Chapter 5 Just To See Her Stay
Just To See Her Stay
Langston
Ishouldn’t have kissed her.
It was impulsive. Reckless. The exact kind of emotional display I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding.
But I’ve wanted to do it since the first time I saw her—carrying a tray of drinks across the floor at Lakeshore Reserve, throwing a wink that hit harder than any boardroom ambush ever could.
And when she looked up at me on those courthouse steps, hair tousled by the wind, lips parted, eyes still sharp even after signing away a piece of her life—I didn’t think.
I just claimed.
Her mouth was warm and wild under mine. And for one long second, she didn’t pull away.
That was almost worse.
Because the second I feel her give, even slightly, I want more.
Too much more.
I pull back slowly, breathing her in as she blinks up at me like I just broke a rule she didn’t know we’d written.
I straighten my cuffs, dragging myself back into the version of me that wins contracts and never looks back.
“We leave in ninety minutes,” I tell her.
She frowns. “We?”
“Our flight. Chicago.”
She laughs—this quick, disbelieving sound. “I can just fly commercial.”
“You won’t.”
“I’ve flew commercial to get here.”
“And now you’re my wife. You’ll fly with me.”
Her smile tightens, but she doesn’t argue again.
I don’t wait for more commentary. I just gesture toward the car and start walking.
We board the jet fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
She stalls near the entrance, eyeing the cabin like it’s going to bite her. I don’t comment. I settle into my seat, pull out my laptop, and power up the files I need to review before morning.
“Do you always fly like this?” she asks once we’re in the air.
“Yes.”
“Never flew commercial?” I lift an eyebrow at her ridiculous question.
She shifts. “Does the champagne taste different when it’s ten thousand feet higher than the rest of us?”
I glance up. She’s smirking.
God help me—I actually want to answer.
But I shut it down.
“I need to work.”
Her mouth opens like she’s going to push back. Then she just exhales, slumps back in her seat, and mutters something about diamonds and egos under her breath.
I work.
Or I try to.
Because she keeps moving. Restless. Stretching, flipping through a magazine, kicking off her shoes, checking the window.
Like she’s trying to prove she can’t be boxed in.
And still—my gaze keeps flicking toward her. No matter how many spreadsheets I open, I’m aware of her every shift, every breath.
When we begin our descent, I close the laptop and glance her way.
“You’ll be moving in sometime this week.”
She lets out a bark of laughter.
“Right,” she says. “Sure. I’ll pencil that in.”
“I’m not joking.”
Her laughter fades. “Wait—you’re serious?”
“Of course I am.”
“I can’t move in with you,” she says, wide-eyed. “I don’t even know you.”
“You’re my wife.”
“That doesn’t mean—Langston, I have responsibilities.”
I raise a brow. “Such as?”
“I have to take care of Olga.”
I blink. “Who?” I pause. The name sounds… elderly. “She lives alone?”
Sabrina shrugs. “She’s old. Needs a little help.”
I nod slowly. “Fine. We’ll arrange something for her care.”
“No,” she says quickly. “It’s not like that.”
She looks down, like she suddenly regrets bringing it up.
I lean forward. “You’re not living alone anymore. You’re not sneaking around Chicago like you’re not married. You’re mine now.”
“Jesus, calm down. I’m not sneaking anything.”
She exhales hard and rubs her temple. “I’ll stay some nights at your place. When I’m not working.”
That stops me.
“Working?”
“At the Reserve.”
My pulse ticks. “You’re not working there anymore.”
Her head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“My wife won’t work in a bar.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I don’t blink. “I’m not.”
She scoffs. “This—this—is exactly what I was trying to tell you when I gave you the list of reasons not to marry me. I told you I wasn’t built for this.”
“And I ignored it,” I reply. “Because I don’t care about your list. I care about what we agreed to.”
“No,” she says firmly. “You decided this. You chose. You announced it and made it real. Don’t act like I drew up a contract.”
I grit my teeth. “We’ll discuss it over dinner tomorrow night.”
She grabs her bag and stands before we’ve even come to a full stop.
“I have work.”
“Sabrina—”
“I’ll call you,” she says, turning away.
And before I can reach for her, before I can tell her she’s not going anywhere without me—she’s already halfway down the stairs.
Straight into my waiting town car.
And I watch it drive off. Without me.
The house is dark when I walk in.
Not physically—motion lights click on the moment I step through the door, and everything in the front hall glows like a high-end catalog.
But still, it’s dark.
Empty in a way I’ve never noticed before.
Everything is where it should be—polished wood floors, tall ceilings, minimalist black-and-white artwork lining the walls. It's clean. Expensive. Precise.
Just like me.
Or at least, just like I thought I was.
But now?
Now all I can think about is how much she’s going to hate it.
The silence. The order. The lack of anything warm or human. It’s not a home—it's four walls with a yard.
And she’s going to walk through that door tomorrow and feel like a stranger in her own life.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, tossing my keys into the bowl by the door.
“Mr. Blackwell?”
I turn to see my housekeeper stepping out from the hallway. She’s short, silver-haired, dressed in a pale lavender cardigan and orthopedic shoes.
“Hi, Mabel.”
Her brows lift slightly at the sight of me. “You’re home early. Did your meeting—”
“I got married.”
Mabel blinks once. Twice.
Then she straightens her spine and smiles politely, even if the corner of her mouth twitches with restrained curiosity.
“Congratulations,” she says, voice calm. “Would you like me to prepare something?”
“No.” I walk into the kitchen, glancing around at the bare countertops and the sleek steel fixtures. Cold. Like everything else.
“Mabel, I need flowers in here. Everywhere. And more color—cushions, throws, something warmer in the bedroom. Hell, paint the guest room if you have to. Just—make it feel lived in.”
She studies me for a second, eyes sharp behind her glasses. “Are we expecting company, sir?”
“My wife is moving in tomorrow.”
Now that gets a reaction. The shock flashes across her face before she can rein it in.
“I see,” she says carefully. “I’ll get right on it.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
She disappears down the hall, already making notes on the tablet she keeps tucked into her apron. Efficient, discreet, exactly what I hired her for.
And yet… for the first time in years, I feel like I’m the one out of place here.
I walk into the living room, hands in my pockets, staring out the window at the vastness. It's beautiful, sure. It’s my sanctuary. I had Coleman find it for me. I want my pulse on the city but I needed somewhere to clear my head.
But it’s not enough.
Not without her here.
I can still hear her voice from earlier—sarcastic and bright, curling around the edges of my discipline like smoke. I can feel the shape of her in my hands. Taste the defiance on her lips.
And I already fucking miss her.
She ran out to my car like she couldn’t get away fast enough. Like the idea of breathing the same air for too long would ruin her.
And all I can think about is whether she’ll love this place. Whether she’ll look out these windows and feel like she’s home. Whether she’ll roll her eyes when she sees the guest room or tease me for having zero throw pillows on the damn couch.
I’ve built my life in symmetry and silence.
But if she walks through that door tomorrow and hates it—
I’ll tear it apart and rebuild it from scratch.
Just to see her stay.