7. Magnolia Steel
Chapter 7
Magnolia Steel
The last half hour of work before quitting time always seems like a crawl, but not today. I’m buzzing with so much energy I can barely sit still.
I’ve just left a meeting with Gabby, Sophie, and Whitney—one that confirmed what we’d all been sensing. The Aussie team is struggling.
Soul Sync Australia had a rough week. Matches fell apart. Feedback was brutal. And Gabby, never one to let a problem fester, decided that we’re not sitting on this. She’s sending part of our core team back to Sydney to stabilize things before the situation gets any worse.
Back to Sydney.
Back to Alex.
The thought alone makes my heart stutter. I can barely focus, already counting the minutes until I can call and tell him. We’ll soon be on the same side of the world again—and this time, nothing is pulling me away.
Shoving back from my desk, I grab my phone as I hurry toward Violet’s office. She looks up as I push the door open without knocking, raising a brow at my not-so-subtle entrance.
“Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure of Hurricane Magnolia blowing through my door?”
I drop into the chair across from her, unable to sit still. “Gabby’s going to send us back to Sydney. Australia is floundering.”
Realization dawns across her face, her lips parting. “No way.”
“Yes.”
She lets out a breath, leaning back in her chair. “Wow, Mags. That’s––” She shakes her head, forcing a smile. “That’s great. I mean, it sucks for me because I’ll have to live without you again, but––”
“You’ll survive,” I say, snapping a rubber band at her arm, wearing a wicked grin.
“Oww.” She picks up the rubber band from her lap and tosses it back into the holder like she’s filing it away for future revenge.
We sit in the moment, the excitement buzzing between us. Violet is less than thrilled about my return to Sydney, but she understands it. She knows how much this means to me.
I pull out my phone, my fingers already flying over the keyboard to message Alex.
I have good news! Call me the minute you get this text.
I hit send, my stomach flipping with anticipation. Violet watches me with a smug little smile. “You told me first, right? I’m your emotional-support best friend. There’s a hierarchy here and I’m on top.”
I laugh. “Straight up. You’re the first to know.”
She leans back in her chair, satisfied. “Good. Because if you’d told your boyfriend first, I would require flowers, chocolates, and an apology written in calligraphy.”
I roll my eyes. “God, you’re so dramatic.”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I have standards.”
I glance down at my phone. The message delivered, but no response yet.
Violet’s grin falters. “Chill Mags.”
“I’m sure he’s busy with work.” I set the phone on my lap, trying to ignore the knot of impatience tightening in my stomach.
He’ll text me back soon. And when he does, he’s going to be ecstatic to hear the news.
We’re going to be together again. And this time, it’s going to be perfect.
The sun has long since set by the time I step into my apartment, kicking off my heels and tossing my bag onto the couch. The golden glow of the city paints the room, but I’m too distracted to care.
I’ve been checking my phone every few minutes for the past hour, waiting for Alex’s response. This is unusual for him. He’s always quick to respond—especially when I tell him to call me. But tonight? Nothing. Not a single text.
It’s… odd. And disappointing.
I stare at the message still sitting there with that quiet, mocking delivered status, more annoying than reassuring. A flicker of unease nudges at my chest, but I push it aside. I’m sure he’s tied up with work, or family, or perhaps something came up with the new hotel they’re building. There are a dozen reasonable explanations.
Sighing, I set my phone on the counter and head for the kitchen cabinet. If I’m going to sit here spiraling like a lovesick fool, I might as well do it with a glass of wine in hand. I pour a generous amount of pinot noir, the glug-glug of it filling the quiet with a strange comfort. I take a slow sip, savoring the way it warms my throat, then lean back against the counter, trying to stay calm.
It’s fine. He’ll text any minute now.
And a minute later, he does.
Shit, what took so long?
This relationship isn’t working for me.
Tell me about it, big guy. It’s not working for me either.
I need to be with him. Not an ocean apart. Not sharing goodnight texts instead of good-night kisses. I need to be near him. With him inside me. Every night.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, typing out my response, telling him I want him to call me as soon as possible because I have something wonderful to tell him. But before I can hit send, another message from Alex comes through.
I’ve had time to think about this, and I’ve made some decisions. I need a woman in my bed every night. My sex drive can’t handle the distance between us. If I don’t end this relationship now, I’ll end up cheating on you, and I don’t want to hurt you in that way.
Wait. What?
A sharp pain slams into my chest, like I’ve been sucker-punched. I blink, forcing myself to keep reading.
No, this can’t be right.
I need a woman who’s wife material. And that isn’t you.
My breath shudders, the room tilting around me.
Don’t call or text me again. That would only make this worse. This relationship is over.
The wine glass slips from my grasp and shatters on the floor, mimicking the way my heart has cracked into pieces. Red wine seeps into the cream rug, a slow, brutal bloom, no different from how my heart feels—broken and bleeding out.
My hands tremble, the simple act of breathing turning into a losing battle against panic.
This can’t be real.
