“My wife needs me,” I grit out, every word edged with steel. “I’ll be there.”
I end the call without waiting for his response.
Toronto can burn for all I care.
Sabrina is scared. Sabrina is hurting. And whatever this marriage started as—contracts, leverage, expectations—none of that matters right now.
I grab my jacket, stride toward the elevator, and let only one thought anchor me as everything else falls away:
I’m coming, Sweetheart.
No More Rules
Sabrina
I’m sitting in a stiff plastic chair beside Mrs. D’s bed, my fingers wrapped around her papery hand like if I let go, something terrible will happen.
The room smells like antiseptic and recycled air. Machines hum softly around us, steady and cruel in their normalcy. I’ve memorized every sound, every blink of light, every rise and fall of her chest.
The doctor already told me there’s nothing todoright now.
We wait.
I hate waiting.
Mrs. D’s skin is warm but fragile beneath my palm, thinner than it should be. She looks smaller in this bed, swallowed by white sheets and too-bright lights. I lean forward, resting my forehead against the edge of the mattress, eyes burning.
I don’t want to go home.
I don’t want to sit in that big, quiet house where everything echoes and reminds me that my mom never came home either.
I swipe at my cheeks, even though it’s useless. I know I look like hell—eyes swollen, hair shoved into a messy knot that’s been pulled at one too many times. My head throbs from crying, my body heavy with exhaustion that doesn’t touch the ache in my chest.
Then the air changes.
It’s subtle. A shift. A presence.
I lift my head.
And my heartstops.
Langston is standing just inside the doorway.
For a second, I think I’m hallucinating. That my brain is so tired it’s filling in what I want to see instead of what’s real.
He’s not supposed to be home until tomorrow.
He’s supposed to be in another country.
He looks out of place here—too tall, too solid, dressed in dark clothes that make him look like a shadow carved into the fluorescent light. His eyes find mine instantly, and something in his face softens, cracks open.
I push to my feet so fast the chair scrapes loudly across the floor.
“Langston?” My voice breaks around his name. “What—what are you doing here?”
He crosses the room in three long strides and doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t ask. He just wraps an arm around me and pulls me into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I melt.
