I just disappeared.
Like the ghost of a girl he never deserved.
And now he’s here, acting like we’re about to catch up over drinks.
Not a fucking chance.
I school my features into something neutral and forced. “I’ve got customers.”
But inside, my skin is crawling.
Not because I’m afraid of him.
Because I know men like him.
And right now, I’m married to one.
The only difference?
Langston never lied about who he was.
My Wife
Langston
Dean is rambling again.
Something about a joke he made to Maddison—his very off-limits social media manager—that she apparently didn’t find funny. He swears it was harmless, but from the way Nathan and Coleman keep shifting in their seats, I know I’m not the only one thinking this "emergency meeting" could’ve been a text.
I should be home.
Mabel, my housekeeper, is probably turning the place inside out trying to make it more “wife-friendly.” I told her to add color. Flowers. Warmth. She looked at me like I’d grown two heads, then promised she’d take care of it.
And now I’m stuck here, listening to Dean defend his lack of verbal filter, when I could be making sure the house doesn’t look like a damn hotel lobby when Sabrina walks through the door tomorrow.
She deserves better than sterile.
She deserves—
I hear hervoice.
It’s like a punch to the chest. Low, familiar, velvet-wrapped chaos. She laughs, but it’s tight. Off.
My head snaps up.
It shouldn’t be her. She’s not supposed to be here.
But I’d recognize that sound anywhere.
I shift in the booth, my eyes scanning the crowd until—
There.
Red hair, wild and untamed, like a flare against the dim lighting. She’s standing near the edge of the dining room, a tray in her hands and a ghost of a smile on her lips. But her body’s too still. Too tense.
And her eyes—
They aren’t smiling.
