She shifts. “Does the champagne taste different when it’s ten thousand feet higher than the rest of us?”
I glance up. She’s smirking.
God help me—I actually want to answer.
But I shut it down.
“I need to work.”
Her mouth opens like she’s going to push back. Then she just exhales, slumps back in her seat, and mutters something about diamonds and egos under her breath.
I work.
Or I try to.
Because she keeps moving. Restless. Stretching, flipping through a magazine, kicking off her shoes, checking the window.
Like she’s trying to prove she can’t be boxed in.
And still—my gaze keeps flicking toward her. No matter how many spreadsheets I open, I’m aware of her every shift, every breath.
When we begin our descent, I close the laptop and glance her way.
“You’ll be moving in sometime this week.”
She lets out a bark of laughter.
“Right,” she says. “Sure. I’ll pencil that in.”
“I’m not joking.”
Her laughter fades. “Wait—you’re serious?”
“Of course I am.”
“I can’t move in with you,” she says, wide-eyed. “I don’t evenknowyou.”
“You’re my wife.”
“That doesn’t mean—Langston, I have responsibilities.”
I raise a brow. “Such as?”
“I have to take care of Olga.”
I blink. “Who?” I pause. The name sounds… elderly. “She lives alone?”
Sabrina shrugs. “She’s old. Needs a little help.”
I nod slowly. “Fine. We’ll arrange something for her care.”
“No,” she says quickly. “It’s not like that.”
She looks down, like she suddenly regrets bringing it up.
I lean forward. “You’re not living alone anymore. You’re not sneaking around Chicago like you’re not married. You’re mine now.”
“Jesus, calm down. I’m not sneaking anything.”
