Chapter 27 But Sweetheart.
But Sweetheart...
Langston
Idon’t remember crossing the room.
One second I’m moving—measured, controlled, every step calculated—and the next, my hand is already at Elliott’s throat.
His back hits the wall with a solid thud, the sound sharp enough to finally draw gasps from the room. I barely register them. Barely register Sabrina’s sharp intake of breath behind me.
All I see is red.
My grip tightens, fingers digging into muscle and tendon, pinning him there like he weighs nothing. He chokes, hands flying up to my wrist, eyes wide—but not scared enough yet.
“I thought,” I say slowly, my voice terrifyingly calm, “I told you not to fucking touch my wife.”
His feet scramble for purchase as he tries to push back, to puff himself up like he has any leverage here.
“You don’t get to—” he coughs, then forces a laugh. “You don’t get to act like you own her.”
That’s when he makes it worse.
“She was mine first,” he spits. “I had dibs on her. She chose me. And if she hadn’t run off like a coward, I’d be standing where you are right now.”
Something cracks in my chest.
“She was supposed to marry me,” he continues, emboldened by the flicker of hesitation he must feel in my grip. “Her father agreed to it. That’s why you got the sister. You were never even an option.”
My fingers loosen—just a fraction.
Not because I believe him.
Because a thought slips in, sharp and poisonous.
Sabrina didn’t choose me.
Did I rip her away from someone she loved?
Did I force her into something she never wanted?
The rage falters, twisting into something darker. He sees it. Smiles through his bruising throat.
“She loved me,” he says softly. “Now she’s stuck with you.”
A hand touches my arm.
Sabrina.
Her voice is steady when she speaks. “Langston. Let him go.”
The words land heavier than the punch I could’ve thrown.
I release him.
Elliott stumbles forward, coughing, straightening his jacket like he won something.
And then—
Crack.
The sound echoes through the room.
Sabrina’s hand connects with his face so hard his head snaps to the side. The room goes dead silent.
Her voice shakes—not with fear, but fury.
“I never loved you.”
He stares at her, stunned.
“I didn’t choose Langston,” she continues, stepping into his space, eyes blazing. “But I sure as hell wouldn’t have chosen you either. That’s why I ran. I ran from you. From them. From all of it.”
Her chest rises and falls as she finishes, voice dropping to something lethal. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
People are staring now. Whispering.
I step in immediately, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her back against my chest. Protective. Possessive. No hesitation this time.
“That’s enough,” I murmur, lips brushing her ear. “Let’s go.”
She doesn’t resist.
I guide her away, my body angled to block Elliott from her completely. My jaw is tight, hands still itching, rage still boiling just beneath the surface.
I’m not calm.
Not even close.
But I’m focused.
And whoever thought they could touch my wife and walk away?
They just learned how wrong they were.
I don’t say a word.
Not when I guide her out of the Reserve. Not when I open the car door and make sure she’s inside. Not when I get behind the wheel and pull away from the curb.
The silence is deliberate. Controlled. If I open my mouth right now, something ugly will come out—and I refuse to be that man with her.
My hands grip the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles ache.
I’m furious.
Furious at Elliott for touching her like he had any right. Furious at the way he said her name like it still belonged to him. Furious at myself for letting him get under my skin at all.
And yes—furious at Sabrina.
For going back to the damn Reserve. For putting herself in a position where he could get near her. For acting like this marriage is something she’s just… enduring.
One year.
She keeps saying it like a shield.
One year like it’s a sentence she’s counting down. Like she’s already planning her escape.
The road blurs beneath the headlights as I replay everything she’s said, everything she’s done since the moment we signed those papers.
She told me from the beginning it was only one year. She went back to work even after I told her I’d help her—fund her nonprofit, back her dreams, give her space to build something that mattered. She listened when I talked. Saw the parts of me no one outside my circle ever does.
And still—
She doesn’t want me the way I want her.
