Secrets Before, "I Do!"

Prologue

 He thought the pressure on his back felt strangely like a hand as the marble slipped beneath his feet.

Jack Jeffrey's slipper caught on the stairs, and suddenly the world dropped out beneath him. His chest slammed the banister, his ribs rattling like sticks in a barrel, and then he was tumbling. The chandelier above burst into a scatter of light. Bone, silk, and pride clattered down the polished spine of the staircase.

Time stretched thin.

A gallery of memories flickered in his mind: the champagne toast when his first museum wing opened, the photograph of him and his only niece on the day of his brother’s funeral, the silent corridors of the foundation he had built. He thought of the laughter of wives, long gone. He thought of the buildings that bore his name.

And then, as cruel as the marble rushing up to meet him, he thought of the thing he had never secured: children. No son to shoulder the legacy. No daughter to carry the name. His empire would live in stone, not blood.

The thought ended with him.

Jack's body struck the floor with a sharp, final crack. His neck bent at an angle that would never be corrected. His robe, crimson silk, spread across the marble like spilled wine.

The mansion held its breath.

Then came a sound from above: deliberate footsteps, measured and calm. Athletic boots whispered down the runner. A dark figure emerged, dressed in a sleek jogger set, one hand gripping a thick leather binder stamped Last Will and Testament. The other hand flexed inside a black leather glove as he descended.

He reached the bottom and crouched, binder tucked neatly under his arm. With a single, precise motion, he smoothed the robe, turned the slack jaw toward the chandelier, and folded one arm across the chest. A correction, not an act of grace—an arrangement.

The slipper was nudged back into place near the limp foot, tilted just enough to look like it had slipped off in the fall. He adjusted the knot of the robe with a tug of two fingers. The scene now read as an accident, not an intrusion.

He stood.

Boot over marble. He stepped neatly across the body without pause. The chandelier's light caught the faint gloss of leather on his hands before the shadows swallowed him whole.

Jack Jeffrey's empire glittered on in the city below, but inside the house he had built, his silence was perfect, polished, and staged.

Chapter 1

She thought it would be a good idea. Though she knew he didn't like surprises, she thought he might make an exception for a little Victoria's Secret. It was a desperate grab for a man's attention who, she feared, no longer truly saw her.

The idea had started as a spark after her 9:00 a.m. doctor's appointment. Waiting for the confirmation from Dr. Sims had settled in her gut, creating a quiet, terrifying hum. She hadn't told Terrance—not yet. Not until she was sure. Not until she knew whether the test was real, and whether their relationship could even survive another loss.

Instead of returning to the office, she'd treated herself to a mani-pedi, the bright red on her nails a stark contrast to the gray numbness she felt. Then came a walk-in at the MAC counter, a new shade of lipstick to paint on a brave face. By the time she was home, the numbness had morphed into a frantic need to do something. To feel something other than the hollow echo of her past.

In her walk-in closet, she pulled out the lingerie he had yet to see. She turned from side to side in the full-length mirror, her eyes automatically drifting to the faint, silvery scar at the bottom of her stomach. A permanent reminder of the stillbirth, Vincent, of the life she couldn't hold.

She was pulled from the memory by her phone buzzing on the vanity. It was her best friend.

"Okay, so," Leslie's voice was a welcome energy shot. "What did Dr. Sims say? Are we celebrating or are we cracking open a bottle of wine and a box of P&J, B&J's?"

Naomi took a shaky breath. "Don't know yet," she said, not sure what to feel.

"Have you told Terry?"

"No, I don't know…" The thought brought her to her knees, and she slid down to the floor, searching for words. "How?"

"Surprise him!" Leslie said. "Get him some lunch, and when he opens it, have the test in there."

"Surprise him…" Naomi repeated, a new resolve hardening in her voice. And just like that, the plan to spice up her love life was solidified. It was crazy, spontaneous, and utterly unlike her. Maybe that was exactly what they needed.

"Wait, you're seriously going to do it?" Leslie had laughed, a mix of shock and enabling encouragement. "In a trench coat and Red Bottoms? Girl, get 'cha man."

Chapter 2

Now, holding the wheel tight was the only thing stopping her hands from shaking as she got closer to the reflective glass skyscraper that housed Martin Davis and Associates. After a quick, disguised call to his secretary, Tanisha, she'd confirmed he was in for lunch.

