17. Magnolia Steel
Chapter 17
Magnolia Steel
A soft beam of morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my new office, casting a warm glow over the space I’ve worked to create. The scent of fresh flowers from the small arrangement on my desk mingles with the rich aroma of my caramel latte, marking my new beginning.
My own design firm wasn’t part of the plan. Then again, neither was being fired from Soul Sync in the middle of what should’ve been the peak of my career. But here I am, standing on my two feet. The exhaustion that clings to me is the good kind that comes from long nights poring over business plans.
Today, it all becomes real. My first official client meeting.
I straighten my blouse for the third time, a nervous energy humming beneath my skin. There’s something thrilling about the unknown—about diving headfirst into a future I’m still figuring out.
The chime of the office doorbell pulls me from my thoughts. I straighten, plastering on the practiced smile I’ve been perfecting for weeks. “Here we go, Magnolia Steel,” I say under my breath, adjusting a stack of fabric swatches on my desk for the hundredth time.
When I look up, my breath catches for a split second.
My client fills the doorway—no joke. Broad shoulders that seem to stretch wider than the frame itself, a towering presence with a muscular build that speaks of years of rigorous training. Everything about him exudes power, from the way he carries himself to the confident smirk playing at his lips. His tailored charcoal suit molds to his form with perfection, the crisp white shirt beneath hinting at wealth that doesn’t need to be flaunted.
He’s not just large. He’s commanding.
I step forward, smoothing my expression into something polished and professional, and extend my hand. “Hello, I’m Magnolia Steel. You must be Mr. McRae.”
His handshake is firm, his palm warm against mine. “Tyson,” he says, his deep voice laced with an unmistakable Australian accent.
That accent. It slams into me with the force of a wave, and for a moment, the world around me blurs.
My heart stutters in my chest, but I school my expression, refusing to let anything show. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He nods, his sharp gaze sweeping across the office with a quick assessment. “Nice place. New?”
“Very new.”
His gaze sweeps over the room, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Classy and sophisticated. Just what I expected.”
“Chic is my style.”
I gesture toward the sleek leather chair across from me. “Please, have a seat.”
As he settles in, I take a breath and launch into my spiel. “I’d love to hear more about your vision for the project. What are you looking to achieve with the space?”
He’s filled with easy confidence as he launches into his plans—the boutique hotel, the concept, the luxury touches he wants to incorporate. He talks a good game, throwing around words like exclusive and bespoke, but there’s something about the way he speaks that comes off as calculated.
That voice— his voice—keeps replaying in my head like a terrible song I can’t shake. The cadence, the confidence, the arrogance. And his face.
And then it hits me.
Tyson McRae.
Not just any Tyson McRae. That Tyson McRae.
The one from Sydney who sent Alex over the edge that night at the wedding. The one always provoking him. The one who hates him so much that he intentionally hurt him, ending his career.
How did I not recognize him sooner?
In my defense, I only caught a glimpse of him that night. It was dark, and my focus wasn’t on Tyson. It was on Alex—on holding him back, on stopping him from making a mistake he couldn’t undo.
Now he’s sitting across from me, larger than life, taking up space in more ways than one.
I force my lips into what I hope is a smile, but inside, my mind is spinning.
What the hell is he doing here?
Tyson leans back in the chair, stretching in a way that feels deliberate—like he’s casually putting all that broad-shouldered, muscled-up physique on display for me. “I want it redone top to bottom. And I’d like you to be the one to handle it.”
Suspicion prickles at the edges of my thoughts.
Charleston is brimming with seasoned designers who’ve spent years establishing themselves. Designers with bigger portfolios, stronger connections, and an entire team at their disposal. If money’s no object for a man like Tyson McRae—and I know it isn’t—why would he come to me?
There’s only one answer.
My fingers tighten around the pen I’ve been twirling, the motion a poor attempt at grounding myself. “That sounds like an exciting project. But I have to ask—why me? There are a lot of established firms in Charleston that specialize in boutique spaces.”
His lips curve, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve done my research, and I know talent when I see it. Your designs are fresh and uncomplicated. I’m not interested in a stale, cookie-cutter hotel design. I want something unique… with soul.”
I nod, feigning calmness. “I appreciate that. It’s always my goal to create something personal and meaningful for my clients.”
