He loves it. The discipline. The grind. The team.
And I love seeing him in that space, doing what he was made to do, chasing a purpose that burns hot and loud. It works for us.
Because while he’s chasing glory on the field, I’m chasing a legacy at Sebring Hotels.
My days start a little slower—coffee from the little cafe on the corner where the barista already knows my name and my order.
There’s a stack of fabric swatches on my desk fanned out like a painter’s palette—muted velvets, cool-toned linens, rich textured neutrals that make my heart flutter in a way only design can.
Beside them, my design boards—part vision, part obsession—lean against the wall, covered in clippings and hand-drawn notes, annotated in ink and instinct. Candle burning. Music low. Mood set.
This is my rhythm now.
I’m more than choosing tile and textiles. I’m shaping a place that will outlive me. One that says I was here. A space my children might one day walk through and be proud that their mama helped build.
And that keeps me going… even when Alex is gone twelve-plus hours a day.
Especially then.
I’m in the middle of a full-scale renovation of one of Sebring Hotels’ oldest properties, and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. High stakes. Creative control. Endless opportunity to take something faded and turn it into something unforgettable.
I walk job sites in heels and hard hats, and speak fluent contractor and interior architect. I send late-night emails with detailed mood boards and annotate lighting-fixture orders at midnight.
This is the life I imagined in all those quiet, lonely years when I didn’t know if I’d ever outrun the past. This is the dream I clung to while my classmates whispered about my mother’s latest scandal and my clothes that never quite fit right. I wanted more—more than surviving. More than small-town shame.
And now? I’m building it––brick by damn brick.
Not for me but for what’s coming. For the family Alex and I will have one day. For the life we’ll hand down. And perhaps that’s why I’m not lonely when he’s not here. Because we’re not disconnected. We’re aligned––two people running hard toward the same future from different angles. Rooted in the same love.
And when he walks back through the door, sweaty and exhausted, and drops his gym bag by the door before kissing me? It’s everything. But tonight, his kiss will have to wait.
Because while Alex is suiting up for some formal team dinner that probably involves one too many speeches and barely enough wine to keep it bearable, I have somewhere else to be.
Somewhere softer. And sweeter.
The box sits beside me on the passenger seat, wrapped in cream linen and tied with a silk ribbon the color of rosewater. Tucked beneath the bow is a handwritten note—small, simple, heartfelt. The kind you write when the gift itself says the rest.
I picked it out weeks ago. A baby quilt, hand-stitched by an artist in Tasmania. It’s soft as a sigh, embroidered with a sleepy fawn curled beneath a tree, surrounded by forest friends—a rabbit, a fox, a pair of curious birds. A gift meant to be passed down, such as lullabies and bedtime stories. Like love stitched into cloth.
Krishna and Kye’s daughter was born before we got home. Vivian. Eight pounds of perfection if the pictures are anything to go by. Jet-black hair, skin the color of warm cream, her little mouth always puckered in sleep or mid yawn. Every time Krishna sends a photo, I stop what I’m doing and smile.
Tonight, I get to meet her.
I pull up to their house just as the sun sinks, the sky blushing gold and lavender. A wind chime tinkles near the porch. And through the glass, I see Krishna with that new-mama softness—slow and luminous and completely transformed.
Krishna beams, her hair pulled into a soft braid, her eyes glowing in a way only new mothers seem to manage when they’re bone-deep exhausted but wholly at peace all at once.
“Come in, Magnolia,” she says, and before I can answer, she’s pulling me into a warm hug that smells of milk and vanilla and something soft I can’t name.
I smile against her shoulder. “You are glowing.”
She snorts, waving me inside. “I look like a sleep-deprived cow.”
“No, you look like someone who just created the most perfect thing in the world.”
And then I see her. Sweet Vivian.
Swaddled in a pale mauve blanket, nestled against Kye’s chest, her tiny hand curling against his shirt collar.