The sound of her overly familiar voice still clung to her, the way she let his name roll off her tongue like it belonged to her.

Naomi hated it. Hated how sweet it sounded, how intimate, as if Tanisha wasn't a secretary but a woman laying claim.

"Tonight I'm gonna dance for you, oh-oh…" she sang loudly along with the radio, the beat a frail shield against her thundering heart. With her blinker on, she waited to turn into the parking garage. She had just tucked a stray strand of her red wig in the rearview mirror when something caught her eye.

A car passed, and in the space it left, she saw him.

Terrance.

He was walking out of Martin Davis, a little blonde thang on his arm. A woman with a smaller waist and bigger breasts than hers. The way he leaned into her, the way she laughed up at him—if she hadn't had his rock on her own finger, she would have sworn they were the ones happily engaged.

A horn blared from behind her, scaring her half to death. Her foot slipped off the brake. She quickly pulled into a red zone across the street, her mind reeling.

Music off.

Hazards on.

She watched her fiancé open the door to a blacked-out company SUV and help the blonde inside. He climbed in right after her.

Each thump of her heart was a physical blow, stealing her breath. No. Not my Terrance.

They'd been together five long years, a whirlwind at the start. Living together in three months, engaged in six. He was her Prince Charming, her future, the man she wanted to build a family with. The man she couldn't seem to give a child to.

Though she had suspected infidelity, she'd never had physical proof. And now she did.

She just couldn't believe it.

So, she followed them.

Chapter 3

And when I say followed, I mean, followed.

She did not hide. She did not try to avoid being seen. She kept her little 2010 Honda Accord right behind the black SUV; her world narrowed to its taillights.

The car cruised down Market and turned on Taylor. Her heart hammered against the lace of her bra. She gripped the wheel tighter, a hand straying to her stomach before she could stop it. 

If this is real… if I'm really carrying again… The thought cut sharp and quick. She shoved it away.

Instead, her mind filled with all the other times. The perfume that wasn't hers on his collar. The late-night "conference calls" where his phone stayed face-down, silent. The receipt for Bistro L'Orange with two entrees, when he'd told her he was eating at his desk. And always, always, his dismissive smile when she asked. 

You're imagining things, Naomi. Don't be dramatic.

He'd made her doubt herself so many times, she'd started to believe it.

Until now.

Her Accord darted after the SUV, ignoring the honks she earned when she cut too close. The city blurred: buses coughing exhaust, horns blaring, brake lights stuttering like a heartbeat. All she saw were those taillights, glowing steadily, daring her to keep up.

"Maybe it's business," she whispered, the lie sour on her tongue. "Maybe she's a colleague. Maybe you just trippin'."

The SUV swung onto California Street, sliding beneath the awning of the Scarlet Huntington Hotel. Doormen stepped forward like actors on cue. Naomi rolled past, jaw tight, and whipped into a loading zone half a block ahead. She cut the engine but left the hazards blinking.

"Please," she muttered. "Let her go in alone. Let him get back in the car. Let me be wrong."

The back door opened. Terrance stepped out first, adjusted his jacket as he admired the street. Her chest clenched. He looked good—always did—suit tailored, smile polished.

He reached into the car and helped the blonde out with practiced charm; a hand pressed against her back. The woman's laugh drifted up the sidewalk. She hated how soft it sounded, how easy it came.

Still, she rationalized. Maybe it's a meeting. Maybe there's a group waiting inside. She searched the entrance for familiar faces. Nothing.

Terrance guided the blonde across the carpet and through the revolving door.

She wanted to get out, wanted to run after them, stop them right there. But she knew she was in no condition to be confronting Terrance and his blonde.

It would be just my luck… she thought about the wind, picking up and exposing everything.

So, she held her breath. Waited. Counted. Any second now, he'd come back out and climb into the SUV again.

But the driver pulled away from the curb, the company logo glinting on the plate frame as it rolled into traffic.

Empty.

Naomi's hands went limp against the wheel. Her pulse thundered in her throat. She didn't know how long she sat there, eyes locked on the revolving door.

He wasn't coming back out.

Not for her.

Chapter 4

Naomi now understood his dislike of surprises; she was beginning to develop her own disdain for them.

