Page 12

Magnolia Steel

It’s quiet in the house except for the low hum of game footage playing on the TV—one of Alex’s old matches, the kind where the crowd roars loud enough to rattle your ribs even through the screen. He’s half-watching, half-analyzing, elbow propped on the armrest, jaw tense with old instincts.

I’m curled up on the couch beside him, legs tucked beneath me, my laptop balanced on the curve of my thighs as I toggle between our wedding spreadsheet and a Pinterest board I swore I would not look at again today.

But here I am—debating floral arches and linen napkin folds as though the fate of the world depends on blush versus ivory.

We’ve reached the part of planning where even the simplest questions are loaded.

The wedding planner’s been nothing but patient, but she needs answers—and fast. With the date barreling toward us and everything on an accelerated timeline, even choosing a table linen seems like defusing a bomb.

Every decision hits me like a freight train with no room to breathe between floral samples and seating charts.

It’s beautiful. It’s exciting. But it’s also chaos, all wrapped in lace.

“The planner wants ranunculus, but I’m leaning toward white hydrangeas and pale pink roses. What do you think?”

Alex pauses the game footage and leans in from where he’s sitting beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as he angles to see my screen better. He studies the photo for a beat, and taps the arrangement of hydrangeas and roses. “Whichever one that is. It looks like you.”

I smirk. “Is that your way of saying I’m classic and overpriced?”

He grins. “It’s my way of saying pick that one, so I don’t have to talk about flowers anymore.”

I groan and flop back against the couch cushions. “Men. Y’all don’t care about anything when it comes to weddings.”

Alex leans in, voice low near my ear. “You’re wrong.”

I glance up at him, one brow lifted. “Am I?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “We care very much about weddings… and what happens when they’re over and the honeymoon begins.”

I smirk, tilting my head. “So the tux is just foreplay?”

His laugh is low and warm as he brushes a kiss against my mouth. “Everything before the honeymoon is foreplay.”

The buzzer for the front gate crackles through the house.

“Are we expecting someone?”

“I’m not.”

Alex walks to the wall panel and presses the intercom. “Yeah?”

A man’s voice replies, “Delivery for Magnolia Steel.”

Alex glances back at me. “Did you order something?”

“Not that I remember. Someone probably sent a wedding gift.”

They’ve been arriving sporadically—candlesticks, crystal, an antique vase from people I don’t know.

Minutes later, a delivery van winds up the long drive. A man in a navy polo and matching cap steps out, holding a massive, rectangle-shaped parcel wrapped in bridal-white paper with an embossed finish and silver satin ribbon.

As he gets closer, recognition lights his face.

“No way—Alex Sebring?” The guy grins. “Didn’t dream I’d deliver to you today. My whole house is rooting for your comeback, mate.”

Alex smiles. “Appreciate that. Looking forward to being back on the pitch.”

The guy nods, then glances at the package. “Mind signing here, miss?”

I scribble my name on the tablet, and Alex pulls out his wallet, tipping him.

The delivery guy hesitates, glancing between us and the package. “Would it be weird if I asked for a photo?”

Alex chuckles. “Not weird at all, mate.”

“My brother’s gonna lose it when he hears I was here.”

He pulls out his phone and leans in for a selfie, but I’m already reaching. “Here—let me take it.”

The guy beams, handing me the phone. “Thanks, miss.”

Alex angles toward him, casual but patient. I frame the shot and snap several times. I should probably get used to this.

“There should be a good one there,” I say, handing the phone back.

The guy nods again, eyes still wide. “Heard you were getting married. Congrats to you both,” he says, his voice full of genuine warmth, before heading back to the van.

“Thanks.”

Alex gestures to the parcel. “Let’s see who this one’s from.”

I reach for the ribbon, and it unties with ease. The paper parts with a soft, luxurious tear, revealing a sleek white box beneath. Alex lifts the lid while I steady the base.

And then?—

My breath catches in my throat.

No.

No, no, no.

Framed in matte linen, every delicate brushstroke the way I remember it, is The Unseen Queen by William Bloom.

The same one I stood in front of in Charleston. The same one Tyson bought on the day I’ve tried so fucking hard to forget.

The painting Tyson knows I love. The painting he’s now sent me.

As a gift.

As a reminder.

As a message that says don’t forget about me.

Muted strokes of gold. Heavy shadows. Her face half turned, crown nearly invisible unless you know it’s there.

Alex notices the way my hand falls from the edge of the box. “What is it?”

My voice is a whisper, brittle. “Tyson sent this.”

“Explain it to me,” he says, each word deliberate. “How do you know without a card?”