“Which is why I came to you.”
I force a polite nod, but suspicion needles at me. Of all the designers in Charleston, he walked through my door? A door I didn’t even have two months ago. A door I’m terrified won’t stay open if I don’t make this work.
Despite the warning bells in my head, I flip to a clean page in my notebook. “Tell me more about the space.”
“Luxury with a twist of charm. Filled with Charleston’s history but not outdated. Sleek and inviting. Modern with touches of tradition. I want a place people walk into and instantly know they’re somewhere special. A place they’ll never forget.”
He’s saying the right words, but I can’t shake the feeling that this, whatever it is, has nothing to do with hotels and everything to do with me.
A nagging unease creeps in, the same feeling I get when something is too good to be true.
“This is an enormous investment. You could’ve chosen any designer, not someone whose firm is in its infancy. I think we both know this is about something else.”
Tyson’s brow lifts, that damn smirk never wavering. “What do you mean?”
My gaze meets his head-on. “You and Alex have history—and not the good kind. I’m his ex.”
There it is—the flicker in his eyes, the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that tells me I’ve hit the mark.
His laughter is a rich, indulgent sound that grates against my nerves. “So what? You think Sebring would care? Hate to break it to you, Miss Steel, but he’s moved on.”
My stomach drops, but I do my best to not let it show. “Moved on?”
Tyson nods, his smirk widening, like he’s enjoying this far too much. “Heard through the grapevine he’s in a serious relationship. Lucky bastard found the one . He’ll be marrying her any day now.”
The one.
He’ll be marrying her any day now.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to react, not to let the sharp stab of pain show on my face. Instead, I force out a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Good for him.”
Tyson watches me with something that almost looks like amusement. “Alex is all about marriage. Family. Stability. He’s getting exactly what he wants… again . He’s always been pretty good at that––getting what he wants.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words hurt.
“Look, Miss Steel. There’s no scenario where taking this job would hurt Alex. You aren’t a thought in his mind anymore.” He waves a hand in a dismissive manner. “This is business. That’s all.”
I nod, but deep down, my heart is splintering. “Right. Business is business.”
A sharp ache settles in my chest, heavy and unrelenting.
You aren’t a thought in his mind anymore.
It shouldn’t hurt this much. I should have been prepared for this—for the possibility that Alex wouldn’t cling to the wreckage of what we had the way I have. But hearing it spoken aloud, in such a blunt manner, makes it real in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“Good for him,” I say a second time, but the words taste bitter, like regret and humiliation.
Alex doesn’t care about me. Maybe he never did. Because how else could he move on this fast? How could he replace me with such ease, slipping into someone else’s life––and bed––like I was nothing more than a passing fling?
A fool. That’s what I am. A complete and utter fool.
Love is a foolish game. Play foolish games and win foolish prizes. And a broken heart is the fool’s ultimate prize.
And damn, did I win big.
My grip on my pen tightens until my knuckles ache.
I won’t let Tyson McRae see me crumble. I won’t allow him to see he’s struck a nerve.
Smoothing my features into a practiced mask of indifference, I sit up straighter and force a smile. “I wish him nothing but the best.”
Pain doesn’t pay the bills. No matter how much my heart aches, rent still needs to be covered, and my business will not build itself. I can’t afford to wallow in my history with Alex Sebring.
Tyson is watching me, his lips twitching like he’s debating if he’ll call my bluff. But I don’t give him the chance.
I flip to a new page and poise my pen over it. I force a bright smile and shift gears. “Do you have a projected timeline in mind?”
“I’m hoping for an aggressive schedule. Six months would be ideal.”
My head shoots up. “ Six months? ”
“Yes, Miss Steel.”
Tell me you’ve never done a renovation in historical Charleston without telling me you’ve never done a renovation in historical Charleston.
“That’s more than ambitious. More like impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible when you have the budget to get the job done.”
I beg to differ.
“Permits can take time, especially in historic districts. There are a lot of restrictions with renovations—materials, structural changes, even paint colors. The review process alone could push your timeline back.”
He grins, unfazed. “I like the ambitious timeline.”
Of course he does. “We’ll need to prioritize securing those permits early. Some approvals can take many months depending on the scope of work. Are there elements you want to preserve?”