She drove home feeling stupid as anger coiled in her gut, hunting for somewhere to land. Her mind fixed on Tanisha. The secretary who had assured her that Terrance was "in for lunch." The same one who said his name too easily, too sweet, like it belonged to her.

She could picture the smirk on her face as she sent her straight into heartbreak.

She stabbed at her phone, calling the office. She was ready to unleash, but the moment Tanisha's syrupy voice answered, she froze.

What was she supposed to say?

I called you with a fake accent, and you set me up?

Her thumb disconnected the call.

She tossed the phone aside and paced the kitchen until the clock reminded her Terrance would be home soon.

Rage wasn't a plan.

Dinner—that, at least, she could control.

She placed an order for his favorite, Garlic noodles from Thanh Long. She picked them up in a rush and plated them as if she'd cooked them herself.

And so, they ate in silence.

Naomi pushed noodles around her plate, glancing at him for any sign, any crack in his composure.

But, nothing.

She told herself, five years deserves benefit of doubt.

But then, why not ask?

Maybe it was cowardice, or maybe it was strategy. Either way, the silence held.

She cleared the plates while he disappeared into the bedroom. The stainless-steel sink shone by the time she finished scrubbing. Her reflection in it looked like someone else—someone still pretending.

Chapter 5

The room was dark when she walked in. Terrance lay stretched across the bed, chest rising and falling. He wasn't asleep. She knew because when he slept, he snored, a deep rumble that usually comforted her.

Tonight, there was only silence.

In the bathroom, she wiped off the makeup he hadn't noticed. Her eyes looked raw, rimmed with red. She slid open the vanity drawer and froze. Beneath a tangle of scarves was the stick from yesterday morning. Two pink lines. The truth she hadn't told him, not after all they'd lost. She closed the drawer hard, shutting the thoughts of the twins—Micah and Elise—away with it.

In the walk-in closet, her Victoria's Secret was shoved into a bottom drawer. She slipped into a plain nightie instead.

Sliding into bed, she lay rigid, eyes wide. Each blink replayed the images like a reel she couldn't stop: Terrance walking out of Martin-Davis. Terrance guiding the blonde into the SUV. Terrance disappearing into the Scarlet Huntington. Each picture sharper than the last.

She waited for the snore that never came. When he finally rolled toward her and pulled her into his arms, she melted against him despite herself. His chest rose steadily beneath her cheek, his arms strong around her. For one fragile moment, she remembered why she loved him.

They shifted into their familiar spoon. Naomi lay her head against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat. It was strong. Steady. Too steady. Every beat dragged another image of the blonde back into her head.

She had to ask.

"So, how was your day?" Her voice was soft, almost casual.

"Same ole, same ole," he muttered, tightening his grip.

She smiled into the dark, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Busy? What did you eat for lunch?"

"Working lunch," he said smoothly. "Had Tanisha order me some Togo's."

Her breath caught. There was no stutter, no crack, no nervous hiccup. For years, Terrance had been a terrible liar. It was almost endearing—until it wasn’t.

"What about after lunch?" she pressed, her tone light but edged. "Anything special?"

The silence stretched, thick enough to smother. Then his answer came, calm, practiced. "No. Worked all day. Why you ask?"

There it was. The lie. Clean. Effortless.

She swallowed, forcing her voice to stay even. "I just finished signing the insurance papers, and I realized we hadn't spoken all day, and dinner was a little quiet. Just checking in."

"Good," he said with a yawn. "Put it in my briefcase and I'll file it tomorrow."

She didn't respond.

He held her tighter, his breathing even, his heartbeat steady under her ear.

Naomi stared into the dark, cold dread rising in her chest. The lawyer who practiced probate because he couldn't tell a white lie without tripping over himself had just lied to her like a professional.

And that terrified her.

When did you learn to lie, Terry?

Chapter 6

She took another two days off from work. And for two days, she followed him.

And found nothing.

He went to work, the courthouse, lunch, he came home, he flipped through folders preoccupied at dinner, and he slept too quietly. The nothing was almost worse than catching him; it made her feel like a fool with too much time and too much hope.

Naomi was parked across the street from Martin Davis and Associates. She had a clear view of the curb and the garage where the company SUVs came and went. Her little Honda idled with the air on low; the vents blew cool across her wrist where her pulse wouldn't settle.

