Page 50 of Shattered Oath
The fitting room door was still open. I stepped inside.
Femi followed. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing us in.
"Baby—"
I held up my hand, stopping him mid-step.
"Where were you?"
He froze. The roses lowered slightly, forgotten. "What?"
"Where. Were. You." Each word came out precise, controlled, though my heart was hammering. "You're here now, yes. But where were you for the past five days?"
"Isabelle, I'm here now?—"
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "You're not. You haven't been here for days. You might as well have disappeared from my life entirely." My voice was rising. I couldn't stop it. "Where were you? Why didn't I hear anything from you? Not a single call. Not one text. Nothing."
Femi moved closer. His hand came up, reaching for my cheek, but I stepped back. His fingers hung in the air for a moment before falling to his side.
"Isabelle, I'm sorry." He sounded sincere. He always sounded sincere. "Work has been insane. The move to New York is taking longer than I expected, and there have been complications with the business, and?—"
"I have work too." My arms crossed over my chest, a barrier between us. "I just opened a new boutique. In a foreign city.After a crisis that nearly derailed everything. And I still had time. I still would have made time for you."
"I know. You're absolutely right." He took another step forward, careful this time. "I should have called. I should have been there for you. I handled it badly, and I'm sorry."
The apology hung between us. Simple. Direct.
But it wasn’t enough.
"You gave me a lecture," I said quietly. "When I called you about the mannequins, I was panicking and overwhelmed. I was exhausted and I needed someone to just... listen. To tell me it would be okay. You gave me a strategy session, instead."
"I was trying to help."
"I didn't need help. I needed comfort."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, frustration crossed his face—a crack in the polished exterior—but it smoothed away quickly, replaced by that careful patience he wore like an armor.
"You're right," he said again. "I got it wrong. I'll do better, I promise."
"Will you?"
"Yes. I mean it." He stepped closer, and this time I didn't move away. His hand found mine, fingers interlacing. "I mean it, Isabelle. I'm in this for the long run. Whatever it takes."
His thumb traced circles on my palm. That old familiar pattern. My body remembered it, responded to it, even as my mind screamed warnings.
"I flew across the world to apologize in person," he continued. "I could have called. I could have sent flowers and hoped you'd forgive me. But I'm here. Standing in front of you. Doesn't that count for something?"
It did. I hated how much it did.
But it wasn't enough to erase the silence. The days of wondering if I really mattered to him. The way he'd made mefeel small and incapable with his lecture, then vanished entirely when I needed him most.
I pulled my hand free.
"I can't do this right now." I moved toward the door, needing air, needing space. "My family is here. My show just ended. This isn't the time or place."
"Isabelle, please?—"
"Not now, Femi."