“This is a painting by one of my favorite artists. I told him how much I loved this piece, and he purchased it. It was supposed to hang in the lobby of his hotel in Charleston.”

Alex straightens, jaw tightening. “And now it’s here… in… our… home.”

I stare at it, hollow inside. Something I once found to be so beautiful now feels like a tether to a man I only want to forget.

“This isn’t a gift. It’s his way of worming himself back into my life.”

Alex paces once across the entryway, then turns back sharply. “I’ll burn the fucking thing.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I couldn’t bear that.”

Alex stares at it, hands on hips. “Then what do you want to do with it? Because it’s not staying here.”

“I want it gone but not destroyed.” I pause, letting the words settle as I search for the right way forward. “We’ll donate it to a worthy cause. That charity you mentioned—the one for kids with dyslexia.”

Alex nods, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Fine, but it leaves this house today. Now. I’ll call Elias and ask him to come get it.”

“All right.”

Silence stretches between us. And in that silence is a truth neither of us says out loud: he’s here now––Tyson. He’s polluted the air. He’s in the corner of every room of our happy place.

Alex says nothing at first. He just stands in the center of our living room, staring down at the painting, hands flexing at his sides as though he’s holding back from punching a hole through the canvas.

“I’m sorry.”

His head whips toward me. “Why are you apologizing?”

“This isn’t what you signed up for––another man constantly after your fiancée.”

He stalks toward me, crouching in front of where I’m sitting. “What I signed up for is you. All of you. This isn’t your fault. But I can’t pretend this doesn’t piss me off, Magnolia. I can’t pretend this is normal.”

“I get it,” I whisper. “Nothing about this is acceptable or normal.”

Alex sits back on his heels, running his hands through the top of his hair. “When is this shit going to stop? When we’re married? When we have a child? Is he going to show up at the hospital with flowers and balloons?”

I wince. “Please stop.”

“I can’t promise I’ll stay calm forever. You understand that, right?” His voice is quiet now. “I’m trying to be the bigger person—I am—but he’s playing a dangerous game with me.”

I nod, my throat tight. “This scares me, Alex.”

His eyes flick up. “Of him?”

“No. I know you’ll keep me safe from him. What scares me is what you’ll do if he keeps pushing—if you snap. I don’t think you have a limit when it comes to protecting me.”

The admission slices between us. He leans forward, resting his forehead against my knees, and I thread my fingers through his hair.

“I couldn’t live without you,” I say, barely above a breath. “If we lost everything because of him, because of something you did for me––”

He lifts his head, eyes storm-dark. “I wouldn’t regret it. Not for a second.”

I smile, broken. “That’s what terrifies me.”

We sit for a while, the weight of it all pressing down—not just the painting, not just the past, but the shadow of a man who doesn’t understand when to let go.

Alex stands and pulls out his phone. “I need Elias to get this thing out of my house.”

As he steps out of the room, I glance back at the painting one more time. The Unseen Queen. She’s still beautiful. Still haunting. But she doesn’t belong here. Not in this house. Not in my life.

Alex returns to the room, phone still in hand. “Elias is coming. He’ll take it to the dyslexia foundation for us.”

I nod. “That’s good. At least it’ll go toward something that helps people.”

He sinks onto the couch beside me, tugging me to his side. We sit in silence for a minute—no wedding spreadsheets, no Pinterest board. Just quiet.

“I hate what this is doing to you. And to us.”

He stares at the floor, not looking at me. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been. But I’m also angrier than I’ve ever been.”

“That’s what scares me.”

He lifts his face, meeting my eyes. “Tyson’s not just poking at me, Magnolia. He’s invading this—us. And every time I think it’s over, he finds a new way to sneak back in.”

I sit up straighter, tension rippling through my spine. “You think I don’t feel it too? Every time a shadow moves outside? Every time an unmarked envelope arrives? I think—what now? What’s he going to ruin this time?”

“I know.” His voice drops. “And I hate I can’t protect you from that.”

I take his hand in mine. “I need peace, and I can’t figure out how to get that. Not when we’ve done everything right—moved forward, made plans, built a life—and he still finds a way in.”

His jaw ticks. “Maybe it’s time we decide how this ends. Instead of waiting for him to make the next move.”

My heart stutters. “What are you thinking?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure yet, but we’re getting married soon. I want that day to be about us, not him. I want our future to be clean. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

I press my palm to his chest, right over the steady pound of his heart. His hand comes up to cover mine, firm and warm. “I’m going to take care of this, favorite.”

For a moment, I breathe again. We’re drawing a line.

But we both know it’s only a matter of time before Tyson McRae crosses it.