A grocery bag sat slumped in the passenger seat where; receipts half-crumpled, a bottle of water, opened and sealed snacks intermingled.

She finished a New York Times article on the life of Jack Jefferey. Tossing it aside, she rummaged around the passenger seat and spotted a manila envelope. Two days ago, Terrance had asked her to pull ten thousand dollars from her account, and he’d replace it. She hadn't given it to him yet.

Why? She hadn’t known.

She clicked her pen against the corner of the envelope, then, without thinking, began to doodle. A rose bloomed under the tip, uneven but delicate, curling petals that spread wider with each absentminded line.

By the time she blinked back up at the street, a black SUV pulled away from the curb. She twisted in her seat, craning to catch a detail—a sleeve, a profile, the tilt of a headrest.

Nothing.

The taillights winked once at the light and bled into a thicket of cars.

Was he inside?

Her fingers flew for her phone. While he was in the shower last night, she shared his phone’s location.

She opened the Find My App, but it showed Terrance Unavailable.

She dialed Terrance—three rings, then voicemail—his recorded calm landing like a slap.

Chapter 7

 She punched another number. The office line clicked, connected. Honey poured into her ear.

"Martin Davis and Associates, Terrance Jones' office. Tanisha—"

"—Tanisha, it's Naomi. Terrance in?" She kept her tone bright, like this was routine, like she wasn't counting her breaths.

A beat. Paper rustled. Or was that acrylic tapping plastic? "Um… yeah. He is… in his office."

"Are you sure?" Naomi glanced at the envelope again, her rose doodle blooming in the corner. "I really need to drop something off to him."

"He's on a very important call and cannot be disturbed."

"Put me through," Naomi said, sweet as iced tea. "Tell him it's an emergency."

"Oh—okay. Can you hold?"

The line beeped. Naomi lifted the phone from her ear and stared at the screen, as if she could read the lie through it.

Had he seen she’d shared his location? Did he stop sharing? She refreshed: Terrance Unavailable.

She thought about the last two days—him walking out with coworkers, him ducking back in with coffees, him stepping onto the curb to take an actual call where she could see his face.

Nothing.

Maybe she was crazy.

Maybe she wanted to be wrong so bad her brain was inventing shadow puppets behind the glass.

But the image at the Scarlet Huntington wouldn't blur: his hand at the small of the blonde's back, the way she laughed, the way they looked together.

Horns barked somewhere behind her; she didn't move. Sweat gathered under the band of her watch, cool air not touching it.

She refreshed again. Still, …Unavailable.

Tapped his name.

Voicemail.

Back to the office line, still on hold.

The phone felt heavier by the second, like it was filling with something she didn't want to name.

The line clicked—office air, a distant murmur—and she pictured Tanisha with her feet tucked under the desk, lip gloss smile, chewing gum, eyes rolling. Naomi could hear the way she said his name—Terrance—like it belonged to her. She could see the little curve of satisfaction that sometimes lived at the corner of the woman's mouth. It wasn't the worst thing to imagine, nor was it the best. It just made her hands go colder.

Her jaw tightened. "Lying bitch," she hung up.

She was already unbuckling before the call ended, shoving the phone into her palm hard enough to leave a print. Envelope in hand, she pushed the door open, looking both ways.

Then, she didn't.

She hit the street at a half-run, sidestepping a car that bellowed at her and a bike messenger who cursed without slowing. Her Nikes slapped across the pavement, the summer air smelling like hot rubber and piss.

By the time the sliding doors whispered open for her, her chest was heaving. She could feel the tight, cool place inside her where anger lived now.

It didn't flare.

It focused.

She was done being the fool.
 

Chapter 8

The lobby was a gallery of terrazzo and glass: big art, bigger echo. Tanisha sat at a sleek metal desk, her phone cradled between her cheek and shoulder, a pen hovering over a legal pad.

"Hello? Hello—Naomi?" She frowned, dropped the receiver into its cradle, and smoothed her skirt with one hand while the other fluttered to the neckline of her blouse.

With a shrug, she pulled up YouTube on her monitor, leaned back in her chair, and began filing her nails.

The door burst open.

"Naomi?"

She didn't slow. "Tanisha." She didn't stop for the smile or the lie. Using the envelope, she pointed towards the door. "You said Terrance is in his office, right?"

