Chapter 24 Game On
Game On
Sabrina
The front door clicks shut.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at the wood like it might explain what just happened.
Last night, Langston was laughing. Teasing. Watching me like I was something precious.
This morning? Cold. Controlled. Distant.
I let out a soft, humorless laugh and shake my head.
So this is the real him, I think.
The man who walked into my father’s house like he owned the place. The one who demanded a bride and expected the world to rearrange itself around his decision.
Maybe the warmth was the act.
Maybe the kindness was the distraction.
“Well,” I murmur to the empty house, “you married the wrong woman for that.”
Because I am not a door mat.
And I am definitely not something pretty to be worn on a man’s arm when it suits him.
That thought steadies me.
I head upstairs, change into something comfortable and familiar—jeans, boots, a sweater that smells like me—and do exactly what he told me to do.
What I would’ve done anyway.
I order a rideshare and head into town.
My favorite coffee shop greets me like it always does: warm air, low music, the barista already reaching for my usual. I take my drink to the corner table and open my notebooks, losing myself in plans and lists and ideas that remind me who I am.
For a while, it’s easy. Then I get that feeling. The one that crawls up my spine. Like someone’s watching me.
I glance around casually—too casually—but everything looks normal. A couple talking near the window. Someone typing on a laptop. Nothing out of place.
Still… I don’t shake the feeling.
My phone buzzes.
Langston:
I’m sorry about this morning.
I stare at the screen for a moment before replying.
Me:
I’m good. Nothing to worry about.
Another buzz a few minutes later.
Langston:
I shouldn’t have snapped.
I don’t answer that one right away. Instead, I finish my notes, close my notebook, and take one last sip of coffee. When I finally respond, it’s honest—but guarded.
Me:
We’ll talk later.
I slip my phone into my bag, feeling lighter as I stand.
Work will ground me.
The Reserve always does.
As I head out and toward my next ride, a small smile tugs at my lips.
If Langston Blackwell thinks he married someone who will shrink when he pulls away…
He’s about to learn just how wrong he is.
And with that thought warming my chest, I make my way to Lakeshore Reserve—ready to step back into my own life, on my own terms.
The moment I step into Lakeshore Reserve, I know something’s off.
My manager—Tom—looks up from behind the host stand like he’s seen a ghost. His mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again.
“Sabrina,” he says slowly, “what are you doing here?”
I blink. “Working?”
He glances past me like Langston might materialize out of thin air. “Uh… your husband called.”
I stop short. “He did what?”
Tom lowers his voice. “Said you quit. Effective immediately.”
For a second, I just stare at him.
Then I laugh. Not a nervous laugh. Not a hurt one. A real, sharp, amused laugh that pulls a couple of looks from nearby tables.
“Oh,” I say, setting my bag down behind the stand. “That’s adorable.”
Tom frowns. “Excuse me?”
I lean in a little, smile sweet and unbothered. “My husband doesn’t tell me what to do.”
And with that, I grab an apron and tie it around my waist like nothing happened.
Tom watches me for a beat, then exhales. “So… you’re staying?”
“I am,” I say simply. “Unless you are firing me.”
He shakes his head quickly. “No. God, no. I just—okay. All right.” He rubs his face. “Table twelve needs water.”
“On it.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I head toward the floor.
I ignore it.
I pass the bar, greet a regular, pour wine with steady hands. The muscle memory kicks in like it always does—grounding, familiar, mine.
Another buzz.
Then another.
I don’t check.
Because this? This is still my life.
And if Langston Blackwell thinks one phone call is enough to rewrite it, he’s got another thing coming.
I feel it.
The second the air shifts in the building.
It’s different than before—different from the coffee shop, where the feeling had been vague, distant, easy to ignore. This is sharper. Heavier. Intent.
Like heat sliding across skin.
I don’t turn around right away. I don’t need to.
I know that weight. I know the way it settles low in my spine, the way my shoulders instinctively pull back, the way my pulse kicks up like my body’s already bracing for him.
My husband is here.
I can feel his eyes trace me as I move—down my back, along my hips, the length of my legs as I walk past the bar. Not hurried. Not careless.
Claiming.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it.
So he called my boss.
So he thought he could decide for me.
And now he’s here, watching me work like he’s trying to figure out where he miscalculated.
I grab a tray, balance it on my palm, and deliberately bend just enough as I reach for a table—aware of every inch of myself in a way I wasn’t five minutes ago.
I straighten slowly.
Still don’t look at him.
Not yet.
Because I want him to sit with it.
That I didn’t obey.
That I’m still very much me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket again.
Ignored.
I take an order. Pour a drink. Laugh softly at something a customer says—all the while feeling his presence grow closer, heavier, like a storm deciding when to break.
Finally, I glance toward the bar.
There he is.
Langston Blackwell—perfect suit, unreadable expression, eyes dark and locked on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing.
Our gazes collide.
And this time, I don’t look away.
The smirk fully forms, slow and deliberate.
Game on Husband, I think.
And judging by the way his jaw tightens?
He knows it too.