Chapter 39
Detonation
Langston
Idon’t think I’ve ever been this still.
Not because the room isn’t alive—it is. Laughter, low music, glasses clinking, voices weaving together in that polished hum of money and influence. The kind of room I’ve spent my entire life navigating without thinking.
But tonight, I’m not watching the room.
I’m watching her.
Sabrina moves through the space like she belongs here—not because of my name, not because of the people who showed up to be seen—but because she believes in what she’s built.
She listens when people speak. Asks questions that matter.
Laughs easily. Her hands move when she talks, animated and sure, and every time someone thanks her for this—for tonight—I feel it land somewhere deep in my chest.
Pride. Pure and sharp.
People come up to me constantly. Congratulating me. Thanking me for hosting. For supporting such a “worthwhile cause.”
I smile. Shake hands. Nod.
But I make sure to say the same thing every time.
“This is my wife’s night. I’m just here to support her.”
And every single time, I mean it.
The Rizzolis are all here.
Liam stands near the bar with an arm around his wife, looking like he owns the damn place without trying. Cross is posted nearby, watchful as ever, his presence unmistakable. Callum’s laughing at something, broad and warm, his wife tucked into his side like it’s second nature.
Even Luka made it—fresh off an away game, still carrying that restless energy athletes get when they land. I clap him on the shoulder when I see him, gratitude sharp that he showed up anyway.
My friends are here too.
Coleman and Remi stand together near the back, easy and solid, the twins nowhere in sight but clearly the center of their universe even when they’re not present.
Harvey’s leaned against a column, drink in hand, surveying the room like he’s mentally cataloging exits.
Nathan’s already deep in conversation with someone important, charm turned up just enough to be dangerous.
Dean slips in not long after, apologizing for the delay, still buzzing from the game.
They all came.
For her.
My parents arrive together, my mother immediately making a beeline for Sabrina like gravity pulled her there.
I watch from across the room as she takes Sabrina’s hands, her face lighting up, her posture softening in a way I don’t see often.
They’ve been meeting for lunch for weeks now—planning, brainstorming, building this thing together—and it shows.
They look like family.
My mother says something that makes Sabrina laugh, and the sound cuts straight through me.
That’s when it hits me—quiet, undeniable.
This isn’t just an event.
It’s a life.
One Sabrina is building with intention and heart and a stubborn refusal to be small.
I didn’t give her this.
I didn’t create her.
I just had the sense not to stand in her way—and the privilege of standing beside her now.
She catches my eye from across the room, her smile soft and knowing, and for a moment everything else fades.
I lift my glass slightly in her direction.
You did this, I think.
And for the first time in my life, success doesn’t feel like something I conquered.
It feels like something I get to witness.
It hits me out of nowhere.
Not like a slow realization. Not like something I can logic my way into.
It’s a truth that lands fully formed in my chest and steals the air from my lungs.
I love my wife.
The thought is so sudden, so complete, that I actually still. Like if I move, it might disappear. I watch Sabrina across the room—how she leans in to listen, how she touches someone’s arm when she thanks them, how her smile softens when a single mother tells her what this night means.
And I know.
Not want.
Not desire.
Not obligation.
Love.
The kind that settles in your bones and rewires your priorities without asking permission.
I’m so caught in it that I don’t even register the presence beside me until a hand slides onto my arm.
I glance down.
Of course.
It’s the woman from her father’s team.
For a split second, my brain refuses to supply her name.
Brittany?
Beth?
—No.
Bekki.
With an i.
I mentally sigh, then school my expression into something polite. “Can I help you with something?” I ask, tone neutral.
She looks up at me in a way I immediately don’t like—eyes lingering too long, smile sharp instead of warm.
Before she can say anything else, I take a deliberate step back, breaking contact.
My eyes lift instinctively, searching the room.
Finding Sabrina.
She’s looking right at me.
And the look on her face punches straight through my chest.
Hurt.
Uncertainty.
That old, familiar instinct to pull away before she gets left behind.
“No,” I mutter, already moving. “Excuse me.”
But just as I start toward her, someone intercepts me.
A man I recognize as a potential major investor for the nonprofit—important enough that I can’t brush him off without consequences for her.
“Langston Blackwell,” he says warmly, extending a hand. “Wonderful evening. Truly impressive.”
I shake his hand, my smile practiced, my focus fractured.
“Thank you for coming,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “My wife put her heart into this.”
We exchange a few pleasantries—numbers, impact, follow-ups. I nod at the right moments, respond when necessary.
All the while, my eyes keep flicking down the hall.
By the time the conversation wraps, Sabrina is gone.
I don’t hesitate this time.
I excuse myself and head down the corridor toward the bathrooms, my pulse quickening with every step.
Because I know that look.
I don’t even hesitate.
I don’t care that it’s the women’s restroom. I don’t care who sees me. My only thought is to find her.
I reach the hallway and turn sharply—already bracing to push through the bathroom door—when I hear her voice.
Not panicked.
Not raised.
Low. Controlled.
Coming from somewhere else.
I stop short.
The supply closet door is cracked just enough to let sound spill out.
I take one step closer.
Then another.
And that’s when I see him.
Elliott.
Too close to her. Too familiar. His body angled in a way that makes something feral snap awake inside me. My hand curls into a fist, already preparing to break bones, already planning exactly where to hit first—
And then Sabrina speaks.
“Only one year.”
The words don’t just land.
They detonate.
My heart slams so hard it steals my breath. My vision blurs at the edges. For a second, I honestly think I might black out.
One year.
The wall hits my back before I realize I’m moving. Cold stone against my shoulders as my knees buckle, my body sliding down it like gravity just doubled.
This—this—is what she really thinks.
After everything.
After last night. After the way she looked at me tonight. After the way she let me believe—let me hope—that we were building something real.
I don’t hear the rest of what’s being said. Blood roars too loud in my ears. My chest feels caved in, hollow and aching, like something vital has been ripped free.
I was a fool.
I let myself forget the rules. Let myself believe love could grow where a contract started. Let myself think I was chosen—not tolerated.
The door flies open.
Light spills into the hallway.
Sabrina steps out—
—and freezes when she sees me.
On the floor.
Back against the wall.
Looking like a man who just lost everything he didn’t know he could bleed for.