Page 9

Alex Sebring

Magnolia steps through the garden arch like she’s walking straight into the rest of my life.

The late-day sun catches her ivory dress, and the sight punches straight into my chest—an ache I don’t want to soothe.

Her hair’s down, swept away from her face, threaded with delicate white flowers from Samoa.

A quiet tribute to my roots. A nod to my mother’s homeland.

And in every thoughtful detail, a reminder that she doesn’t just see me—she honors where I come from.

The gold chain at her neck glints with every step—the one I gave her before she left Sydney. And on her finger? The ring that speaks every vow I haven’t said out loud yet.

I should be thinking about the party—the guests scattered across the lawn, the string quartet tucked near the fountain, the servers weaving through with champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres.

But all I can see is her.

She catches me staring. Of course, because Magnolia doesn’t miss a thing. One brow lifts as if questioning me. Why are you looking at me that way? That’s what I imagine she’s thinking.

You look like forever. That’s what I’m thinking. And for the first time, I’m not terrified of wanting everything.

Her smile is slow, sly. “You look like a man in over his head.”

I shake my head, offering her my hand. “What I look like is a man in love.”

“A sweet man.”

We’re almost to the garden steps when she glances around, scanning the growing crowd. “I wish Violet could’ve come. This is our engagement party. It’s important. She should be here.”

“I’m sure she tried her best.” I bite back a grin.

And then right on cue… she doesn’t see the figure emerging from the garden path, tucked between the tall hedges and the lemon trees. But I do.

Violet’s wearing green, her curls bouncing with every step. She’s already waving, already crying.

Magnolia turns and stills. “Violet?!” Her voice cracks mid-syllable, hands flying to her mouth.

“Alex! You brought her here!” she says, half running toward her bestie, who meets her in a hug that nearly takes them both to the ground.

I tuck my hands into my pockets and watch them grip each other.

“Of course she’s here. My gift for the woman who gives me everything. And, selfishly, because I know you won’t commit to a wedding dress without her.”

Violet looks over Magnolia’s shoulder and mouths, “Thank you.”

I give her the slightest nod.

The two of them cling to each other as though it’s been years instead of weeks. Their joy is beautiful, and I’m glad to be the person who made it happen.

“I’ll pick a dress next week. Promise.”

The garden’s buzz shifts as familiar faces trickle in.

Krishna is radiant, and Kye trails behind her, carrying a bottle of something dark and expensive, a smug grin on his face. He chuckles as he hands over the bottle. “For later—marriage toasts and post-toast dancing. You’re in for a ride, Alex. The good kind.”

“Couldn’t be more ready, mate.”

Laurelyn and Jack arrive. “All’s right with the world again. She belongs here with us. I’m certain of it.”

I nod, the words hitting somewhere deep. “I am too.”

Jack stands a step behind her, hands buried in his pockets, smirk in place. “This part is the good stuff, mate. Better than any win you’ll ever have on the field.”

He steps closer, clapping a hand on my shoulder—solid, steady. “You’ve been through hell but that woman––” He lifts his chin toward Magnolia. “She’s your calm after the storm. Don’t screw that up.”

“I won’t.” I’ve never meant two words more in my life.

Jack grins. “Didn’t think you would. Now… where’s that whisky I keep hearing about?”

A voice cuts in before I can answer. “I second that,” Chloe says, stepping into the circle. “Tonight calls for something with some serious bite.”

She looks good—strong, bright-eyed, unapologetically herself. There’s a spark in her I haven’t seen in months.

“I’ve got you covered,” I say, already turning toward the bar.

I return with a glass of whisky, and she takes it with a satisfied nod. “Exactly what I needed.”

Her eyes gleam—sharp and certain. There’s strength in her spine tonight.

“Ben doesn’t deserve you, Clover. Not after what he pulled.”

She shrugs, smooth and unbothered. “He did more than wreck our marriage. He burned it down. But now it’s time to rise from the ashes and rebuild my life.”

We’re still roasting Ben when the next wave of guests arrives—my teammates, loud and rowdy in the best way. They’re slapping backs, shaking hands, shouting greetings across the lawn.

The wives follow behind, polished and poised, arms linked or fingers wrapped around crystal flutes.

Some of them—especially the newer ones—make a beeline for Magnolia.

Their smiles are sweet but too fixed and polished in a performative way.

I watch them scan her—dress, hair, shoes, ring.