Something flickers behind his eyes. “I trust your judgment on that.”
“You mentioned wanting modern comforts without losing the charm. Are you thinking about incorporating—” I pause, blinking down at my notepad, the words evaporating from my mind.
Shit. What was I about to say?
Tyson leans forward, his eyes watching me with something too close to amusement. “Are you all right, Miss Steel?”
I nod quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, of course. I was thinking out loud.”
A slow smirk spreads. “Right.”
He taps a finger against his thigh, studying me like he’s unraveling a puzzle piece by piece. “Listen, I didn’t mean to rattle you. I assumed you already knew about Alex’s marriage.”
I swallow hard, forcing a tight smile. “It’s fine.”
“I don’t think it is, and I’m sorry for that. I can see it’s shaken you.” His voice takes on a soft, empathetic tone.
I refuse to let him see just how deep his words have cut. “It’s just surprising. That’s all. I’m fine.”
He watches me. “Maybe we should meet another time and give you a chance to process.”
“No.” Panic flashes through me at the thought of losing this opportunity.
I sit up straighter, forcing a steadier tone. “That’s unnecessary. We should keep going.”
“Only if you’re sure.”
Right now, work is the only thing keeping me from falling apart. I can’t let this slip through my fingers. No matter who Tyson McRae is to Alex—no matter what history lingers between them—this is too important.
Clients like him don’t walk through the door every day. I need this.
I nod, plastering on a smile that I hope doesn’t look forced. “Let’s talk about the lobby.”
Tyson studies me for a beat. “I have an idea. Why don’t we take this discussion somewhere more relaxed?”
I blink, surprised. “More relaxed?”
He shrugs, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his tailored jacket. “Dinner. Tomorrow night. We’ll talk through the details over an elegant meal.”
Dinner with Tyson McRae––the idea shouldn’t make my stomach twist the way it does.
Alex has moved on, leaving no loyalty or devotion behind for me. But somehow, mine for him remains—twisted up inside me, stubborn and aching. I shouldn’t still feel it. I don’t want to. But it’s there, rooted so deep I can’t seem to break free.
A setting outside these four walls, with drinks, might help me shake off the weight of everything he’s just dumped on me. I need time to think, to gather myself, but I can’t afford to hesitate for too long.
I force a polite smile. “A dinner meeting sounds good.”
Tyson’s grin widens just a fraction, and something about it makes my skin prickle. “Perfect. I’ll text you the details.”
He stands, adjusting his jacket like a man who is used to getting what he wants. “I look forward to it, Miss Steel.”
“Me too.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and my entire body sags like a marionette whose strings have been cut. A raw, broken sob rips from my throat as I slide down the wall, landing hard. I curl in on myself—knees to chest, arms locked tight around them—like I can hold everything together if I just squeeze hard enough. But I can’t. I’m unraveling, thread by thread, and there’s no stopping it.
My chest heaves, and the tears come fast, spilling down my cheeks in a flood I have no strength to hold back. I press a trembling hand to my mouth, but it does nothing to muffle the broken sounds escaping me. The weight of everything—losing Alex, losing my job, losing the future I thought I had—presses down, crushing me beneath it.
He’s moved on. He’s happy. In love. Getting married.
The words replay in my head, stabbing deep, each repetition twisting the knife a little more. Alex doesn’t think about me. I’m nothing more than a footnote in his story, a passing memory he’s long since left behind. And here I am, shattered to pieces on the floor of a rented office, drowning in the wreckage of something that never belonged to me.
My head falls back against the door, the cool wood grounding me for a fleeting second before another sob wracks my body. I thought I was moving on. Thought I was building something new, something solid. But one conversation with Tyson McRae has me crumbling to pieces again.
This can’t be my life. I won’t let it be.
I press my palms to the floor and push myself up. My legs are unsteady, like they don’t quite belong to me anymore, but I force them to hold me.
One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. That’s how you survive heartbreak.
Flicking on the bathroom light, I take a long, shaky breath, forcing myself to meet my reflection.
Red-rimmed eyes. Blotchy cheeks. A mess.
I splash cold water onto my face, letting it wash away the evidence of my breakdown—at least on the surface. I smooth my hair, straighten my blouse, and press my lips together until they stop quivering. Bit by bit, I put myself back together.