24. Alex Sebring
Chapter 24
Alex Sebring
The dance studio’s brick facade blends with the row of historic buildings on a quiet Charleston side street. A small brass plaque by the door reads Elevate Aerial Arts.
Students gather around the edges of a padded large mat, their gazes fixed upward. Wide silks hang from the ceiling in thick, cascading sheets of white, their length pooling where they meet the mat.
A woman steps into my line of sight. “Who are you here to watch?”
I blink, confused. “Watch?”
“Which student did you come to see?”
“Magnolia Steel.”
The woman’s eyes widen with recognition, and she nods toward the silks hanging in the middle of the room, gesturing toward the mat. “You made it just in time. Magnolia’s performing next.”
My pulse kicks up a notch as I scan the studio in search of her.
My American beauty is here, across the studio, standing near the silks draped from the ceiling.
Magnolia moves with a quiet grace that punches the air out of my lungs. She hasn’t seen me yet—thank God. I need a second to pull myself together, to breathe through the ache clawing its way up my chest.
She’s wearing a white fitted top and yoga pants that hug every line and curve. Her hair twists into a bun at the crown of her head, loose wisps escaping to frame her face.
She’s always been beautiful, but now, wrapped in silk and bathed in white, she looks less like a woman and more like an angel carved from pure light.
My angel.
Or at least she was.
I swallow hard, my fists clenching at my sides as I take her in, piece by piece. Every inch of her is a painful reminder of what I lost. The sight of her hits like a hammer, cracking open the place inside me I’ve tried so hard to keep locked up.
For a second, I wonder if it was a mistake coming here, if seeing her again is only going to rip me apart even more. But I know the answer.
I have to see her.
Even if it destroys me.
The soft hum of the speakers crackles to life, and her routine begins. A familiar melody drifts through the studio, wrapping around me like a ghost from the past. “All Cried Out” by Allure and 112.
I know this song. It’s on the playlist. I’ve been listening to that music for months, trying to decipher what it means to her.
Hearing the song now feels like a punch to the gut. Each note slices through me with surgical precision, carving into places I thought had scarred over.
The universe continues to fuck with me.
Her performance begins, and she moves with effortless grace, wrapping herself in the white silks. Unease curls in my chest as she climbs.
Magnolia grips the silks and looks like she’s preparing to take flight. I’m rooted to the spot, every muscle in my body taut as I watch her, afraid to even blink.
A soft conversation behind me drifts forward to my ears.
“She has the musical taste of a sixty-year-old woman.”
“I like her songs. She always picks one with meaning behind it. I love watching her. She looks like a graceful ballerina taking flight.”
“Yeah, a ballerina dancing to sad-as-fuck songs.”
“I think something sad happened to her.”
“Oh for sure. You can tell that someone did her dirty.”
With a dancer’s ease, Magnolia winds herself into the silks, her body weightless against the fabric. The world around me dulls, but the sting of her classmates’ words anchors itself in my chest.
I think something sad happened to her.
You can tell that someone did her dirty.
Magnolia moves like she was born for this—every motion seamless as the silks twist and coil around her body. The white fabric clings to her limbs, wrapping and unfurling in perfect synchrony, each movement a blend of strength and elegance. She bends and stretches, every extension a breathtaking display of control and grace, impossible to look away from.
When her feet meet the mat again, she takes off running. She leaps in one seamless motion, catching the silk mid-stride. The fabric snags around her waist, spinning her into a perfect circle as she leans back, arms outstretched. The motion is effortless, the momentum carrying her like a bird catching the wind, weightless and free. For a moment, she looks like she’s soaring.
She wraps one leg around the silk, her arms lifting above her head as she twists, spiraling higher with an effortless ease that makes it look too simple, too safe. But I know better. A single misstep, a slip of focus, and she’ll come crashing down.
My fists clench at my sides, tension winding tight in my chest as she releases her grip, allowing her body to tumble downward in a sudden drop. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale, my stomach plummeting right along with her.
The silks catch her at the last moment, halting her fall with a gentle sway. A collective gasp echoes through the studio, followed by a burst of applause that fills the space.
I can’t move, my heart lodged in my throat.
Magnolia stays suspended for a beat longer, her head tipping back, eyes closed, a serene expression softening her features. She makes it seem effortless.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Her performance ends and I step outside, leaning against the wall just beyond the door, where I wait for her. Minutes drag by, each one longer than the last, and doubt creeps in.
What if she slipped out another way?
Just as the worry takes root, the door swings open. She steps into the night, laughing at something the guy beside her says. He’s too comfortable in her space. The easy way he walks next to her, the familiar brush of his arm against hers, the smile he throws her way—it all sets my teeth on edge.
