Chapter 6 I Know Men Like Him
I Know Men Like Him
Sabrina
Islam the door shut and exhale, hard, before the driver even pulls away.
Langston’s not in the car.
Good.
The leather seat is warm beneath me, and I sink into it for a second—just long enough to catch my breath and remind myself that I’m still my own damn person.
I ran.
From a courthouse. From a kiss. From a man who looks at me like I’m the next thing he wants to conquer.
And God help me, that kiss...
It shouldn’t have happened. Not like that. Not when the ink was still drying on a paper that made me his wife.
But it did.
And worse?
I felt something.
Heat. Hunger. The kind of dizzying, wild spark that makes you want to lean in instead of pull away.
I touch my lips like I can scrub it off.
Get it together, Sabrina.
The car glides through the city, soft jazz playing through the speakers like it’s trying to calm me down. It doesn’t.
All I can hear is Langston’s voice on repeat.
“You’ll be moving in sometime this week.”
“My wife won’t work in a bar.”
Like he has the right to rewrite who I am.
News flash?
He doesn’t.
My phone buzzes in my bag, and I dig it out, grateful for the distraction.
Ruby (Lakeshore Manager):
Are you back in town?
I smile before I even finish reading it.
Me:
Just landed.
There’s only a two-second pause before the next message lights up my screen.
Ruby (Lakeshore Manager):
Can you fill in tonight? We had a last-minute call-out.
I type without thinking.
Me:
I’ll be there.
I sit back and let the satisfaction bloom in my chest.
Langston Blackwell can tell the world I’m his wife. He can throw money at lawyers and sign papers and build a future made of expectations and control.
But he doesn’t get to decide who I am.
And no matter what his last name is—
No one tells me what to do.
By the time I unlock the door to my apartment, I’ve almost convinced myself that the last twenty-four hours were a dream.
A courthouse wedding. A billionaire husband. A diamond on my finger so heavy it feels like a joke.
Definitely a dream.
Or a fever.
Probably both.
But as soon as I start to open the door I hear the soft scuffle of tiny feet followed by an enthusiastic yap from next door, reality slams back into place.
“Olga!” I laugh, dropping my bag just in time for a tiny, scruffy ball of fur to barrel into my shins.
She’s part chihuahua, part gremlin, and part mop. And she’s obsessed with me.
Her leash trails behind her like a ribbon of chaos, which can only mean one thing—
“Sabrina, honey? You’re home already?”
I look up to see my neighbor peeking her head around the corner from the hallway.
Mrs. Delaney.
Eighty-four years old. Wears floral cardigans year-round. Knows everyone’s business whether you want her to or not.
I grin. “Hey, Mrs. D.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”
“Change of plans.”
“Olga missed you.” She picks up the little dog with a grunt and shuffles into my apartment without waiting for an invite. “She kept sniffing at your door like she knew something was off.”
“Well, she was right.”
Mrs. Delaney settles herself onto the worn armchair near the window, Olga cradled in her lap like a very judgmental toddler. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”
I hesitate.
She just blinks, slow and steady, like she has all the time in the world.
And that’s how she gets you. Always has.
So I sigh, flop dramatically onto my couch, and let it all out in one breathless rush.
“I married a man I barely know in a different state this morning after hijacking his engagement to my sister, flew home on his private jet, kissed him outside a courthouse, and then took off in his town car before he could shove me into a penthouse and tell me I wasn’t allowed to have a job anymore. ”
Mrs. Delaney blinks again.
Then bursts out laughing.
“My life is over,” I groan, burying my face in a throw pillow.
“Oh, honey. Your life isn’t over,” she says through chuckles. “It’s just beginning.”
I peek at her over the pillow. “You’re taking this surprisingly well.”
She shrugs. “Men like that don’t come around every day.”
I lift a brow. “He’s bossy. Controlling. Thinks ‘wife’ is just a synonym for ‘property.’”
Mrs. Delaney’s eyes twinkle. “Yes, but is he handsome?”
“I—” I stop. Huff. “Maybe.”
She laughs again and reaches over to pat my arm. “Things happen for a reason, Sabrina. Sometimes the universe throws us curveballs wrapped in six-foot-tall men with too much money and emotional constipation.”
I choke on a laugh.
She grins. “And who knows? Maybe you’ll learn to love him.”
I roll my eyes.
“Fine,” she says. “Maybe just like him enough to sleep with him.”
“Mrs. D!” I gasp, mock-horrified.
She just smirks. “What? I may be old, but I’m not dead.”
We both burst out laughing.
And for the first time all day, I feel… okay.
Not fixed. Not safe. But a little more me.
We make grilled cheese and tomato soup like it’s a ritual, then sit together on the couch, sharing dinner while Olga snores on my lap.
I’ll go to work tonight. I’ll deal with Langston tomorrow.
But for now?
This is enough.
The dining floor at Lakeshore Reserve gleams like something out of a dream. Polished hardwood. White linen napkins. Ambient lighting that makes every guest look like they belong on a magazine cover. This place doesn't scream money—it hums it, low and classy.
And somehow, I belong here now.
I adjust the silver tray on my hip and smooth a hand over the side of my black dress. I’ve only been working here a couple of months, but I’ve already figured out the rhythm. The regulars. The wine pairings. The exact temperature to keep the water glasses.
It's high-end. Upscale.
Nothing like the neighborhood dives I used to sling drinks in.
And that’s what I like about it.
It’s elegant without asking me to change who I am. At least, not too much.
“Two glasses of the 2017 Brunello to table twelve,” the bartender says as he slides the crystal stemware across the marble bar top.
I nod, thanking him, and lift the tray with practiced grace. Just another night. Just another shift. Just a couple more hours of normal before I’m back to navigating whatever it is Langston and I are calling this arrangement.
I move toward the table, weaving between suits and whispered conversations, when I feel it—
A hand wraps around my wrist.
Firm.
Uninvited.
Before I can process, I’m being spun around, my breath catching in my throat as I come face to face with someone I haven’t seen in years.
No.
No no no.
“Bree,” he says, smiling like we’re old friends instead of unfinished trauma. “I can’t believe it. It’s really you.”
My pulse stumbles. I take a step back.
“Elliott.”
There it is. The name I’d buried with a half dozen tequila shots and a playlist full of Alanis Morissette.
Elliott goddamn Cavanaugh.
Light blonde hair still perfectly styled like he stepped out of some Ivy League fantasy. Smile sharp enough to sell anything. Even lies.
“I—what are you doing here?” I ask stiffly.
He shrugs, easy as ever. “Moved back today. Dad wanted me to take over part of the Midwest logistics branch. First day in town, and I run into you. Fate, right?”
Fate.
Funny word for oh, shit.
I don’t say anything.
He leans forward, like he doesn’t notice the wall I’ve just thrown up between us. “You look good. Chicago suits you. When did you move here?”
My mouth is dry.
Elliott was the guy I once thought I could love. Hell, I wanted to love him. Smart. Strategic. We had a spark, back when I was too young to know what manipulation sounded like behind a well-practiced grin.
And then I overheard him talking to my father.
“If I marry her, it’ll merge our families. It makes sense. She’s pretty, sure, but she’s also useful. That’s what matters, right?”
I never said goodbye. Never gave him the chance to spin it.
I just disappeared.
Like the ghost of a girl he never deserved.
And now he’s here, acting like we’re about to catch up over drinks.
Not a fucking chance.
I school my features into something neutral and forced. “I’ve got customers.”
But inside, my skin is crawling.
Not because I’m afraid of him.
Because I know men like him.
And right now, I’m married to one.
The only difference?
Langston never lied about who he was.