Chapter 10
ADAIR
But he stayed.
Staring at spreadsheets. Reworking briefs. Drowning in distraction.
Putting in the hours, overdelivering, always on-call—that was the unspoken rule for interns. They piled on caseloads not just to test you, but because no one else wanted to do them. You either drowned or came up a shark.
When Corrine passed by his office and asked if he was coming to the team happy hour, he almost said no. Almost. But then she smiled like she always did, just a little too familiar, and said, “Come on, Dayne. One drink won’t kill you.”
He almost said no.
Almost.
But God, he was tired. Tired of being perfect.
Of being the husband who never cracked. The father who never fumbled.
The partner who was always on his A-game.
The man who carried everything on his back and still came home gentle.
He didn’t want to return to bedtime tantrums and swollen ankles and the quiet, aching space between him and Sabine. Not tonight.
So, he went.
Adair was the only married intern. The only father.
The only Black man in the room—again. If he wanted to make it in that world, he had to be twice as sharp, twice as good, and ten times as unshakable.
And the fucked-up part? He was. Even the paralegals came to him for answers but none of it ever felt like enough.
Corrine lingered by his doorway a second longer, like she knew all that.
Like she could see the weight in his shoulders, the fatigue he never admitted to and maybe she could—because lately, she’d been noticing everything.
When he skipped lunch. When he rubbed the bridge of his nose mid-brief.
When he stared at his phone a little too long before putting it face-down on the desk.
“Just one drink,” she said again, soft now. Less playful, more...intentional.
Adair stood, grabbed his coat and followed her out.
One drink turned into two. Laughter turned into low lighting.
Music played through the bar speakers, something old-school and sexy, and Corrine danced like it was just them in the world.
Adair chuckled, shook his head, and said he was heading out but she pulled him back. Just for one more song. One more drink.
They danced.
Not close. Not at first.
But then she looked up at him—those eyes seductive, knowing—and pressed her body closer. He didn’t push her away. He should have. And when she leaned in—slow, deliberate—he didn’t stop her fast enough. Their lips met. Just for a moment but long enough.
Long enough to feel like a betrayal.
Long enough to become one.
Adair stumbled back, heart thudding in his chest. “I can’t—nah, I can’t do this.”
Corrine’s smirk fell. “Adair—”
But he was already gone, brushing past barstools and murmured goodnights, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
Dead.
“Fuck,” he muttered, rushing to the car. He plugged it into the charger. The screen stayed black. For a few seconds, he begged the tech gods to move faster. Then it blinked awake.
Missed calls.
A wall of missed calls.
Texts from his mother. From Narri. From Reeka. From Sabine.
From Tate.
Where are you?
Call me now.
She’s in labor!
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU brO?
Answer your phone.
She needs you.
When I get my hands on you Adair Dayne, I am going to wring YOUR NECK! The last text he’d gotten from his mother.
But what made his heart bleed were Sabine’s texts. Her voicemails. Her…cries. Adair’s chest collapsed inward. He didn’t even take the time to think, he peeled out of the parking lot so fast his tires screamed.
By the time he got to the hospital, his stomach was rotting with dread. The waiting room was quiet but not in the peaceful kind of way. No, this silence was thick. It was grief before anyone said a word.
Pam sat hunched in a chair, holding a sleeping Ade who had dried tears on his cheeks and snot under his nose. She didn’t even look at Adair. Just rocked back and forth, whispering something to herself. A prayer, maybe. Or a curse. Cursing his ass.
Narri and Parthenia stood off to the side. Red-eyed. Rigid. If looks could kill, Adair would’ve dropped on the spot. Tate was the only one who stepped forward. No dap. No hug. Just a steady, heartbroken stare.
“She lost the baby, man,” Tate said, voice low.
Adair blinked. “What?”
“She had a girl,” Tate continued, barely audible now. “But she…she didn’t make it.”
Adair nearly hit the floor. He didn’t hear the rest. Couldn’t. The world went muffled. Like he’d been submerged underwater. He stumbled down the hall, not waiting for clearance or directions. He just needed to see her.
Sabine’s room was dim. She sat up in the bed, back turned to the door, staring out the window. The blanket draped over her small frame, shoulders trembling just once—then still.
Adair stood in the doorway, ashamed to breathe.
Ashamed to be.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Because what do you say to the woman who carried your child and gave birth alone?
