Chapter 2 The Wrong Kind of Girl
The Wrong Kind of Girl
Sabrina
They’re both talking over each other.
My father and his wife.
One loud and defensive, the other sharper than glass—clashing voices echoing off the vaulted ceilings of this monument to wealth and control.
“Langston, this isn’t how the deal was structured—”
“She’s not part of the agreement, she’s not even involved—”
“She’s not a viable match—”
“She’s not supposed to be here—”
Meanwhile, Langston Blackwell just… stares at me.
Unmoving. Unblinking. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real or a very inconvenient hallucination.
I fold my arms and resist the urge to smirk.
Because honestly?
This is a mess.
And I didn’t come here to make it worse.
Except now I’m standing in the middle of a hand-carved marble foyer, my little sister clinging to my side, and a very powerful, very intense man is staring at me like I just flipped his entire world upside down.
Which, for the record, was not the plan.
Marrying into the Blackwell empire? That was never supposed to be on the table.
I’m not the one they prepped for this role. I’m not polished or proper or quiet. I didn’t go to boarding school or have the right kind of ambition. I fled this house the first chance I got and never looked back.
I’m only here for one reason.
Ariana.
My soft, sweet half-sister who was born into this snake pit and never learned how to bite back.
She called me in tears. I packed a bag. Bought a last-minute ticket.
And now?
Langston Blackwell is still looking at me.
And I—God help me—am thinking about it.
What would happen if I said yes?
If I walked across the room and said, fine, let’s get married. Let’s burn their deal to the ground and build our own out of spite and strategy.
How messed up would that be?
I shake the thought away.
I’m not here to fall into someone else’s trap. I’m here to spring Ariana out of one.
“How did you even get here?” Celeste, my father’s wife, hisses at me like I’m a stray cat she thought they’d locked out.
I lift a brow. “The same way normal people travel.”
She blinks. “Commercial?”
“Flying coach was worth it to see my sister.”
Her gasp is theatrical enough to belong on stage. I almost clap.
Langston smiles.
It’s small. Barely there.
But it’s real.
And somehow, that tiny curve of his lips kicks up something inside me I thought I’d buried years ago. Something warm and dangerous.
“Can I speak with her alone?” he asks suddenly, voice cutting through the chaos.
“No, you may not—” Celeste starts, but my father cuts her off.
“Go on,” he says, almost reluctantly. “If it will help this... situation.”
Langston doesn’t wait for more permission. He steps toward me, brushes past the disbelief radiating from my family, and places his hand at the small of my back.
It’s warm. Firm. Unyielding.
And completely unnecessary, but I let it stay.
He guides me down the hall, turning into a long corridor of empty, echoing space lined with oil paintings and family portraits—none of which include me.
Behind us, I can still hear Celeste arguing with my father.
Good. Let her.
Langston stops when we’re out of earshot and turns to face me.
His gaze is steady, unreadable. The calm in the storm.
“I meant what I said,” he tells me.
I snort, folding my arms again. “What, the part where you tried to claim me like a real estate deal?”
That earns me a flicker of a smile. “No. The part where I said I wanted you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You know what I look like. That’s not the same.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I know how you walked into a room full of power players and told them no. I know you came here to protect your sister. I know you didn’t blink when the stakes got high.”
I pause. Just for a breath.
He’s not wrong.
But that doesn’t make this less insane.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Well, thanks for the rescue mission, but you don’t have to marry me to get Ariana off the hook. I’m sure you’ve got someone else lined up—someone more… compliant.”
His brow furrows. “Why would you think that?”
I blink. “Because this isn’t a movie? Because men like you don’t just throw away power plays for redheads who work at bars?”
His eyes flash. “I don’t throw things away. I make decisions.”
“So this is a business decision.”
“No,” he says quietly.
For a moment, I just stare at him.
This man—this empire-wearing, diamond-dealing legend in the making—just blew up a merger because of me.
And he still hasn’t looked away.
“Besides,” he adds, stepping closer, “we’ll need to marry quickly. I don’t want my friends suspecting it’s arranged.”
I raise a brow. “Oh, right. We wouldn’t want them thinking this is crazy.”
“They’d believe it was love at first sight.” He says almost to himself.
I blink. “Seriously?”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“For you?” he says. “They would.”
My stomach flips.
Goddamn it.
I take a step back, needing space to breathe.
Langston Blackwell doesn’t move. He just watches me like I’ve become the most interesting thing in a room full of people who think they own the world.
“Look,” I say, lifting my chin, “you don’t want me.”
His brow rises, but I don’t let him speak.
“I didn’t go to boarding school. I didn’t intern with diplomats or memorize wine pairings. I don’t ‘network,’ I don’t brunch, and I definitely don’t wear pastels.”
His mouth starts to twitch.
“I rub elbows with bartenders and bouncers. My favorite shoes are combat boots. I once flipped off a congressman who grabbed my ass—while holding a tray of tequila shots. I swear like it’s an art form.
I’d rather scrub toilets in a dive bar than sit through a country club dinner pretending I care about hedge funds or yacht stocks or whatever rich people complain about these days. ”
Now he’s smiling.
Fully smiling.
God, he has the nerve to enjoy this.
“My mom raised me to earn my keep, not marry rich. I can cook a full meal from scratch, fix a broken sink, and drive a stick shift—backward. But I can’t play piano or speak French, and I don’t give a damn what the market’s doing unless it means my rent’s going up.”
His eyes are practically sparkling now.
“I don’t do quiet. I don’t do meek. And I’m not going to be some diamond-on-a-leash you can parade at galas. I drink whiskey, not wine. I wear leather jackets, not lace. I will ruin your brand.”
Langston tilts his head.
Like I’m a riddle he wants to memorize.
And then?
He doesn’t say a word.
He just turns.
Spins on his heel, strolls back down the hallway with all the calm confidence of a man who just made up his damn mind.
I blink. “Wait—Langston!”
He doesn’t stop.
Oh my god. He’s going to do it.
I follow, catching up just as he steps back into the parlor like he owns the place. Which, let’s be honest, he kind of does.
Everyone looks up.
My father’s expression sours the moment he sees me.
Langston doesn’t blink.
He looks my father dead in the eye.
“The marriage will be to Sabrina,” he says. “Or it won’t happen at all.”
My breath leaves my chest like a punch.
The room erupts.
My stepmother sputters. My father’s face goes red. Ariana clutches my arm like she can’t believe what she just heard.
But Langston?
Langston is silent.
Still smiling.