Chapter 19 I Prefer Determined
I Prefer Determined
Langston
Istay awake a while longer, just watching her. Every so often she stirs, turning closer to me like her body already knows where it belongs. My hand finds her waist, and I can feel her heartbeat beneath my palm. Steady. Real.
It hits me then—how much I want this. Not the deal. Not the legacy. This. Her.
I used to think control was everything. That being in charge made me powerful. But holding her like this, I realize I’ve never had less control in my life.
And somehow, I don’t care.
Morning comes slowly.
For a moment I don’t even realize why the sunlight feels different—why it feels good.
Then I look down and remember.
Sabrina’s curled against me, her head resting on my chest, one hand spread over my heart like she’s trying to hold it still. Her hair—bright, wild, impossible—fans across my skin in a spill of red.
I don’t move at first. I just watch her.
Every slow breath.
Every faint twitch of her lashes against her cheeks.
It’s too early for this kind of peace, and too rare.
I run my fingers through her hair, careful not to wake her. It’s soft, still damp at the ends from last night. The memory of washing it—of her quiet laughter when the water ran down her shoulders—hits me harder than it should.
She shifts a little, mumbling something incoherent before settling again, her nose pressed against my ribs.
I smile without meaning to, the kind of smile that feels like it doesn’t belong on my face.
I almost laugh remembering how she thought she would sleep anywhere but in my bed.
Our bed. There will never be another night that I don't spend with my body wrapped around my wife. I don’t care if I have to drag her to every out of country trip. She will always sleep right beside me.
Eventually, I slide out from under her, moving slow so I don’t wake her.
I have to get to the office. There’s a full schedule waiting—meetings, calls, a dozen people expecting me to be the man who has everything under control.
But right now, all I want to do is crawl back into bed and keep her there.
I step into the closet. The space is spotless, too perfect, too mine. I start shifting things around—my suits on one side, ties rearranged—making room for her things.
She’ll hate it. She’ll argue. She’ll try to tell me she doesn’t need the space, that she’s not staying.
The thought makes me smile again. I love sparring with her.
When I come back into the room, she’s standing by the bathroom doorway wearing the same clothes from last night. Her eyes are still sleepy, but there’s a spark there—one makes my chest tighten.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning,” she answers softly. “You’re dressed.”
I nod. “Work calls.”
Her lips quirk. “Does work know you got married?”
I grin. “They’ll figure it out.”
We make our way downstairs. The smell of coffee fills the kitchen; Mabel must’ve set the pot before she left last night. I pour two mugs and hand her one. She looks at it like it’s a peace offering. Maybe it is.
“You eat breakfast?” I ask.
“Sometimes.”
“Not good enough.” I start cracking eggs. “Sit.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You cook?”
“Apparently better than you eat,” I say, sliding bacon onto a pan.
She laughs—soft, easy—and something about the sound fills the house in a way it’s never been filled before.
Over breakfast, we talk about the day.
I tell her I’ve got back-to-back meetings. She tells me she needs to check on Olga,
“Olga,” I repeat. “You’re going over there alone?”
She rolls her eyes. “I promised I’d watch her for a few hours this morning.”
“You’re supposed to be packing,” I remind her.
She gives me a look over her mug. “You mean for the move I didn’t agree to?”
I tilt my head. “You’re really going to fight me on this?”
“Obviously.”
“Sweetheart,” I say, setting my fork down and leaning forward, “you’re moving in. End of discussion.”
Her jaw drops slightly. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” I interrupt gently. “And I am.”
She huffs, crossing her arms, but there’s a faint smile hiding at the corner of her mouth. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer determined.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t argue further.
“I’ll come by after work,” I tell her, standing and taking her plate. “We’ll pack together.”
She groans. “You’re really not letting this go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
As I rinse the dishes, I glance over my shoulder. She’s leaning back in her chair, watching me like she’s trying to figure me out. I can almost hear what she’s thinking—why I’m doing this, why do I care.
Truth is, I don’t have an answer.
I just know that walking away from her now isn’t an option.
“I really do have to check in on Olga,” she says casually.
I raise a brow. “You just saw her yesterday.”
“She needs help in the mornings,” Sabrina says, matter-of-fact. “I promised I’d stop by for a few hours.”
I frown, imagining the frail old woman struggling with breakfast or stairs. “You shouldn’t be doing that alone.”
She tilts her head, confused for half a second before smirking. “I think I’ll manage.”
“I’ll send someone to help,” I say automatically. “Or better yet, I’ll come by tonight. Make sure she’s all right.”
Her smirk widens into a grin she tries to hide behind her coffee cup. “You… want to check on Olga?”
“Yes,” I answer, dead serious. “If she needs help, she’s going to get it.”
She bites her lip to keep from laughing, the sound that escapes her a soft, choked giggle. “You’re really something else, Blackwell.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly, standing from the table. “You do that. Check on Olga.”
