Chapter 38
Every Inch of It
Sabrina
We’re walking into the office this morning—his hand resting low at my back out of habit more than intention—when Jack looks up from the front desk with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on his face.
Not smug.
Not amused.
Proud.
“It’s ready,” he says, practically vibrating.
Langston stops mid-step, brows pulling together as he reaches for the folder Jack is holding. “What’s ready?”
“Sabrina’s office.”
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
“What?” I say at the same time Langston opens the folder.
Jack looks between us, clearly enjoying this. “You’ve been out since Friday. We finished it yesterday afternoon.”
My heart stutters.
I turn to Langston. “You knew about this?”
He doesn’t answer right away—just looks at me with that expression I’m starting to recognize. The one he gets when he’s done something quietly, deliberately, without needing credit.
“I wanted it finished before we came back,” he says simply.
Jack gestures down the hall. “You want to see it?”
I nod, suddenly afraid to speak.
The office is right next to Langston’s—close enough to feel connected, separate enough to feel like my own. The door opens to light and warmth and space that feels intentional in a way I didn’t know how to ask for.
There’s a desk big enough to spread out my plans. Shelving already filled with binders labeled in neat handwriting. A whiteboard mounted on the wall with Ideas written across the top.
And a window.
Big. Bright. Open.
I step inside slowly, like if I move too fast it might disappear.
“Oh,” I breathe.
Langston watches me from the doorway, arms crossed loosely, eyes fixed on my face instead of the room.
“This is…” I swallow.
“It’s yours,” he says. “Every inch of it.”
I turn back to him, emotion pressing tight against my ribs. “When did you—”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his tablet. “I’ll, uh… give you two a minute.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand there, surrounded by possibility, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m borrowing space.
I feel like I belong in it.
I look at Langston again, and he’s smiling—not smug, not proud of himself.
“I thought I would be in your office forever.” I laugh, because for a while there I honestly thought Langston was never going to let me leave his office.
He watches me with that slow, knowing smile—the one that always makes my stomach flip—then steps past me toward the wall that separates our spaces.
“That’s why this is here,” he says.
I follow him just in time to see his hand slide along the edge of the wall.
The panels part smoothly.
And suddenly his office is right there—open, connected, no real boundary between us at all.
My breath catches.
It’s subtle. Clever. So him.
He turns back to me. “Unless we have meetings,” he says quietly, “this door stays open.”
Something in my chest gives way.
I don’t think. I just move—crossing the space between us and launching myself into his arms. He catches me easily, arms wrapping around me like this is exactly where I belong.
“I thought you were never going to let me out of your sight,” I tease softly.
His mouth dips to my ear, his voice low, intimate—just for me.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His hand settles at my waist, warm and possessive, and he leans in just enough that my pulse stutters. “I have every intention of making good use of that window,” he adds, voice dark with promise.
Heat floods my cheeks.
I pull back just enough to look at him, my smile slow and wicked.
“I can’t wait.”
He grins—unrepentant, hungry, completely undone by me.
And I realize, with a quiet certainty, that this—us—isn’t something temporary anymore.
It’s inevitable.
The night doesn’t feel real.
That’s the only way I can describe it—like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life and I’m waiting for the moment I wake up.
My name is on the invitations. My vision is on the banners.
My nonprofit—something that lived for so long as scribbles in notebooks and late-night hopes—is real enough to have a guest list full of people who usually don’t show up unless it benefits them.
And maybe that’s true tonight.
The Blackwell name opened doors.
I won’t pretend it didn’t.
But if those doors lead to funding, resources, and real help for single mothers who need a hand up—not a handout—then I’ll walk through them without guilt.
I finish getting ready slowly, hands steadier than I expected. The dress hangs perfectly against my body—deep green, rich and elegant, the fabric flowing softly when I move. It’s the kind of dress that feels powerful without trying too hard. Strong. Confident. Like the woman I’m becoming.
When I make my way downstairs, the house is quiet.
Langston is waiting near the entryway, jacket already on, his phone forgotten in his hand.
He looks up.
And the way his eyes change—soften, darken, focus entirely on me—steals my breath.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me like I’m something rare. Something precious.
“You look…” He exhales slowly, like the words matter. “Incredible.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, but I don’t look away. Not anymore.
Before we step outside, he leans down and presses a quick, sweet kiss to my lips. It’s gentle. Grounding. Just enough to remind me he’s right here.
“I’m proud of you,” he says quietly, forehead resting against mine. “Tonight is yours.”
My chest tightens—not with nerves this time, but with something fuller. Something steadier.
As we slide into the limo, city lights stretching ahead of us, I realize something that settles deep and certain in my bones:
No matter how this night unfolds, no matter who shows up or why—
I didn’t build this alone.
And for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m borrowing power.
I feel like I earned it.