Chapter 25 Everything Goes Red
Everything Goes Red
Langston
Something’s been off all day.
It settles under my skin the second I leave the house—quiet but relentless, like I stepped out wrong and didn’t realize it until I was already too far gone to fix it. I replay the way I snapped at her. The way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes after. The way the door closed behind me.
I tell myself to focus.
I try.
Emails blur. Numbers stop making sense. I reread the same line of a contract three times and still couldn’t tell you what it says. Every thought circles back to Sabrina—what she’s doing, where she went, whether she’s angry or hurt or already halfway out the door like she’s done before.
By the time the fleet scheduling team from the Kensington side arrives, I’m already wound tight.
Two men. One woman.
All business. Charts, routes, timelines. I lock into it automatically—this is the part of my life that’s always made sense. Steel lines. Logistics. Control.
The men are exactly what I expect—efficient, polite, eyes on the numbers. The woman isn’t.
She smiles too easily. Holds eye contact too long. Crosses her legs slowly when she sits, like she’s on a date instead of in a boardroom.
I ignore it.
We get through routing timelines and regional expansions. I’m mid-sentence explaining a bottleneck in the Northeast corridor when I feel it—her attention sliding over me, not listening so much as watching.
When the meeting wraps, they stand. Handshakes all around.
The men are quick.
She isn’t.
Her fingers curl around mine, lingering. Her thumb brushes my knuckle, deliberate.
“Congratulations,” she says, eyes flicking briefly to my left hand. “On the wedding.”
“Thank you,” I reply coolly, already trying to pull back.
She doesn’t let go.
“I have to admit,” she adds, voice dropping slightly, conspiratorial. “I didn’t expect it to be Sabrina.”
My body stills.
She smiles wider, like she enjoys that she landed the hit. “She never struck me as the type to settle. Especially not for… obligation.”
I finally free my hand. “You’re mistaken.”
She lifts a shoulder, unbothered. “Maybe. But last I heard, she had options. Elliott, for one. He seemed… very invested.”
She tilts her head, studying my face. “Last I heard, she was still with Elliott. At least… that’s what everyone assumed when he followed her to Chicago as soon as his father had an opening.”
The room goes cold.
I don’t pull my hand away fast enough.
She finally lets go.
I don’t say anything else. Don’t trust myself to.
They leave. The door clicks shut behind them.
I sit there for a full minute, staring at nothing, blood roaring in my ears.
Followed her. That’s what he did.
By the time I leave the office, it’s dark out and my chest feels like it’s packed with broken glass. I call Mabel on the drive home, needing something—anything—familiar.
“Did you have dinner plans?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. “Sabrina hasn’t been answering me.”
There’s a pause on the line. Too long.
“Oh,” Mabel says carefully. “She left right after you did this morning, dear. She hasn’t been back.”
The steering wheel tightens under my grip.
I don’t need to ask where she went.
I already know.
Which is how I end up here—sitting on a barstool at the Lakeshore Reserve, untouched drink in front of me, watching my wife like a hawk for the last fifteen minutes. She’s working. Confident. Beautiful. Completely herself.
I feel her before she looks at me.
The shift in the room. The awareness snapping into place.
When she finally turns and our eyes meet, her mouth curves into that slow, knowing smirk.
Not defiant.
Inviting.
A challenge.
I lean back on the stool, letting the tension settle into something sharp and familiar.
I’m not worried. I’m looking forward to it. Because sparring with my wife?
Might be my favorite fight yet.
Then she turns away, moving through the room with that effortless grace of hers—hips swaying, shoulders relaxed, completely in her element. I let myself watch her for a second longer than necessary. Let myself enjoy it.
That’s when I see him. Tall. Clean-cut. Too sure of himself.
Elliott.
He’s coming in from the side entrance, eyes locked straight ahead like a heat-seeking missile. He doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t clock the bar. Doesn’t see me.
Because all he sees is her.
My jaw tightens as he closes the distance. He says something to her—low, familiar. Something meant to pull her attention, not earn it. I see her body tense before her face does. Her smile fades. Her shoulders stiffen.
Then he grabs her arm. Not violent. Not frantic. Worse. Assumptive. Possessive.
And when he starts pulling her toward the back hallway like he has every right in the world to do so?
I’m already standing.
The barstool scrapes softly against the floor as I rise, slow and controlled. Anyone watching would think I’m calm. Measured. In command.
They’d be wrong. Because inside, everything goes red.
Every instinct in me sharpens, narrows, locks onto one thing—him touching what’s mine. My hands curl at my sides, not because I’m unsure, but because I’m choosing restraint.
For now. I take one step forward. Then another. The distance between us closes fast.
And Elliott still hasn’t realized his mistake.