Chapter 40
Marble and Silk
Sabrina
It happens in a blink.
One second I’m smiling, riding the high of the room, of the night, of everything I built—and the next, I see it.
Bekki’s hand.
On Langston’s arm.
It shouldn’t mean anything. I know that. I know my husband. I know the way he looks at me, the way he touches me like I’m something precious instead of convenient. I know he would never do anything to hurt me.
But seeing her here—here, in my space, in my night—hits something raw and ugly inside my chest.
I need a second.
Just one.
Before I do something truly unhinged. Like stab a woman in the eye with an appetizer fork and ruin my own event.
I turn and head down the hallway toward the bathrooms, forcing my breathing to slow, my shoulders to relax, my smile to stay in place until I’m out of sight.
I almost make it.
Almost.
A hand clamps around my arm and yanks me sideways.
“What the—”
I stumble into the supply closet.
My heart slams into my ribs.
Elliott.
Of fucking course it’s Elliott.
“What are you doing?” I snap, ripping my arm free. “Why are you touching me? Get away from me.”
He steps closer instead.
The space shrinks. The air feels thick, stale, wrong.
“I heard about the deal,” he says, lips curling like he’s already won. “One year. That’s all you’re supposed to give him. Then you can come back to me.”
Shock slices through me so fast it almost knocks the breath out of my lungs.
“What?” I whisper.
The idea is so absurd, so insulting, that for a second I can’t even process it.
Come back to him?
Even thinking about a life without Langston makes my chest ache. Makes something inside me curl inward and protest.
I take a slow breath. Steady myself.
Then I look Elliott dead in the eye.
“Only one year?” I say.
The words come out sharp. Controlled. Measured.
Not an invitation.
A warning.
I’m just about to unload every thought I’ve ever had about him—about how he never knew me, never chose me, never earned a place in my life—
When something slams into the wall outside the closet.
Hard.
Violent.
I flinch, heart jumping into my throat.
I shove the door open wider.
And then I see him.
Langston.
Sliding down the wall like gravity has finally caught up to him.
His face is twisted in agony so raw it steals my breath. Not anger. Not rage.
Devastation.
Like the ground beneath him just gave way.
Like his whole world cracked open in one brutal second.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
I’ve never seen anyone look like that.
Never seen anyone look like they just lost everything they didn’t even know they were allowed to want.
And suddenly I understand.
He heard me.
And whatever he thinks those words meant—
It’s breaking him.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I drop to my knees in front of him like the marble floor doesn’t exist, like my dress isn’t silk and emerald and far too expensive to be crumpled beneath me. None of it matters.
Only him.
My husband—strong, controlled, unshakable—looks like he’s coming apart piece by piece, and the sight of it hurts worse than anything Elliott ever said or did.
“Langston,” I whisper.
His name comes out broken. A plea more than a sound.
I reach for his face, my hand shaking as I brush my thumb along his cheek. His skin is warm, but he feels distant—like he’s already halfway gone.
He doesn’t look at me at first.
When he finally does, my chest caves in.
There is no anger there.
No rage.
Just devastation.
Like the world ended quietly and no one told him except his heart.
I never want to see that look again. Not as long as I live.
“It’s not what you think,” I rush out, words tumbling over each other. “You misheard me. Langston, you didn’t hear the whole thing.”
His breath stutters.
“My world stops and starts with you,” he says hoarsely. “And you’re still thinking about leaving me.”
The words crush me.
A single tear slips down his cheek.
Mine follows it.
“No,” I say immediately. Fiercely. “No.”
I climb into his lap without asking, straddling him like the only place I belong is right here. My arms wrap around his neck, my forehead pressed to his.
“I was shutting him down,” I tell him, voice shaking. “I was telling him he has no claim on me. That even if this marriage started as something temporary, he was never an option.”
My hands cradle his face, forcing him to see me.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I say, every word carved straight from my chest. “I would choose you every time. I don’t care if you rip up the contract with my father. I don’t care if you tear up our marriage license.”
My voice breaks, but I don’t stop.
“I still pick you. I would still stay with you. Always.”
Something shifts in his eyes.
Like he’s finally hearing me.
Like the noise in his head goes quiet enough for the truth to land.
His hands come up to my hips, gripping me like he needs the pressure to stay upright. Like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered.
“I love you,” he says.
The words aren’t loud. They’re not dramatic.
They’re devastating in their honesty.
“You don’t have to say it back,” he adds quickly, voice rough. “I know I’ll have to earn it. I’ll work every day to make you love me. But I need you to know—being without you, even for the moments when your office door closes—it feels like I’m dying.”
A watery laugh escapes me through my tears.
I press my forehead to his, my hands sliding into his hair.
“You’re ridiculous,” I whisper, smiling even as I cry. “And dramatic.”
His brow furrows slightly, uncertain.
“And I love you already.”
The breath he lets out is shaky and relieved and full of everything he’s been holding back.
He pulls me tighter against him, burying his face in my neck like he finally believes he’s allowed to keep me.
And for the first time since this night began, the world feels solid again.
Like nothing is breaking.
Like we’re choosing each other—
not out of obligation,
not out of fear,
but because we want to.