Chapter 4 One Year, Mrs. Blackwell
One Year, Mrs. Blackwell
Sabrina
Ariana sits on the edge of her bed, fingers knotted in the hem of her dress, tears threatening the thick line of mascara she wore to please our father.
I kneel in front of her, smoothing my hand over her knee.
“You okay?”
She lets out a soft laugh, watery and short. “You just offered yourself up like a sacrifice, and you’re asking me that?”
I shrug. “Well, it’s kind of my thing.”
She sniffles. “You don’t have to do this.”
I smile and brush a piece of her hair off her cheek, letting my thumb linger just long enough to remind her I’ve got her. I always have her.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t even like Langston.”
“I don’t even know Langston.”
“Exactly!”
I glance at the doorway, making sure we’re still alone. Langston’s in my father’s office down the hall, no doubt reworking the terms of my future like it’s another line item in a spreadsheet.
And maybe it is.
I lean in closer. “Maybe I can convince him to keep it temporary. A year. Just to save face and shut everyone up.”
Ariana’s eyes widen. “You think he’ll agree?”
I pause, then grin. “I’ve talked my way into worse things.”
She gives a tiny smile, and I know that’s all she needs. Permission to let go of the guilt. She wasn’t built for battles like this.
But I was.
I press a kiss to her forehead, stand, and grab my small bag from the guest room without saying goodbye to anyone else. I don’t owe them anything—not tonight, not ever.
The air is cooler than I expected when I step outside.
I tug my coat tighter around me and start walking down the long, winding road that leads out of Kensington territory.
The walk helps. Always has. Even as a kid, when the house got too loud—or too cold—I’d sneak out and walk until I could breathe again.
I’m halfway down the block when headlights stretch long across the pavement behind me.
I don’t flinch.
A sleek black town car rolls up beside me, window lowering slowly.
Of course.
Langston.
“You always take midnight strolls alone?” he asks from the backseat, brow raised.
I smile. “You stalking me now?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Get in the car, Sabrina.”
“I’m good.”
“Where are you going?”
“To a friend’s.”
He leans his head slightly, expression unreadable. “Really.”
“Yup.”
Langston doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t. The man probably has a background check file on me already.
“Sabrina.”
I exhale, roll my eyes. “Fine. I’m going to my hotel. Alone. I needed air, not a chauffeur.”
He nods once to the driver, and the car rolls forward just enough to block my path.
“Sabrina.”
God, the way he says my name. It’s not a plea—it’s an order disguised as a favor.
“I’m not here to interrogate you,” he says. “Get in. You can clear your head in the car. I’m cutting your walk short, not your freedom.”
He sounds reasonable.
Which pisses me off.
But fine.
I open the door and slide in, pulling the strap across my chest like it might protect me from the heat radiating off him. He’s on his phone again, backlit by the screen, eyes scanning lines of text while the city glows outside the windows.
I glance at him. Once. Then again.
What the hell is it going to be like—being married to someone like him?
Always working. Always in control. Always quiet when I want to scream.
The driver glances at me in the mirror. “Address, miss?”
“La Quinta Inn on Grand.”
He pauses. “Are you… sure?”
I grin. “Dead sure.”
Langston finally glances up, brow twitching—but he says nothing.
Smart man.
The rest of the ride is silent. Except for the way I keep sneaking glances at him and wondering what the hell I just signed up for.
The car pulls up to the hotel. It’s nothing special. It’s not meant to be.
Before Langston can open his mouth, I’m already out.
I turn back, lean down just enough to meet his eyes.
“One year,” I say. “That’s all I’m offering.”
And before he can say anything in return, I shut the door in his face.
Because tomorrow, I become his wife.
But tonight?
Tonight, I still get the last word.
The courthouse steps are older than I expected.
Worn down by time. Faded, cracked, imperfect.
Kind of like me.
I climb them slowly, my fingers curling around the soft fabric of the white dress I grabbed off a rack less than four hours ago. It wasn’t designer. It wasn’t expensive. But it was mine. And I chose it.
Because even if this marriage is a lie—temporary and transactional and completely unplanned—wearing white makes it feel like something I decided.
Like something normal.
I hear footsteps beside me.
Ariana.
She showed up like she always does—quietly, without ceremony, holding my hand like she is still four years old sneaking out the back gate to chase fireflies.
She’s not smiling.
But she’s here.
And that’s enough.
Ahead of us, my father stands stiffly near the courthouse doors, looking like a man trying to pretend he still has control. He doesn't.
Beside him, Langston waits.
And he's watching me.
Not politely.
Not casually.
No—his gaze tracks every single step I take like he's memorizing my movements, like my hips are a problem he wants to solve with his mouth.
My breath catches in my throat, and I straighten my spine.
I will not melt for this man on the courthouse stairs.
His suit is black. Crisp. Tailored like sin.
The wind lifts a few strands of my hair, and I swear his eyes darken as they follow the curve of it across my collarbone.
I hate the way my skin prickles under his attention.
I hate the way I don’t hate it.
We reach the top, and I don’t look at my father. Not even once. Ariana squeezes my hand and then lets go as Langston steps forward and opens the courthouse door.
I don’t thank him.
I just walk past, chin up.
Inside, the judge is waiting. An older man with tired eyes and a pen already in his hand.
It’s fast. Efficient. Painless, on the surface.
Except for the part where I sign my name—Sabrina Kensington—next to his.
Langston Blackwell.
My husband.
Ariana hugs me tight before I can think about it too hard.
“You’ll be okay,” she whispers.
I nod, forcing a small smile. “You too.”
She leaves with her head down, slipping out before anyone else can speak.
And then it’s just us.
Langston and me.
Standing alone on the courthouse steps with the city stretching wide around us.
My heels click against the stone as I turn to face him. His hands are in his pockets, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he looks at me.
Like he’s waiting for the next move.
Like he knows I’m going to fight him every step of the way—and he’s already looking forward to it.
“I’m giving you one year,” I say.
He tilts his head. “One year?”
“That’s the deal,” I bite out. “One year. Then we walk away. You get your merger, your reputation stays clean, and I get to go back to my life.”
Langston’s mouth curves into something dark. Dangerous.
“I never agreed to that.”
And before I can snap back, before I can remind him that I am not something he can own—
He kisses me.
Right there.
On the courthouse steps.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not polite.
It’s the kind of kiss that pins you in place—hot, hungry, and anchored in a promise neither of us has the guts to say out loud.
When he pulls back, I’m breathless.
Blinking.
Steadying my stance like he actually knocked me off balance.
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear.
“One year, Mrs. Blackwell,” he murmurs.