Is this him?
Is this the fucker she’s moved on with?
My jaw clenches, hands balling at my sides as a bitter edge settles into my chest.
I don’t like it.
Not one damn bit.
Magnolia’s eyes lift, our gazes locking, and everything changes. Her smile and laughter die, and her entire body goes stiff. Her lips part, and those hazel eyes widen in disbelief… then narrow with something.
What is that? Shock? Anger? A little of both?
She stops mid-step, staring at me. For a split second, I swear I see something softer—something like longing—but it vanishes as quickly as it appears.
He looks between us, his brow furrowing. “Everything okay, Mags?”
Mags.
I hate that too.
Magnolia blinks, her expression shifting into something flat.
“Yeah. He’s just someone I used to know.”
Damn. That stings.
She stops a few feet away, arms wrapping around her torso like she’s bracing for impact. “Alex.”
I nod, shoving my hands into my pockets, unsure what to do with them. “Magnolia.”
Her classmate lingers a step behind her, eyes bouncing between us like he’s watching a tennis match.
“I need to talk to you.”
Her brow lifts, and for a moment, she just stares at me. “So now you want to talk?”
Her tone is sharp, edged with something that digs under my skin and festers. It sounds like she’s implying I’m the one who went radio silent, the one who disappeared without a trace.
Frustration bubbles up inside me, but I force it down. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for months.”
She lets out a humorless laugh, rolling her eyes. “ Right . You sure have a funny way of showing it.”
I blink, thrown off by the bitterness in her words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shakes her head, looking away, jaw tight. “You know what? Don’t worry about it. Not that you ever did.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Don’t tell me not to worry about it. Not after everything.”
Her eyes snap back to mine, blazing with anger. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to come here… or to say that to me.”
Her words land like a slap. How does she get to be the one who’s angry when she’s the one who cut me loose?
What the fuck is happening here?
This is not my Magnolia.
It’s like I’m talking to someone else.
Her eyes lock on mine, challenging me.
My gaze drops for half a second—just enough to confirm what I already suspected. She isn’t wearing the pendant I gave her. The one she said she’d never take off.
A sharp pang hits me right smack in the center of my heart. I’m not sure why I hoped she would still wear it.
“Can we go somewhere and talk?”
Magnolia’s lips press into a thin line, her chest rising and falling in fast breaths. Her hands tremble, but she squares her shoulders, meeting my gaze head-on with defiance burning in her eyes. “Sure. Might as well clear the air so you can move on guilt-free with your life.”
The guy steps between us, his posture rigid, blocking me from her like I’m a threat. “You okay?”
Magnolia’s expression softens for him. “I’m fine, Colton.”
Colton doesn’t seem to be convinced of that. And neither am I.
“Are you sure? Because you don’t seem fine.”
His gaze flickers to me, his posture stiffening like he’s ready to do something about it if necessary.
As if.
I size him up with a glance. Next to him, I look like I was built for war, and he looks like he got lost on the way to yoga class.
He’s pretty. And blond. Not her type.
But maybe her type has changed.
Her eyes flick to me, sharp as glass. “He won’t hurt me… physically , at least.”
His eyes sweep over me again, lingering a second too long on my frame. It’s clear he’s weighing his odds—and not liking them. Still, he gives a tight nod.
“You’ve got my number if you need me.”
She gives him a fucking smile. “Thanks, Colton.”
It pisses me off, watching them talk about me like I’m some threat she needs guarding against. Like I’m the villain skulking in the shadows, ready to hurt her. Once, I was the one she trusted to keep her safe. Once, she looked at me like I was her shelter from every storm.
Now I’m the threat she needs saving from?
Magnolia jerks her chin toward the parked cars. “Let’s get this over with.”
I brace myself for a drive thick with silence and tension, already steeling my nerves for it. But no. The second she shifts into gear, her phone connects to the speakers, and music fills the car almost instantly.
Of course there’s music. This is Magnolia. She’s never been one to sit in silence.
The opening notes of “How Could an Angel Break My Heart” float through the car. Her hands tighten around the wheel, spine stiffening, before she reaches over and kills the volume. Without thinking, I reach for the knob and turn it right back up.
“I like this one.”
“Since when?”
“Since the first time I heard it on the Thinking About Big Guy playlist.”
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word.
But when the streetlights wash over her face, I see it—the rapid blinking, the tight mouth, the tears she tries so hard to hide.
And it guts me. Because I realize what those tears mean.
She’s not okay.
And neither am I.