"Yeah, but you can't go in there," Tanisha stammered, scrambling up, tugging her skirt down. "He's on a very important—"

"Right." She was already at the door.

The office was vast, all windows and water views, the kind of space that made people talk too much. At first glance, it looked empty. Then a disembodied voice rose from the speakerphone on his desk—an older man, furious and entitled.

"…that little bitch Jenny did this, and those vultures are circling. I want them stricken from my will as soon as the judge declares me competent, do you hear me? I don't care what—"

Terrance stood with his back to the door, hands in his pockets, tie loose, gaz on the glass. He turned quickly at the commotion.

Naomi stood in the doorway, pulse pounding. Tanisha hustled in behind her, breath hitching. "I told her—"

He lifted a palm, silencing her. She shrank, and he shooed her out with a flick of his fingers.

"Terrance?" the voice boomed from the speaker. "Everything alright?"

"My apologies, my secretary," he said smoothly, waving Naomi toward a chair as he took his own. "Look, Big P, there is such a thing as too much representation. We know you're not crazy, and there isn't a judge alive—"

"What's the big fucking deal? You got a warrant out here?"

"No. My anniversary's Sunday," he chuckled.

"Well then, tell the missus you're celebrating in Florida this year."

The line clicked. Silence fell heavily.

Naomi folded her hands in her lap so he wouldn't see them shake. "Seriously?"

He waited. It was something he was good at—letting silence do the work.

"So when I want to go to Florida for our anniversary…" Her voice thinned but held. "You can't get away—"

"I am not going to apologize for providing—"

"Providing?" She let out a laugh, short and bright with pain. "As if what I do is insignificant."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." Her eyes flicked around his office—the dark speakerphone, the neat stack of files, the empty frames without family pictures.

"That's not fair."

"Fair! Let me tell you what's not—"

His tone softened, but his eyes didn't. "Can we not do this here?"

She stood too fast and steadied herself with the back of the chair. She tossed the manila envelope onto his desk, her rose doodle blooming in the corner.

"You asked for this," she said flatly, sarcastically. "I guess I'll see you at home. Wouldn't want to disturb all your clients."

Then she turned and walked out, the door clicking behind her with polite finality.

In the lobby, Tanisha pretended to riffle through a calendar as Naomi strode past, head high, pace steady. She waited until the elevator doors shut to let the tears fall.

Chapter 9

Naomi kept her eyes down as she crossed the lobby, wiping at her face the way you do when you're not crying but might be if someone says your name too gently. Her mind replayed Terrance's silence, his smooth lies, the way he'd looked at her like she was the problem. She didn't see the man until her forehead hit his chest.

"Oof—"

Strong hands steadied her by the shoulders. A warm, familiar body. A low chuckle.

"Whoa, easy now. You good?"

Her breath caught. That voice. She tilted her chin up, blinking into a grin that had always known it was cute.

"Miss Naomi." His smile widened, playful, like the universe had dropped him there just for her.

"A—Ayren?"

She froze for a beat, embarrassed. The last time she'd seen him was her birthday "surprise" back in March. Only he wasn't really a surprise anymore.

For four years, Terrance had billed Ayren to the firm's expense account. Every year—and sometimes more than once—his hands had been the only comfort she got.

He pulled her into a hug before she could think better of it, his arm firm around her waist. "Look at you," he said, steering her toward the quieter side of the lobby where foot traffic thinned. "What happened? You alright?"

"It's nothing." She sniffed, a shaky, almost-laugh. "Allergies."

He tilted his head, unconvinced, but didn't press. "How you been? It's been a minute."

"Since my birthday," she said, rolling her eyes at the memory she wouldn't let rise. "How are you?"

"Good." He gave a little flourish with his hand. "Better now." He arched a brow, licked his lips on purpose—clowning. It worked. She snorted despite herself.

"You betta stop, boy. What are you doing here?"

"I'm headed up to see Terrance," he replied. "We're hammering out the details on a-ah little, quid pro quo. But I'm really excited I ran into you."

"Mm-hm." She gave him side-eye.. "Why?"

"Need a bit of legal advice," he smiled.

"That Terrance can't help you with?"

"Not his lane." He shrugged, palms out. "It's legal-legal. And I don't know anyone who knows the criminal code better than you."

She tried not to smile at that and failed. "I guess I know a little something."