I narrow my eyes, but she’s already moving toward the sink, rinsing her cup.
We go back and forth for another ten minutes about her moving in—me insisting, her pretending she has a choice—until I finally pin her down with logic and sheer persistence.
She groans, head falling back dramatically. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you.”
That gets her quiet. She looks at me for a long beat before shaking her head and heading toward the door. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when Olga bites.”
“Bites?” I echo, frowning. “Maybe I should send someone.”
The drive to Sabrina’s apartment is quiet, but not tense.
It’s the kind of quiet that feels like something—comfortable, full of words we haven’t figured out how to say yet.
She’s staring out the window, hair pulled over one shoulder, sunlight catching every red strand. The sight does something to me every time.
I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Get a hold of yourself, Blackwell.
“I’m walking you in,” I reply easily.
She looks at me like I’ve said something absurd. “Langston, I’m not fragile. It’s broad daylight.”
I cut the engine and turn toward her. “I didn’t say you were fragile. I said I’m walking you in.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting a smile. “You really don’t know how to lose, do you?”
“Not when it matters.”
She huffs but doesn’t argue, which I’ll take as a win.
She allows me to take her hand as we head up to her apartment, which I also take as a win.
I lean down, brushing my thumb over her jaw. “Go on, sweetheart. Pack what you need. I’ll be back tonight to help with the rest.”
Her eyes soften. “Langston—”
“No arguing,” I say, smirking.
She laughs, and for a second, it feels easy. Natural. Like this thing between us was always supposed to happen.
When she disappears into the apartment, I stand there longer than I mean to, hands in my pockets, staring after her.
By the time I make it to the office, my mood’s already too good for anyone to risk crossing me.
Not that they ever do.
The elevator doors slide open to the forty-second floor, and the familiar hum of my company fills the air. Phones ringing, deals closing, the sound of money moving. It’s exactly how I like it—efficient. Predictable. Controlled.
Jack’s already waiting outside my office, a folder in one hand and a coffee in the other.
The kid’s been with me for years—well, kid is generous. He’s in his early twenties, quick, brilliant, and the only person who can keep pace with the way I work.
The old-timers gave me hell for it when I hired him. Said I should’ve gone with one of the “pretty young things” the agency sent over. Someone who could smile at clients, charm investors.
I told them to fuck off.
I don’t need someone to flirt. I need someone who can keep my schedule straight and my company running.
Jack hands me the coffee. “Morning, boss.”
I nod, taking it from him as I move behind my desk. “Morning. What’s on the docket?”
He flips open the folder. “Contracts from the Kensington merger, updates from our European division, and a meeting with the board at ten.”
I start scanning the first page, but halfway through, I pause. “I need you to make an appointment at lunch.”
He looks up. “With who?”
“A jeweler.”
Jack blinks. “A jeweler?”
I don’t look up. “I need a ring.”
He sets the folder down slowly. “A ring.”
“Yes.”
“For your new wife,” he says, voice full of disbelief.
Finally, I glance up. The corner of my mouth lifts. “That’s right.”
His jaw actually drops a little. “Wait, you did it? You actually went through with marrying the Kensington girl?”
I smirk. “Surprised?”
“Stunned,” he admits. “I thought it was just a business move. Didn’t think you’d look—” He hesitates. “Happy about it.”
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “It was supposed to be business,” I say, then grin. “It didn’t stay that way.”
Jack blinks again. “Oh God, what did you do?”
“Picked the wrong sister,” I tell him, deadpan.
His eyes widen. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” Then I tell him everything that happened. Sabrina showing up to save her sister. Her being my waitress from the club. Her saying it was for one year.
“One year?” Jake asks me with surprise in his voice. “And you agreed to that?”
“Hell no. She just thinks I did.” I laugh but in the pit of my stomach I know I have to get her to love me within a year or she will leave me.
“Jesus, Langston.” He laughs, shaking his head. “You always get what you want, don’t you?”
“Most of the time.”
He snorts. “Yeah, well, this one might come back to bite you in the ass.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”
Jack leans against the doorframe, grin sharp. “You told me weeks ago you couldn’t stop thinking about that waitress from the Reserve. Now you’ve got her. Just don’t be surprised when she doesn’t follow your rules.”
He starts walking away, chuckling under his breath.
I call after him, “You think I can’t handle her?”
He doesn’t even turn around. “Oh, I think you can. I just think she’s the first person who won’t let you.”
When the door closes behind him, I sit back, a laugh slipping out before I can stop it.
He’s probably right.
Sabrina doesn’t bend. She pushes. She argues. She makes me work for every inch.
And I’ve never wanted to fight for anything more in my life.
Tonight, when I show up to her apartment, she’ll probably have a dozen reasons why she isn’t ready to move in.
She’ll glare. She’ll cross her arms. She’ll dig in her heels.
And I’ll enjoy every second of it.