Chapter Thirty-Two
BY THE TIME MORNING found me, it was out of spite.
Then one morning turned into two, then seven, then weeks that blurred together so seamlessly I stopped counting them.
My life had shrunk into a loop of muted repetitions, a kind of monotone autopilot that made even breathing feel rehearsed.
I woke up exhausted, went to work exhausted, saw patients, delivered babies, removed uteruses and fibroids, came home, and did it all again.
Khalifa and I existed like ghosts haunting the same square footage.
Sometimes I’d hear him moving around at dawn, his gentle footsteps in the kitchen, the faint scrape of dishes against marble.
When I got up for work, there’d be breakfast and coffee waiting—perfectly brewed, perfectly timed, like clockwork—and lunch packed neatly beside it.
When I got home, dinner appeared outside my door.
He never said a word about it, never knocked, but somehow the plate was always warm.
And every night, I found a new reason to be angry about it—that he still cared enough to cook but not enough to express his stupid feelings. That he wouldn’t let me hate him cleanly.
To be fair, I started most of our fights. All it took was him existing too calmly or looking too collected, as if none of this touched him. As if I were the only one walking around with a bruise where my heart should’ve been.
But maybe that was the cruelest part—he still did everything right, as if love could live in actions even when it had been denied in words.
He tried to talk to me about that night a few more times, to explain, and every time I shut him out because I was too much of a wimp to hear him reject me again. Or worse, to watch him actually agree with me. To take me up on my impulsive, half-panicked request for a divorce and make it real.
He’d said he would only end up hurting me, said it like it was a foregone conclusion, like gravity or taxes or heartbreak written into his DNA. But how could that possibly be true when he was the only person in my life who had never hurt me—not even a little bit? Not even at all?
Until now, that is.
I was in the break room, pretending to review patient charts while Kevin and Robert hovered near the coffee pot like caffeinated vultures. They were mid-argument about whether the vending machine sandwiches could be classified as “food”.
“I’m telling you,” Kevin said, stabbing the air with his stir stick, “they have the same shelf life as a Twinkie. That’s not food, that’s a science experiment.”
Robert rolled his eyes. “Says the guy who eats instant noodles dry.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Kevin said, grinning. Then he turned to me. “Back me up, Dr. Overachiever. You wouldn’t put that stuff in your body, right?”
“I’ve eaten worse during night shifts,” I said without looking up. “I once had a granola bar from 2018. Pretty sure it bit back.”
Kevin laughed, triumphant. “See? Even Dr. T has standards.” Then, with that suspiciously casual tone he used whenever he was about to drop a bomb, he added, “Speaking of standards...you didn’t forget about the gala, did you?”
My head snapped up. “What gala?”
Robert gasped theatrically. “She forgot.”
“The annual Miracle Mothers Charity Gala. You’re literally on the planning committee. There’s a photo of you in the brochure holding a baby like it’s an Oscar.”
“Oh,” I said flatly. “That gala.”
“That gala,” Kevin echoed, spinning my chair with his foot. “The one you not only organized, but also submitted a proposal for. Tomorrow. Seven o’clock. Black tie. Tiny appetizers. Rich people pretending they understand what an umbilical cord is.”
My head fell into my hands. “Right. The proposal.”
Robert leaned against the counter. “You’ve been a little...distracted lately.”
I looked up, scowling. “I have not been distracted.”
Kevin arched a brow. “You called an incubator ‘temperamental’ yesterday and told it to calm down.”
“Because it was being 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’d decorated the 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-phobic husband 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 BETTER part 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 whispered confidence and good 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.
It was mocking me.
I twisted and reached, contorted and cursed under my breath, but the zipper refused to budge. I could practically feel the clock glaring at me from the nightstand. Then, as if summoned by my frustration, there was a knock.
“Lillian,” Khalifa’s voice came through the door. “We’re going to be late.”
Of course we were.
I stared at my reflection, shoulders tense, pride and desperation warring inside me before I sighed, defeated. “I need help with the zipper on my dress,” I called out, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
For a second, I thought he’d walked away. Then, quietly: “Okay.”
My pulse stuttered. “Keep your eyes closed.”
“Okay.”
I cracked the door open just enough to check and froze.
His eyes were, thankfully, closed. But everything else about him was a problem.
The tux fit too well, the dark fabric sharpening his already unfairly defined body.
His hair, slightly tousled, brushed his forehead in a way that felt.
..intentional. His face—God help me—was carved with a restraint that felt like temptation disguised as politeness.