"So dinner," he said, easy as if it weren't a line strung across a minefield.

"Ayren." She laughed once, nervous, shaking her head. "Even if Terrance wasn't in the picture, you're ten years younger than me."

"Ain't nobody trippin' off Terrance." He leaned in just enough, and she caught a whiff of his cologne. "Or numbers."

For half a second, she remembered the weight of his hands kneading her shoulders, the times he'd been there when Terrance wasn't. She pushed the thought down fast and resisted the urge to bite her lip.

"Naw, I just appreciate you," he explained. "I can't expect you to work for nothing."

She rolled her eyes and smiled.  

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a cheap plastic phone. "Lost my other one." He grimaced. "Can I get your number again?"

She arched an eyebrow at the cheap Samsung flip phone, heart stuttering, then typed her number in anyway—slowly, as if to give herself time to change her mind.

She didn't.

He saved it under Naomi (be nice) and flashed her another grin that made her laugh for real.

"Go," she said, angling her chin toward the elevators. "Before I change my mind."

"Say less." He gave her another strong hug, then backed away, walking, grinning like the whole world was a game he knew how to play.

Naomi shook her head and pushed through the main doors into late sunlight. The glass towers glowed gold around the edges. For the first time in days, her chest didn't feel so heavy. She hated to admit it, but she was overdue for a session.

Chapter 10

Naomi always tipped Ayren big, telling herself it was gratitude. She knew women her age—richer women—probably tipped him for more. Ayren was twenty-five, sexy as sin, and everyone at Spa Envy knew he was their golden boy.

She had never crossed that line. Never. But Lord, had she thought about it.

That night, the loft was immaculate and cold. She cooked despite her feelings—garlic, ginger, chicken, a handful of greens—and plated two servings she knew would go untouched.

She sat at the table, chin in hand, listening to the tick of the clock. 6:30. 7:45. 8:03. The food went from steaming to glossy sheen. She wrapped the plates, slid them into the fridge, then scrubbed the counters until her reflection blinked back at her from polished steel.

She told herself she was angry because he was late. But the truth was, she'd known he'd be late. A part of her was even glad. Glad because it meant she didn't have to find words for an argument that felt too big for her mouth.

No dinner confrontation. No fight she wasn't ready for: just silence and the hum of the refrigerator.

She tried not to think about Terrance's smooth voice, about Tanisha's lip gloss lies. She tried not to see the blonde at the Huntington. Instead, her mind drifted somewhere else.

To Ayren.

To the way he'd steadied her in the lobby earlier, grin wide enough to catch the light. To his cologne, warm and sharp. To his hands—God, his hands.

She thought of that awful day two years ago, when she'd climbed off his table mid-massage thinking she just needed the bathroom, only for both of them to see the blood spots blooming across the floor. Terrance was out of town. Ayren was the one who caught her elbow before she fell. Ayren was the one who sat with her in the hospital, who held her hand while she cried herself dry.

Her chest loosened just thinking of him.

By the time she turned off the kitchen lights, the heaviness in her stomach had dulled. She wrapped her robe tighter, padded into the bedroom, and slid between cool sheets.

It was past ten when she heard the keys and the door lock. Shoes off, jacket hung, bathroom light. Running water. The click of the medicine cabinet. She closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.

He came to bed damp and smelling of soap. He didn't apologize. He didn't ask about dinner. He curled against her back like nothing had happened, arm sliding around her waist.

"Don't be mad at me," he murmured into her hair. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."

His mouth found her shoulder, then her neck. This was his language: sex instead of answers. Naomi let herself melt into him out of reflex, out of habit, out of the aching need to feel wanted.

She tried to keep her eyes shut and think only of Terrance as he moved down her body, under the comforter. She felt his tongue on her and thought of Ayren, what his tongue would feel like inside of her.

Ayren, muscles glistening in his fitted shorts and tight black shirt, his body lean and strong. She imagined his hands on her skin, practiced and knowing. She imagined his grin hovering over her, teasing, coaxing.

And she didn't feel guilty. Terrance was already a cheater. This—this small rebellion in her head—was hers to keep.

When it was over, Terrance rolled onto his side and drifted quickly to sleep, breath deep and even. Naomi stayed awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, Ayren's smile flickering behind her eyelids.

She drifted off with him still in her mind and a smile on her face.

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