Their eyes linger a little too long on the rock on her finger and the way she doesn’t shrink to make room for anyone.

They try to size her up, but she’s already three steps ahead, champagne in hand without a care in the world.

Magnolia accepts their congratulations with a gracious nod and a soft “thank you,” letting the compliments wash over her without breaking stride. There’s no need to prove anything. She simply lifts her glass, offers a quiet, knowing smile, and moves on.

She carries herself like royalty—like a woman who built her own crown and doesn’t need anyone else’s approval to wear it. It’s one of the things I love about her.

Chloe watches the exchanges. “Your girl’s got a spine on her.”

“She does and it’s made of steel,” I say.

“Good. She’ll need it to be to deal with some of those bitches.”

I lift my glass, but my eyes don’t leave Magnolia—not as she links arms with Laurelyn, not as she leans into Violet, not as she tips her head back and laughs at something Tinā says.

I’ve had good moments before. Great ones, even. But right now? Watching her glide through this crowd with all the grace of someone born to it?

God, I’m lucky.

And I know it.

I’m halfway through another conversation when I see an uninvited guest.

Celeste.

White dress. Blood-red lipstick. Wrapped around the arm of Deacon, one of our rookies, poor bastard. She clings to him, but her eyes aren’t on him. They’re locked on me.

Magnolia doesn’t blink. She simply lifts her champagne flute with the poise of a woman who’s already decided she can’t be touched, taking a sip as though Celeste’s arrival doesn’t affect her.

But I know better.

She finds me a few minutes later, slipping her hand into mine, and her voice has an edge to it. “Why the fuck is she here?”

“Deacon’s one of the newer players. I’m sure he isn’t aware of our history. If he was, he wouldn’t have brought her anywhere near us.”

Classic manipulative move by Celeste.

Magnolia hums, the sound low and unimpressed. Her eyes follow Celeste for half a beat. “She’s wearing white at our engagement party. The fucking nerve!”

I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not my bride.”

She arches a brow. “Are we gonna let this go?”

“Yeah, we’re letting it go. For now.” I glance toward our guests. “She’s here to get a reaction. Let’s not give her one. This is our special night.”

There’s a pause.

Magnolia’s gaze bores into mine. “That’s going to be really hard for me, Alex.”

“I know, babe, but you can do it.”

“All right. Fuck it. No reaction.”

We agree—no drama. No letting Celeste steal even a second of this night.

The next hour slips by in a haze of handshakes and toasts. I make the rounds, thank the people who matter, nod at the ones who don’t. Magnolia’s never far, always in the corner of my eye—even when I’m deep in conversation, she’s the constant.

But of course… Celeste waits for the moment I’m alone. She always has a flair for timing.

I’m behind the trellis near the old stone bench—grabbing a breath and savoring the stillness—when our uninvited guest approaches.

Celeste blinks fast, her composure slipping. “I know you’re angry at me. I know I messed up. But Tyson didn’t tell me what he was planning—I thought I could control it, steer it. I was trying to protect you?—”

“Don’t lie to me again,” I cut in, low and lethal. “You were in on it. You sold me out. At least admit it.”

She hesitates—then nods. “Fine. I did. But only because I couldn’t watch you throw yourself away on someone who doesn’t deserve you.”

My jaw flexes. “And you think you do?”

Her eyes gloss with tears. “I loved you, Alex… and I still do.”

I laugh, humorless and sharp. “You loved the version of me you thought you could control. And maybe I let you for a while. But here’s the truth, Celeste. I never loved you. I never even came close. You were never worthy of my love, and you damn sure don’t deserve it now.”

Her face crumples, mascara bleeding down porcelain skin. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. Because all of my love—every piece of it—belongs to Magnolia, the woman you tried to wreck. And she’s still standing. Still shining. While you? You’re just someone I used to know, a woman wearing a white dress at another bride’s engagement party.”

Celeste’s lips part like she wants to argue. Maybe apologize. Or beg. But I walk away. Because that conversation is over. She lost the war the moment she underestimated my love for the woman who now wears my ring. And I won’t give her another second of my time.

I turn away from the trellis, from the shadow she’s already fading into, and rejoin the warmth of the evening—the low thrum of laughter, the clink of glassware, the scent of garden roses and citrus wafting through the air.

Magnolia is across the lawn, head tipped back in a laugh that catches the light, one hand wrapped around a champagne flute, the other linked through Violet’s arm.

She’s on cloud nine. I see it. I feel it. And that makes me happy.