I reread the text, my vision blurring, desperate to find something—anything—that makes it make sense. But the words don’t change. The meaning doesn’t shift.
A cold, ugly panic rises in my throat. My fingers move on autopilot, hitting the call button.
The line rings once. Then—straight to voicemail.
My pulse stutters. That’s not right.
I try again. Voicemail.
Again. Voicemail.
Again.
A strangled sound claws its way up my throat. No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. Alex wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t end things like this.
A violent twist rips through my stomach as panic takes hold, my breathing shallow and erratic. There has to be an explanation. There has to be. Nothing about this is right.
I yank open my laptop and type with shaking hands. What does it mean when calls go straight to voicemail?
The screen fills with answers I don’t want: one ring, voicemail, blocked.
Blocked?
The word echoes like a gunshot.
A sharp, splintering pain cracks through my ribs, radiating outward like wildfire. Alex blocked me. He ended things and cut me off. Erased me.
I choke on a sob, pressing a hand to my mouth as the weight of it crushes me. Only an hour ago, I was planning my return to Sydney. Planning a future with him.
And now? He ended it without even knowing I was on my way back to him.
Nausea churns in my gut. I barely make it to the bathroom before my stomach wretches, heaving up stomach contents but also everything I am, everything I feel.
I don’t remember how I end up on the bathroom floor. One moment, I’m staring at my laptop screen, the word blocked searing into my brain like a flashing neon sign, and the next, I’m crumpled on my knees with my body folded in on itself as if that might protect me from the pain.
This can’t be happening. It can’t be real.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to drag in a breath, but nothing about it helps. The panic keeps pressing into me—tight around my ribs, sharp against my lungs. My hands tremble as I fumble for my phone again.
There’s nothing. No warning. No shift. No buildup I missed.
Just days of thread after thread— I miss you. I love you. I can’t wait to hold you again. His voice in written form, a digital echo of promises and plans. Of forever.
And then— this .
It’s over.
Don’t call or text me again.
The words sit there, taunting me.
Cold. Final.
This doesn’t sound like the man who looked at me like I hung the moon. The man who said he wanted everything with me. This isn’t him. It can’t be.
I call him again. Voicemail.
Again. Voicemail.
Again. Again.
Still voicemail.
A broken sob tears from my throat, and I drop my head to my knees, phone still clutched in my shaking hand. Desperation claws at my chest as I open my messages again and type.
Alex. Please tell me this is a mistake. Please call me. Please.
I hit send. Nothing. Not even a delivered status.
I try again. Nothing––like it’s going into space.
Blocked .
The word slams against my skull, pounding out the only truth that matters now.
Alex Sebring
The man I love.
The man who told me I was his favorite.
The man who called me his American beauty.
The man who kissed me like he never wanted to stop.
Dumped me by text.
And blocked me.
My heart doesn’t just ache—it shatters. Piece by piece, crack by jagged crack, until all that’s left is a hollow shell and the unbearable weight of disbelief.
I press my fists to my temples, trying to hold myself together, but it’s too late. Everything is breaking. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. Just the broken sound of air slipping past the knot in my throat.
No. This can’t be how it ends. He doesn’t even know I’m coming back. He ended us without even knowing that I’m on my way to him.
The cruelty of it stings sharper than anything I’ve ever known. No one–– no one ––has ever hurt me like this. Not even Robin.
I reach for my phone again, but my fingers slip, and it tumbles to the hardwood with a sharp clack. I stare at it for a beat, chest heaving, then lunge for it and hit the first name my brain can conjure through the fog.
It rings once. Twice.
Violet picks up, her voice bright and loud. “Well? What did lover boy say? Should I start writing my maid-of-honor speech now?”
Her words slice straight through me—and it’s my undoing. I crumple to pieces. The sobs come fast and brutal, loud and gasping and broken.
“Magnolia!? What’s wrong?”
My attempts to speak are nothing more than uncontrolled sobbing.
“I’m coming, Mags. Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be there.”
The call ends, but I stay right there on the floor, phone in hand, pain choking every breath. I rock back against the wall, curling into myself like I can block it all out.
Fifteen minutes stretch like hours. When the door bursts open, Violet comes in like a storm—ready to fight, to fix, to do whatever is needed. But when she sees me, her whole body softens.
She drops to her knees beside me. “Magnolia––”
“Vi.” It’s all I can say before the next wave crashes over me, and I fall into her arms.
She holds me like she’s trying to squeeze the pieces back together. Her fingers stroke my hair, and I cling to her like I’m drowning.
“I don’t understand what happened.”
She rocks me like a mother holding her child. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”
But how do you figure out someone vanishing from your life in a single text?
I reach for my phone with unsteady hands and give it to her. I can’t look again or say the words.
She reads for a moment and her whole body stiffens. “What. The. Fuck.”
I bury my face in my hands, and sobs begin anew. “It makes no sense.”
“I agree. It doesn’t.” Her voice is furious, sharp. “This isn’t him. It can’t be. Someone has his phone and they’re punking you. But it’s not funny.”
No one has his phone.
