Yeah, it's taken a toll on me, tryin' my best to keep
From tearin' the skin off my bones, don't you know…
I lose control
When you're not next to me (When you’re not here with me)
I’m fallin' apart right in front of you, can’t you see?
I lose control
When you're not next to me, mhm
Yeah, you're breakin' my heart, baby
You make a mess of me
The Wrong Bride
Langston
There’s something about the quiet of power.
The way a room hushes when a name is spoken. The weight of expectation that never needs to be voiced—because it’s sewn into your suit, tied into the silk of your tie, pressed into the soles of your thousand-dollar shoes.
I’ve worn that silence all my life.
I walk into the Kensington estate and the hush follows me like a shadow. White marble, crystal sconces, a chandelier that looks like it cost more than most people’s homes. Everything is perfectly polished—like the family that owns it.
Tonight, I'm here to collect my reward for being a good son.
A good businessman.
A good legacy.
The butler nods, and I pass through the grand hall into a sitting room that smells like old money and fresh florals. There’s a tray of champagne flutes on the sideboard. A string quartet plays softly in the next room. I can already feel the burn of expectation seeping into my chest.
Then I see them—Mr. Kensington and his wife.
He’s tall, still wearing his name like a crown despite the lines around his mouth. She’s younger, beautiful in that sharp, unyielding way women like her always are. Designer from head to heel. Nose just slightly lifted. A woman who doesn’t need to ask if she’s better than you—she assumes it.
“Langston,” he greets, stepping forward with a handshake. “Welcome. So glad you could come.”
I nod once. “I was told this was a formality.”
He chuckles like we’re old friends. “And a celebration.”
I glance around. There’s no one else here. No crowd. No introductions.
He turns, gesturing toward a nearby door. “Ariana’s just finishing getting ready. She’s been excited for days. It’s not every girl who gets to marry into the Blackwell diamond legacy.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch the way his wife stiffens slightly. Possessive. Like she’s gifting me her daughter and expects a thank you.
I don’t give one.
Instead, I move to the window, stare out at the manicured grounds.
This isn’t love. It never was.
