daughter. I show up. I don’t know what more you expect from me.”

He didn’t blink. “It’s not about money, son. It’s about legacy. Family. Belonging to a certain. . . caliber of people. You’re trying to marry into a different kind of world.”

“That’s funny,” Jordan muttered. “I thought marriage was about bringing two worlds together. The fuck?”

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