I pause, and my hand settles on my belly.
Some things unravel slowly. Quietly. Not with a bang but a breath.
I used to think Violet wasn’t wired for softness—at least not the kind that showed. But lately, I’ve seen it in the way she lingers a little longer over the tiniest clothes, or how she keeps asking about baby names, acting as though she doesn’t care when I know she does.
She’s changing. Not in the most obvious way. And not all at once. But piece by piece, something is blooming in her.
Something tender.
Chapter 36
Magnolia Sebring
The fabric swatches in front of me are a mix of dove gray and pale champagne, with a soft sheen that would catch light beautifully beneath the new chandeliers. I’m trying to decide between two finishes for the ballroom moldings—brushed brass or antique bronze—when the phone on my desk buzzes.
I press the button, still distracted by the sample board. “Yes?”
“Hi, Magnolia. I apologize for the interruption, but there’s a man here to see you. Tyson McRae.”
My body reacts before my mind does with a quick spike of adrenaline. My hand moves to the curve of my belly as if to protect it.
“He’s here?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Yes, downstairs. I can tell him you’re unavailable if you wish.”
“No.” I exhale. Sharp. Sure.
There was a time when I would’ve hidden. But that time is over.
If this is closure, I’ll take it on my feet. Not hiding behind a door.
“It’s fine, Anne. I’ll come down.”
By the time I reach the lounge off the main lobby, he’s standing there, fidgeting. Tyson McRae, once so polished, is now frayed at the edges. He turns when he hears me coming and freezes.
His eyes fall to my stomach.
“Fuck, Mags,” he says.
I stop inside the doorway. “Hello, Tyson.”
He blinks. “You’re––”
“Pregnant,” I finish for him. “Yes. Alex and I are having a baby.”
He nods, but it’s shaky. “I see that.”
“You wanted to talk to me?” I prompt, arms crossed.
He clears his throat, finding his footing. “Yeah. I do.”
He stands before me, eyes still wide in surprise. “I don’t expect you to believe this, but I’m trying to do better.”
His voice isn’t slick as it once was. There’s no charm in it—only gravel. Worn down. Worn out.
And he looks it.
He’s thinner with hollows beneath his cheekbones, shirt hanging looser on shoulders that used to stretch every seam. The bulk of his muscle is gone, replaced with something softer and sunken. As if life carved him out and didn’t bother filling him back in. Even the way he stands is different. Less sure. Like the confidence that once dripped off him in waves has dried up and left nothing but dust.
