Chapter 29 Seven Times
Seven Times
Langston
Istare at the ceiling, hands folded behind my head, replaying the moment from earlier like I can rewind it and choose differently. The way she stood there. The way her voice barely shook when she asked. The way I said no.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I’m pissed at myself.
Because saying no didn’t make the wanting go away. It sharpened it. Turned it into something heavy and constant, something that sits in my chest and won’t let me breathe all the way in.
I don’t want half of her.
I don’t want permission granted out of loneliness or confusion or comfort. I want something real. Something chosen. And dragging her into more when she’s still figuring out what she wants—when I already know what I do—isn’t fair to either of us.
Still.
The guilt crawls in anyway.
I took something from her that should’ve been hers to give freely. Her virginity should’ve belonged to the man she chose without pressure, without contracts, without timelines hanging over her head like a countdown clock.
And no matter how careful I was… no matter how much she wanted me in that moment…
I was still part of a system that cornered her.
That truth is a demon I can’t outrun.
I give up on sleep before dawn and slide out of bed quietly. The house is still, shadows stretching across the hallway as I head for the kitchen. Muscle memory takes over—coffee beans measured, water heated, mug warmed.
Her mug.
Cream. One sugar. Stirred exactly seven times.
When she wanders in a few minutes later, hair mussed, eyes half-closed, wearing one of my shirts like it already belongs to her, my chest tightens.
I hand her the mug without a word.
She blinks at it, then smiles softly. “You remembered.”
“I remember,” I say simply.
She takes a sip, hums in approval, and leans against the counter like the world hasn’t just turned me upside down.
“I’m going to work out,” I tell her, needing distance before I do something reckless. “We can have breakfast after. If that’s okay.”
She nods immediately. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
The gym becomes my refuge—and my punishment.
I push my body hard, harder than necessary. Music blaring. Sweat burning. Legs screaming. I run like I can outrun the voice in my head telling me I forced her into this. That I made choices for her before she had the chance to make them herself.
It doesn’t work.
By the time I shower and make it back upstairs, the weight is still there. Quieter. Waiting.
Breakfast is easy. Too easy.
We talk about nothing important—weather, errands, the way mornings feel different in this house now. I ask about her plans, keeping my tone casual.
“I’m going to check on Mrs. D,” she says. “Make sure everything’s okay with Olga.”
“Take a driver,” I reply automatically. “Whatever you need. If you want to stop anywhere—”
I pause, then add, carefully, “If you need to go to the Reserve, just tell me.”
She looks up at me, amused.
Then she shakes her head. “I won’t be heading to the Reserve.”
I nod once, “Okay, let me know if you change your mind.”
It feels wrong leaving her like that.
Standing in the doorway this morning, coffee in her hand, hair still sleep-tangled, looking at me like she expects something—and I give her space instead. No kiss. No touch. Just a quiet goodbye and the sound of the door closing behind me.
I hate myself for how hard it is to walk away.
But I do it anyway.
The elevator ride up to the office is silent, the city rising into view as if nothing in my world has shifted. When the doors slide open, Jack is already there—leaning against the wall, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, his expression grim enough that I know better than to waste time.
He steps forward and presses the cup into my hand. “We’ve got a problem.”
I take it without comment. “Just give it to me straight.”
He nods. That’s why he’s still here. No fluff.
“The last shipment of rubies,” he says as we walk. “It came up short.”
I stop cold. “By how much?”
“Enough to matter.”
My jaw tightens. “The carrier was vetted.”
“Triple-checked,” Jack confirms. “Paper trail’s clean. Which is the problem.”
I’m already moving, my brain snapping into place. CEO mode clicks on like armor.
“Where was the handoff before final clearance?”
Jack pulls up a tablet, scrolling quickly. “Temporary warehouse in England. Outside London. Only point in the chain where the product wasn’t under our direct supervision.”
There it is.
I spend the next hour dissecting the process—who signed off, who had access, where the cameras were, where they weren’t. Calls stack on top of calls. Legal. Insurance. Overseas contacts. Damage control in real time.
By noon, I know two things.
Someone got sloppy.
And someone’s going to regret it.
But even with my focus locked in, my mind keeps drifting.
I wonder if Sabrina made it to Mrs. D’s yet. If Olga was excited to see her. If she will remember to eat lunch —or if she will just drink coffee and forget the rest.
I make a mental note to ask her where she’s at with the nonprofit planning. What stage she’s in. What she needs next.
Halfway through the afternoon, between calls, I pull out my phone.
Langston:
Checking in. Don’t forget to eat lunch.
And tell Olga I said hi.
I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary before setting the phone face-down on the desk.
I shouldn’t be this distracted.
I’ve built empires while under more pressure than this.
But somehow, the thing unraveling my focus today isn’t missing rubies or international warehouses.
It’s the woman I didn’t kiss goodbye.
I get home later than I meant to.
The day unraveled into one long, grinding mess of calls and fixes and contingency plans, and by the time I finally shut my laptop, the office was quiet in that way that makes you realize you stayed too long.
I’d called Mabel earlier—told her to make dinner for Sabrina and to stay, eat with her.
I didn’t want her alone tonight. Not after everything.
When I step inside, the house smells… warm. Comforting. Garlic and herbs and something sweet I can’t place right away. Home, if I let myself think it.
I hang my coat, loosen my tie, and round the corner into the living room.
The candle on the coffee table is the first thing I see—small flame flickering, casting a soft glow across the room.
Then I see her.
Sabrina is curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, one arm draped awkwardly across her lap. Her notebooks are everywhere—open, stacked, fanned out like she fell asleep mid-thought. A pen is still loosely held between her fingers.
My chest tightens.
I move quietly, like the room might shatter if I breathe too loud. I kneel and begin gathering her notes one by one, careful to keep everything exactly how she left it. I don’t read them. I don’t need to. This is hers. I just stack them neatly so nothing slips out of order.
I carry them upstairs and place them on the desk in her room. I straighten the chair. Adjust the lamp. Small things. Necessary things.
Then I go back down to wake her.
“Sabrina,” I murmur softly.
Nothing.
I try again, a little closer. “Sweetheart.” I brush her red hair out of her face.
She stirs just enough to swat my hand away, rolling further into the couch with a quiet, sleepy huff. Her hair spills over her face, hiding her eyes.
I almost let her stay there.
Almost.
But that couch is awful. I know because I’ve fallen asleep on it once and paid for it for two days afterward. She’d wake up stiff and sore and irritated, and she doesn’t need that.
So I slide one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back and lift her carefully.
She doesn’t wake.
Instead, she melts.
Her head drops against my chest, her hands curling into my shirt like they’ve always belonged there. She presses closer, burrowing in instinctively, and something low and fierce twists in my gut.
This. This is the part I’m afraid of.
Halfway up the stairs, she shifts. Blinks. Looks up at me through heavy lashes.
There’s a sleepy smile there—soft and unguarded and dangerous.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “For carrying me to bed.”
“You’re welcome,” I say quietly.
I lay her down gently, tucking the blanket around her shoulders, making sure she’s warm. She turns onto her side, already drifting again, her breathing evening out as if this is exactly where she belongs.
I stand there longer than I should.
Watching her.
Wanting things I’ve already told myself I can’t have.
Eventually, I turn away and cross the hall to my room.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the silence settles heavy and unwelcome. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, hating the space between us. Hating that I put it there. Hating that part of me wonders if she hates it too.
I lie back and close my eyes.