Chapter 12 Somewhere New
Somewhere New
Sabrina
Iwake up warm.
Too warm.
It takes me a moment to realize why—Langston’s arm is locked around my waist, his chest pressed firm to my back, his breath steady against the nape of my neck.
For a heartbeat, I forget where I am. Forget how I got here.
Then yesterday’s memories flash into my mind.
The courthouse. The papers. The kiss on the steps that made my knees nearly buckle.
Elliott showing up at the Reserve, smiling like he owned me.
Langston storming across the bar and pinning him with that lethal glare before claiming me with words I’ll never forget. Don’t touch my fucking wife.
My chest squeezes at the memory.
And now, this. His arm wrapped around me like it belongs there. Like I belong here.
I try to put a word to the feeling blooming in my chest. It’s not comfortable, not warm—though it is both of those things. It’s more.
Safe.
The realization knocks the air out of me.
Safe in the arms of a man I barely know. Safe with the husband I swore I didn’t want.
Which means it’s time to panic.
I slip carefully out of bed, pulling his T-shirt tighter around me, and change back into my uniform from the Reserve. The plan is simple: bail before he wakes. Clean break. No messy explanations.
But when I grab the door handle, something makes me glance back.
Langston’s still asleep, sprawled across the bed like he’s been fighting demons in his dreams. Even in rest, there’s tension in his jaw. Power in the set of his shoulders. And for some reason, the sight makes my chest ache.
I can’t do it. I can’t just walk out.
So instead, I run down the block, grab coffee and bagels—something normal—and pray he doesn’t think it’s stupid.
By the time I get back, I’m muttering under my breath, annoyed with myself. “So stupid. Should’ve just left. Who even knows if he drinks coffee? Or eats bagels? God, he’s going to hate this. I’m terrible at this wife thing.”
The door shuts behind me, and then I see him.
Langston’s standing there, watching me like he’s been waiting all morning.
The relief on his face hits me like a sucker punch.
And just like that, I know I made the right decision. Not running. Not leaving him to wake up in an empty bed.
For the first time since this whole insane marriage started, I don’t feel like bolting.
I feel like staying.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” I rush out, setting the bags on the small table near the window. “So I just… got a little of everything. Coffee, tea, bagels, donuts, some fruit—honestly it’s probably ridiculous now. You probably hate half of it.”
Langston doesn’t say anything at first. He just studies me with that unreadable expression of his—dark eyes sharp, calm, too still.
“I should’ve just—”
He crosses the room in three long strides, cutting off my rambling. He takes the cups from me and sets them down. His hands come up, warm and steady, framing my face.
“You left,” He says searching her face. “I thought—”
“I just wanted to do something normal.” I bite my lip before I start to ramble again.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers.
The words hit low in my stomach, steadying me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
He leans down, pressing his forehead against mine for the briefest second, and then releases me. My pulse is still racing as we sit across from each other at the little table, steam curling up from the coffee cups between us.
It’s… nice. Almost normal.
“So,” he says after a few quiet minutes, his voice low and smooth, “what’s your plan for the day?”
I glance up at him, chewing on my lip. “Work. I have a shift at the Reserve later, so I’ll need to go home and get ready.”
His brows lift, that stern, businesslike look sliding over his features—the one I’ve seen him use on people who probably make six figures and still scramble to please him.
“Langston,” I warn, throwing my hands up before he even opens his mouth. “I can’t just quit. I need to work. I need something to do.”
He doesn’t snap back. Doesn’t lecture me. Just watches me quietly, and then asks, “If you could do anything, sweetheart—anything at all—what would it be?”
I blink. “Anything?”
He nods once, still calm.
My first instinct is to lie. To toss out something easy, something that sounds polished and respectable. But instead, I find myself saying the truth.
“I’d help single mothers,” I say softly. “Women who are trying to get back on their feet. My mom used to have me help out at shelters and camps when I was a kid. It taught me that sometimes women just… need someone to believe in them again.”