No one is punking me.
I tell her everything––that my texts won’t deliver, my calls go straight to voicemail. And when I voice my suspicion about him blocking me, she looks like she’s ready to launch into orbit.
“This is wrong. So fucking wrong.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
Violet takes my shoulders and locks eyes with me. “Yes, you do. You’re calling his office right now.”
I hesitate, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. I’ve never been the type to push myself onto anyone. It’s survival—my way of protecting the parts of me that no one else bothered to. If I don’t ask, if I don’t reach, then I don’t have to face the cold sting of rejection. I know this about myself. It’s carved into my bones.
And calling him after this? After being blocked?
No.
Love is a loaded gun. Hope causes you to hand it over, placing it in his hands. His rejection is what pulls the trigger. And heartbreak is the bullet that never misses.
“I can’t, Vi?—”
“Fuck yes, you can. You deserve answers. He owes you that much.”
My hands are shaking as I open my phone and scroll through my contacts. I don’t want to do this. Fuck , I don’t want to do this.
I land on the number for Alex’s office and hesitate for a long moment before pressing the number.
The phone rings once. Twice.
“Thank you for calling Sebring Hotels Corporate Headquarters. This is Courtney. How may I help you today?” Her voice is calm. Familiar. Controlled.
The opposite of me right now.
I straighten, pressing the phone tighter to my ear. “Hi, Courtney? It’s Magnolia. Can you please put me through to Alex?”
There’s a pause, long enough to set every one of my nerves on edge. Her voice shifts to something colder, clipped, distant. “Mr. Sebring isn’t taking your calls.”
My stomach plummets. “I just need to speak with him for a moment.”
“I’m sorry.” She says the words, but there’s no empathy in her voice. “Mr. Sebring has made it very clear. He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
The ground tilts beneath me, sending my world sideways.
“He was quite specific with his directions, Miss Steel. No calls. No messages. No exceptions.” Each of her words is cold as ice.
I’m frozen in place, phone still pressed to my ear, when Violet lunges forward and takes it from me. “Listen up, Courtney.” Her voice is sharp as a blade. “You put his ass on the phone right this fucking minute.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
Violet snaps. “Bull… shit…Courtney.”
“I’m only following his instructions.”
Violet takes a breath, ready to tear Courtney a new asshole, but the call ends before she can get a word in.
“Fuck you, Courtney!” Violet screams at my phone and then throws it on the couch like it’s burned her. “What a bitch.”
Violet mutters a string of curses under her breath, so tangled and furious, it sounds like she might be speaking in tongues.
“That motherfucker.”
I’m quiet because I’m at a loss for words.
Alex broke my heart and threw up a wall between us so I couldn’t reach out to him.
This isn’t just heartbreak. It’s erasure. He’s deleted me from his life.
The silence that follows is endless, like the world has gone still just to watch me fall apart. I sit there, numb, staring at nothing as Violet paces in tight, angry circles in front of me, her hands clenched at her sides like she’s holding back from throwing something—or flying to Sydney to wring someone’s neck.
Every breath hurts. Every second drags across the raw edges of my heart. I don’t know how to process any of it. Not the breakup text. Not the calls going straight to voicemail. And especially not Courtney’s voice, calm and detached, telling me that Alex doesn’t want to hear from me ever again.
I gave him everything.
My love.
My trust.
My body.
My future.
I wasn’t ready to say yes to forever, but I loved him enough to try. I wanted to. And he turned me away like I was disposable.
Something sharp and ugly twists in my chest, and it breaks through the fog—rage, heartbreak, shame. All of it hits me at once like a scream that never makes it out.
Violet pauses mid-step. “Mags?”
I look up at her, hollow but steady. “If he’s done with me, I’m done with him.”
Her brows draw together. “What are you doing?”
I unlock my phone and scroll to his contact, the name Alex Sebring burning on the screen like a brand I can’t scrub off. My thumb hovers for only a second before I press Block Caller. The confirmation to block contact pops up.
Final. Absolute.
I confirm.
Violet gasps. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
I set the phone down, like the act of not throwing it is the only thing keeping me from unraveling. “He told me not to call. Not to text. So I won’t.”
“He’s not thinking straight. You know this isn’t him.”
“It doesn’t matter. He cut off communication. That’s all I need to know.”
She crouches in front of me, searching my face like she’s trying to see if there’s anything left behind my eyes. But there’s not. Not right now. I’m empty. Gutted.
This is a breakup, but it’s also more.
Abandonment. Being forgotten.
My life story.
The girl I used to be—the one who wanted to be wanted, who clung to love even when it was slipping through her fingers—doesn’t exist anymore.
I can’t be her again. I won’t. It hurts too much.
So I swallow the scream lodged in my throat, sit up a little straighter, and force the tears back down.
He doesn’t want my love? Fine. He won’t have it again. Even if it kills me to let him go.
Violet says nothing. She just sits beside me and slips her hand into mine. And together, we sit in the quiet wreckage of what I thought was my forever.
Love has done me dirty.