Ruby (Lakeshore Manager):
Can you fill in tonight? We had a last-minute call-out.
I type without thinking.
Me:
I’ll be there.
I sit back and let the satisfaction bloom in my chest.
Langston Blackwell can tell the world I’m his wife. He can throw money at lawyers and sign papers and build a future made of expectations and control.
But he doesn’t get to decide who I am.
And no matter what his last name is—
No one tells me what to do.
By the time I unlock the door to my apartment, I’ve almost convinced myself that the last twenty-four hours were a dream.
A courthouse wedding. A billionaire husband. A diamond on my finger so heavy it feels like a joke.
Definitely a dream.
Or a fever.
Probably both.
But as soon as I start to open the door I hear the soft scuffle of tiny feet followed by an enthusiastic yap from next door, reality slams back into place.
“Olga!” I laugh, dropping my bag just in time for a tiny, scruffy ball of fur to barrel into my shins.
She’s part chihuahua, part gremlin, and part mop. And she’s obsessed with me.
Her leash trails behind her like a ribbon of chaos, which can only mean one thing—
“Sabrina, honey? You’re home already?”
I look up to see my neighbor peeking her head around the corner from the hallway.
Mrs. Delaney.
Eighty-four years old. Wears floral cardigans year-round. Knows everyone’s business whether you want her to or not.
I grin. “Hey, Mrs. D.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”
“Change of plans.”
“Olga missed you.” She picks up the little dog with a grunt and shuffles into my apartment without waiting for an invite. “She kept sniffing at your door like she knew something was off.”
“Well, she was right.”
Mrs. Delaney settles herself onto the worn armchair near the window, Olga cradled in her lap like a very judgmental toddler. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”
I hesitate.