He leans back in his chair, watching me like he’s memorizing every word.
There’s no judgment in his eyes. No teasing. Just quiet understanding—and something else I can’t quite name.
Maybe pride.
Maybe respect.
Whatever it is, it makes my chest feel warm, and for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to fill the silence with nervous words.
I just sit there, sipping coffee across from my husband, and let him look at me like I’m someone worth knowing.
For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, staring at me with that unreadable expression. His coffee sits untouched, steam curling up between us.
“What?” I ask, fidgeting with the edge of the napkin. “Did I say something wrong?”
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. “No, sweetheart. You said something honest.”
The word sweetheart does that thing again—it slips right through my chest and finds a home somewhere inconvenient.
He leans back, fingers tapping against the table. “You want to help women rebuild their lives. That’s what you said?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “But it’s not exactly a career path. It’s just something I wish I could do without worrying about rent or bills.”
Langston hums, low and thoughtful. “You could.”
I blink. “What?”
He meets my eyes, calm and certain. “You could actually do it. Build something real. A foundation, a program—whatever it takes. I have the resources, and you clearly have the heart for it.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I laugh a little, nervous. “Langston, that’s… a really nice thought, but I’m not you. I don’t have a boardroom or a team of lawyers or—”
“Then we’ll get you one.”
He says it like it’s simple. Like he’s offering me breakfast, not the chance to make a dream real.
I shake my head. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” he interrupts, voice softer now but firm. “You’d be helping people who need it. That’s never a waste of time. You just tell me what it takes, and I’ll make it happen.”
My throat tightens. I don’t know what to say to that—to a man who’s seen me at my most defensive, most messy, and still looks at me like I’m capable of something more.
“Langston…” I whisper. “Why would you do that for me?”
He doesn’t look away. “Because you’re my wife,” he says simply. “And maybe… because I like watching you light up when you talk about something that matters.”
I can feel the blush creeping up my neck, but this time I don’t hide it.
He watches me for a long moment after I finish talking, like he’s trying to decide whether to tease me or kiss me.
The corners of his mouth tilt up just slightly, and that’s all it takes for the tight air between us to crack into something lighter.
“So,” I say, leaning back in my chair, “does this mean I get a business card? Or do I need to marry you twice before I get an official title?”
Langston snorts into his coffee, shaking his head. “You’d have to survive one board meeting with my family first. After that, maybe.”
“Oh, great. A reward system. I’ll put it right between ‘win the lottery’ and ‘get through a week without swearing.’”
He laughs—really laughs this time—and it’s low and warm, spreading through me like a slow burn.
It feels too good hearing that sound. Too natural.
“I don’t think I’ve laughed this much before noon in years,” he admits.
I grin. “You should hang around me more often. I’m a professional chaos generator.”
“I already figured that out,” he says dryly. “I married you, didn’t I?”
I gasp, mock-offended. “Wow. Harsh words for someone who ate three of the donuts I bought.”
His smile turns into a full-on grin, and suddenly, we’re just two people sharing breakfast—not a billionaire and his new wife in a marriage that makes no sense. Just Langston and Sabrina.
He leans back in his chair, finishing his coffee. “We’ll swing by your place after this,” he says casually.
I blink. “My place?”
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You’ll need clothes. And then I’m taking you somewhere.”
I narrow my eyes. “Somewhere?”
“Somewhere,” he repeats, that infuriating half-smile returning.
I cross my arms. “You know, for a man who makes his living talking people into deals, you’re terrible at communication.”
He smirks, standing and reaching for his jacket. “You’ll like it, sweetheart. Trust me.”
That last word—sweetheart—makes my stomach flip all over again, but I play it cool, finishing the last bite of my donut.
“Fine,” I say. “But if this ‘somewhere’ turns out to be a meeting with your family or a surprise vow renewal, I’m walking into traffic.”
Langston chuckles as he opens the door. “Duly noted.”
And somehow, even as I follow him out of the hotel suite, I realize I’m smiling.