That truth lands heavy in my chest.
I’d felt bad this morning. Thought maybe I’d pushed too hard. That I’d let stress turn me sharp around the edges and owed her softness instead.
Now?
Now I see it clearly.
I can’t afford to keep giving her pieces of myself when she’s already halfway out the door.
This marriage was never supposed to be emotional. It was supposed to be strategic. Temporary. Clean.
My father’s legacy. A business move. A year of doing what was required.
I swore I’d never force anyone into loving me.
And yet here I am—married to a woman who keeps reminding me she didn’t choose me.
I exhale slowly through my nose, forcing the heat in my chest down, locking it away where it belongs.
Fine.
If she wants distance, she can have it. If she wants a year, I’ll give her exactly that.
I’ll be respectful. I’ll be present. I’ll protect her when necessary.
But I won’t bleed for someone who’s already planning to leave.
I’ll make it through this year with my heart intact.
Even if it kills me to do it.
The house is quiet when we pull in.
Sabrina keeps glancing at me as we walk inside—quick looks she probably thinks I don’t notice. Like she’s waiting for something. An explosion. An accusation. Maybe an apology she doesn’t know how to give.
I don’t give her anything.
Not yet.
My jaw is still tight. My chest still feels like it’s packed with glass.
We reach the kitchen and Mabel looks up from the counter immediately, concern written all over her face. She reads rooms better than anyone I know.
“Dinner’s—” she starts.
“Not tonight,” I say gently but firmly. “We’ll handle it.”
She studies me for a beat, then nods. “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” she says to Sabrina, squeezing her shoulder before disappearing up the stairs.
The kitchen feels smaller without her.
We sit at the small table—too close, too familiar. The air between us is thick, waiting.
“Sabrina—” “Langston—”
We stop at the same time.
I close my eyes for half a second and inhale slowly. “Let me go first,” I say, voice low. “Because if I don’t say this now… I’m not sure I will.”
She nods, folding her hands in her lap.
I stare at the wood grain of the table because looking at her feels like stepping too close to the edge of something I can’t afford to fall into.
“I’m sorry,” I begin. The words feel strange in my mouth—heavy, necessary. “For pushing you about the Reserve. I thought I was helping. Thought you’d want time, space, resources to work on your nonprofit.”
I glance up at her briefly. “But I see now… you want to do it yourself. On your terms. And I—” I shake my head. “I admire that.”
Her breath catches, but I keep going before I lose momentum.
“I’m sorry for how I handled Elliott tonight. Not for stopping him.” My jaw tightens. “But for the way I did it. For making you see that side of me.”
Then the hardest part.
“And I’m sorry,” I say quietly, “for making you marry me.”
The words land between us like something fragile.
I straighten in my chair. “I won’t do that to you anymore.”
She looks confused, eyes searching my face.
“I’ll give you one year,” I say evenly. “After that, we walk away. Clean. No expectations.”
Her lips part slightly.
“You can live your life however you want,” I continue. “Work where you want. Build what you want. I won’t interfere.”
“There are certain events we’ll attend together. Obligations. Appearances. Outside these walls, we’re married and happy. That doesn’t change.” I gesture vaguely around us.
I tap the table once. “But inside this house, we’re honest. Open. Which means no more pretending you’re in this with me when you’re not.”
She’s staring at me now like the ground just shifted.
“I’m sorry about Elliott,” she says quickly. “You have to understand—I never chose him.”
She reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine.
Warm. Familiar. Too much.
“I never picked Elliott,” she says softly.
My chest tightens painfully.
Slowly, deliberately, I pull my hand away.
I stand before I lose my nerve, turning my back to her because if I look at her right now, I won’t walk away.
Not if I see hope in her eyes.
“But Sweetheart,” I say quietly, my voice rough despite my effort to keep it steady, “you didn’t pick me either.”
I leave the kitchen without waiting for her answer.
And it’s the hardest thing I’ve done yet.