What do you say when you chose a drink and a dance over her?What do you say when you’re the reason she had to be strong? Nothing he could say would undo what he stole from her.
That was the night he stopped being her home.
Adair stepped in slow, like the floor might crumble beneath him. Like one wrong breath might make her vanish. The soft hum of machines, the faint beep of monitors, the sterile chill in the air—everything felt louder than the sound of his own heart pounding in his chest.
“Sabine,” he said, barely above a whisper.
She didn’t turn.
Didn’t move.
Just kept staring out the window, like there was something out there she could cling to. Something to help her stay alive.
Adair came closer, each step heavier than the last. There was a small bundle in a bassinet near her bed—wrapped in pink with a little bow.
The air shifted around it, still and sacred.
His knees buckled before he could help it.
He dropped beside the bed, chest folding into itself, head bowed as he crumbled emotionally. He could see her little blue lips.
“I’m so sorry,” he choked out. “Bine…please. I’m—”
Her voice was hoarse. “Don’t.”
Adair looked up. Her face was stone, except for her eyes. Her eyes were red-rimmed and soaked in the kind of pain words couldn’t reach. She didn’t look angry. She looked...empty.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “My phone—”
“Don’t,” she said again, quieter this time. “Don’t give me that. Not tonight.”
Adair's mouth opened, then closed. He nodded slowly because she was right. No excuse would be good enough. No explanation would rewind the hours she spent weeping, contracting, alone in a cold room with strangers telling her when to push.
“You missed everything,” she whispered.
He broke at that. His head dropped into his hands. “I know. I know, I know…”
She didn’t comfort him. Just turned her head back to the window and said nothing. Because what was there left to say? He missed his daughter’s life.
All of it.
All however many minutes or if any.
He missed the way Sabine’s body shook when they handed her the silence that was supposed to cry.
He missed the moment their son was escorted out screaming for his mama because strangers tried to hold him while the woman he loved bled into the sheets.
He missed the moment Sabine stopped believing he would show up and now she was gone too.
Not physically but something in her had left.
No amount of weeping at her bedside would bring the moment back. Bring their daughter back. He wanted to touch her. To hold her. To fall into her lap and beg for forgiveness.
But he didn’t.
Adair just stayed there, on his knees, swallowing his grief in silence.
Because he finally understood—
This wasn’t a moment he could fix.
This was a moment he would carry. Forever.
SAYING GOODBYE
The nurse came in quietly, like she didn’t want to disturb the sadness. She didn’t speak at first. Just gave a soft nod, eyes flickering between Sabine and the tiny bundle swaddled in her arms.
Sabine had been holding her for hours now. Skin to skin. Her baby girl. So small. So impossibly still. She counted her fingers over and over.
Ten.
Toes, too.
Ten.
Tiny, perfect, lifeless.
A nurse had offered to take her earlier.
Sabine said no. She wasn’t letting go just yet.
Adair hadn’t said a word since kneeling beside her.
He’d moved to the chair now, bent forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
Every now and then, his body shook but she couldn’t comfort him. Not right now.
“Mrs. Dayne,” the nurse finally said, voice low, respectful. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Sabine nodded slowly but didn’t move. Her arms tightened slightly around the bundle, the weight of her daughter like an anchor across her chest. She looked down again, touching her baby’s cheek with the back of one trembling finger. It was already cooling.
“I wanted her name to mean something,” she said, not looking at the nurse. “I wanted it to be strong. Wanted it to sound like light.”
Adair looked up, eyes wet. “What was it?”
Sabine swallowed hard. “Ariyah.”
He choked on the name. “Ariyah,” he repeated.
She nodded, rocking just slightly. “She would’ve been loud,” she said through a teary laugh. “Bold. The kind of girl who’d talk back but can still win spelling bees. My girl wouldn’t have given a damn. I just know she was an extrovert like Narri.”
Sabine finally looked at him. There was no venom in her gaze this time. Just loss. Mutual and endless.
The nurse stepped forward again.
Sabine hesitated, then leaned down, placing a kiss on the soft patch of forehead just beneath the bow they’d given her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
The nurse took her gently, like she was something holy and just like that, Ariyah was gone.
The room felt colder. Quieter. Like something sacred had been stolen. Adair reached for Sabine’s hand and let him hold it but she didn’t hold back. She wept until she had nothing left.