Chapter 32 Wrong Office
Wrong Office
Sabrina
I’m sitting on the couch in Langston’s office, knees tucked beneath me, my notebook balanced on my lap—but I haven’t written a single word in the last ten minutes.
Because my mind keeps drifting back to yesterday.
To how easy it was.
How natural it felt to be with him. To work side by side without it feeling forced or transactional.
We laughed—actually laughed—over stupid things.
Over Jack pretending not to hear Langston when he asked for something.
Over lunch arriving wrong and Langston insisting it was fate telling him to branch out.
It felt… domestic. Comfortable. Dangerous in the best way.
Right up until his phone rang.
I remember the way his whole body changed the second he saw the name on the screen. The warmth didn’t disappear—but it tightened, like steel sliding under silk. He stepped away to take the call, voice low, clipped. When he came back, his jaw was set, eyes darker.
Another warehouse overseas. Another delivery gone wrong.
And his father.
Even without hearing the words, I knew. I’d seen that look before—on my own father. That unspoken fix it or pay for it pressure that came with legacy and expectation.
“I need to go,” he’d said, already reaching for his jacket.
Then he’d paused. Looked at me like he was weighing something.
“Come with me,” he’d asked, surprising me. “I don’t know how long this will take, but I don’t want to leave you.”
I wanted to say yes.
God, I wanted to.
But the day had felt too perfect. Like a bubble that might pop if we pushed it too far. And I didn’t want to see him stressed and sharp and buried under responsibility—not yet.
So I’d smiled and shaken my head. Told him I was good. Told him I had plenty to work on.
He hadn’t argued.
Instead, he’d leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, and murmured, “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”
And just like that, as I sit here...I feel out of place in his too-big, too-quiet office
Jack still hasn’t finished the office next door. I told him—multiple times—that I didn’t care if it was empty. Four walls and a desk would’ve been fine.
Jack, in his infinite stubbornness, had waved me off and insisted I stay put.
“I’m not putting you in a half-done room,” he’d said. “Boss would murder me.”
At the time, I didn’t mind.
Now, sitting in Langston’s space—surrounded by his scent, his things, the faint imprint of him everywhere—I’m starting to regret it.
Because every creak of the building makes my heart jump like I expect him to walk back in.
And then—
There’s a knock at the door.
Sharp. Deliberate.
Not Jack’s casual tap.
I straighten instantly, notebook sliding to the side, pulse ticking up for reasons I can’t quite name.
“Come in?” I call, my voice steadier than I feel.
The door handle turns. The door opens.
And my stomach drops straight through the floor.
Bekki—with two k’s and an i, because of course—steps into the room like she owns it. Tailored blazer. Perfect blowout. That same sharp, measuring look she’s had since the first day I met her in my father’s office years ago.
She freezes when she sees me sitting on Langston’s couch.
The surprise flickers across her face for half a second before it hardens into something else.
Something hot.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, like I’m the one who wandered into the wrong room.
I blink, caught off guard by the audacity. “Excuse me?” I stand, slow and deliberate. “This is Langston’s office.”
Bekki laughs—a short, humorless sound. “I know exactly whose office this is.”
Something in her tone makes my spine straighten.
I step away from the couch and do something I’ve very intentionally avoided until now.
I walk around the desk.
And I sit.
Right in Langston’s chair.
I cross one ankle over the other and lift my chin. “Then you also know he’s my husband. Which means I can be in his office whenever I want.” I hold her gaze. “So I’ll ask again—what are you doing here?”
Her lips curve, slow and sharp. “Langston asked me to personally drop off the finalized movement plan for his next shipment.”
Personally.
She emphasizes it like she’s pressing a blade between my ribs.
For a split second, doubt curls in my chest—quiet and poisonous. Why didn’t he mention her? Why is she the one handling this?
Bekki must see it flash across my face because she leans forward, palms flat on the desk.
“We’ve been working very closely together,” she says softly. “He told me he wouldn’t be able to manage this without me.”
The words sink deep.
A pit forms in my stomach.
And then—
Someone clears their throat.
It’s deep. Rough. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask for attention—it takes it.
Bekki spins around.
So do I.
And my breath catches.
Two men stand in the doorway.
Both enormous. Both built like violence wrapped in expensive clothes.
One of them is broader, darker, with shoulders that look like they’ve carried more than their fair share of weight—physically and otherwise. His presence feels steady. Grounded. Like he’s the kind of man who doesn’t move unless he means to.
The other…
The other is pure danger.
Tall. Lean. Tattooed arms visible beneath his jacket. His eyes are sharp, assessing, and when they land on Bekki, something cold flickers there—like he’s already decided how much trouble she’d be to erase.
My heart starts to pound.
I don’t know who they are.
But every instinct I have tells me they are not men you lie to.
The broader one—him, the one who cleared his throat—doesn’t speak. He just watches.
It’s the other one who steps forward.
“I’ve known Langston a long time,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “And the only woman I’ve ever heard him say he needs…” His eyes flick to me, then back to Bekki. “…is his wife.”
He takes another step into the room.
“And if you make her upset,” he adds, pointing directly at Bekki, “we’re gonna have a problem.”
The air goes tight.
Bekki’s face drains of color.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Looks between the two men again like she’s finally realized she misread the room entirely.
She grabs her folder, spins on her heel, and all but flees—heels clicking fast as she disappears down the hall without sparing me a single glance.
Silence crashes down after her.
The broader man finally steps forward, offering me a hand.
“Callum Rizzoli,” he says, warm smile, firm grip. “This is my cousin, Cross.”
I shake both their hands, still trying to get my bearings. “Sabrina.”
Cross grins. “Yeah,” he says, dropping onto Langston’s couch like he belongs there. “We know.”
I glance toward the door Bekki fled through. “Langston isn’t in town. You’ll have to come back—”
Callum shakes his head. “We’re not here for him.”
I blink. “You’re… not?”
“Nope,” Cross says, already reaching for one of my notebooks. He flips it open, skimming. “He told us about your nonprofit.”
My chest tightens. “He did?”
Callum nods. “Asked me to help with the legal side. Outside counsel. Clean lines.”
Before I can respond, Cross looks up at me, eyes bright. “My wife—Samantha—would love to be the first to RSVP for your event.”
My throat closes.
I look down at the notebook in his hands. At my messy handwriting. My half-formed dreams.
And for the first time today—
I don’t feel small.
I feel… protected.
Seen.
And very, very aware that whatever Bekki thought she was doing—
She just walked into the wrong office.