Chapter 31 Quiet Victories
Quiet Victories
Langston
Bringing Sabrina into my office wasn’t part of a plan.
That’s the problem.
I don’t usually do things without one.
The elevator doors slide open onto my floor, and Jack is already there—leaning against the reception desk with my coffee in hand like he always is. Efficient. Unflappable. Annoyingly perceptive.
His gaze flicks to me first.
Then to her.
And for the first time since I hired him, Jack freezes.
Just for half a second—but I catch it.
“Well,” he says slowly, recovering as he straightens. “Good morning.”
I take the coffee from his hand. “Jack, this is my wife. Sabrina.”
Sabrina smiles at him—easy, warm, genuine. “Hi. You must be the famous Jack.”
His grin turns boyish. “Depends who you ask.”
She laughs, and something sharp twists in my chest before I can stop it.
They seem comfortable together and are a lot closer in age than Sabrina and myself, my brain supplies stupidly.
I shut the thought down immediately. Jack’s been with me for years. He knows better. And when he flicks his eyes up at me and gives a subtle wink, I know exactly what he’s doing.
Trying to get under my skin.
It works.
“Clear out the office next to mine,” I say, already moving.
Jack blinks. “Sir?”
I place a hand at the small of Sabrina’s back and guide her toward my office, my tone calm, decisive. “My wife needs the space.”
Jack’s footsteps follow. “For…?”
“She’s creating a nonprofit,” I answer without slowing. “She’ll need somewhere to work. And for potential meetings.”
That grants me with another curious and sharp look.
I stop just long enough to turn. “Get her whatever she needs while she’s here. Anything.”
Jack’s mouth twitches. “Yes, sir.”
Sabrina looks up at me, surprised. Confused. Maybe even a little overwhelmed.
I don’t explain.
I just open my office door and usher her inside.
Sabrina’s been camped out on the couch in my office for hours.
Shoes kicked off. Notebooks spread around her like she owns the place. Hair tucked behind one ear while she scribbles, chews on the end of her pen, mutters to herself when something doesn’t land the way she wants it to.
I haven’t gotten a damn thing done.
Jack is absolutely dragging his feet with the office next door. I know it. He knows it. This is retaliation for ordering him around earlier—and probably for the fact that my wife laughed at his joke this morning.
I try to focus on the screen in front of me. Numbers blur. Emails go unread. Every time she shifts, crosses her legs, leans forward, my attention snaps right back to her.
This was a bad idea.
A knock sounds at the door before I can talk myself into pretending I’m not distracted.
Jack pokes his head in. “Lunch?”
Sabrina looks up immediately. “Oh yes, please.”
Jack’s eyes flick to me. “Thoughts?”
“Whatever’s fastest,” I say without looking away from the spreadsheet.
Sabrina wrinkles her nose. “No. If we’re doing lunch, we’re doing it right.” She names a place before I can object.
Jack grins. “Great choice.”
“Hey,” I mutter. “I get a vote.”
Jack ignores me completely. “I’ll order.”
I lean back in my chair. “I feel very ganged up on.”
Sabrina stands and walks over, stopping right in front of me. She pats my cheek, mock-serious. “My poor grumpy husband. You always get like this when you forget to eat?”
Something warm and possessive coils low in my chest.
I catch her wrist gently and pull her closer, guiding her until she’s standing between my knees. My hands settle at her hips without thinking.
“That’s not all I need,” I murmur.
Her breath catches. Just barely.
Pink floods her cheeks in a way that makes my smile turn slow and knowing.
Jack clears his throat loudly from the doorway. “I’ll—uh—order lunch.”
Sabrina practically jumps back, flustered. “I—I need to step out for a second.”
She darts past Jack and disappears down the hall.
I don’t stop smiling.
Jack lingers just long enough to smirk at me. “You’re insufferable.”
“Get my lunch,” I say pleasantly.
The door shuts behind him.
God help me—I could get used to this.
When Sabrina comes back, her cheeks are still pink.
She settles on the couch again, knees tucked under her, notebook pulled back into her lap like a shield she doesn’t quite need. Jack drops lunch off and finally disappears, thank God, leaving us alone with paper containers and the quiet hum of the city outside my windows.
We eat together—easy, companionable. She talks while she chews, gestures with her fork, gets animated about something she read earlier. I mostly listen. Watching her relax in my space feels like a small, dangerous victory.
Halfway through, I clear my throat. “I had a thought.”
She looks up. “Uh-oh.”
“My lawyers can look over your nonprofit paperwork. Make sure everything’s clean. Filed right. They’re fast.”
Her smile fades immediately.
“No,” she says. Firm. No hesitation.
The word lands harder than it should.
I set my fork down slowly. “No?”
“I don’t want it tied to your business,” she says. “Or your name.”
There it is.
Something tight twists in my chest. Of course she doesn’t. One year. Exit plan. No strings. No reminders when she leaves. I should’ve expected it.
I nod once, keeping my voice neutral. “Right.”
She frowns, like she hears what I didn’t say. “Langston—that’s not—”
“I get it,” I interrupt gently. “You want it to be yours.”
She shakes her head. “No. I mean—yes, but not like that.”
She sets her food aside and turns fully toward me. “If it fails… I don’t want it to reflect badly on you. Or your company. Or your family. People already think this marriage is some kind of transaction. I don’t want them saying I used your name and still couldn’t make it work.”
The knot in my chest loosens. Just a little.
“You think it’s going to fail?” I ask.
She hesitates. “I think anything new is scary.”
I study her for a long moment, then lean back in my chair. “It’s not going to fail.”
She opens her mouth to argue.
“I’m serious,” I say. “Not because of me. Because of you.”
Her eyes flicker, surprised.
She steps out a little while later to take a call—something about printing costs and a follow-up meeting. The door closes softly behind her, and my office feels too quiet without her in it.
That’s when I reach for my phone.
I don’t need more information on Elliott. John can dig up anything on paper—timelines, photos, money trails. What I need now is someone who can watch him. Quietly. Someone whose presence won’t ever circle back to me.
Someone I trust.
The call connects on the third ring.
“Blackwell,” Liam answers, voice calm, amused. “You don’t call unless something’s on fire.”
I lean back in my chair. “I need a favor.”
There’s a pause. “Go on.”
“I need someone to trail a man. Name’s Elliott Cavanaugh. I don’t want him touched. I don’t want him scared. I just want eyes on him.”
“Anyone I know?” Liam asks.
“He’s been sniffing around my wife.”
That earns me a low laugh. “Ah. That changes things.”
“Don’t make it dramatic,” I say dryly.
“I’ll put Cross on it,” Liam replies without hesitation.
I bark out a laugh. “I want him followed, not buried.”
“You should hear yourself,” Liam says. “Relax. Cross can walk and chew gum without breaking bones.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
There’s a beat, then his tone shifts—businesslike, sharp. “You’ll have updates by the end of the week.”
“Good.”
I hesitate, then add, “I’ve got another ask.”
“Of course you do.”
“I need a lawyer to look over paperwork. Nonprofit formation. Clean. Separate from my business. I don’t want it touching my family or my name.”
“Who’s it for?”
“My wife.”
That pause is longer.
“Say no more,” Liam says finally. “You want Callum?”
“Yes. Tomorrow, if he’s free.”
“He’ll be there.”
“Thanks.”
“You owe me,” Liam says lightly. “And if this guy crosses a line—”
“I know,” I interrupt.
The call ends.
I set the phone down just as the door opens again.
Sabrina steps back inside, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with purpose. She smiles when she sees me watching her, like she has no idea the lengths I’ll go to keep her world safe.