It’s like we’re speaking two different languages—living two different stories—and for the first time, I’m not sure what’s real anymore.

“Are you happy?” Magnolia spits the words out, sharp and bitter, her eyes flashing with a fury I’ve never seen in her before.

“Am I happy?” I bark out a humorless laugh, the sound scraping my throat. “How the fuck am I supposed to be happy?”

“Because you fucking got what you wanted!” Her chest heaves with the force of her frustration, shoulders tense and trembling.

“What is it you think I want?!”

“You found the one. You’re getting married… and I’m sure a house full of perfect little Samoan babies won’t be far behind. Congratulations.”

Her words hit me like a freight train. “I don’t know where you got that from, but it’s not true. Not even close.”

I can’t make sense of the pieces scattered between us, but I’m certain of one thing straight away—someone has poisoned her against me.

“Who told you I was getting married?”

No hesitation. “Tyson McRae.”

The name slams into me like a wrecking ball, hollowing me out and lighting me up at the same time.

My hands clench into fists, every muscle in my body wired tight, rage rising.

“When did you talk to that fucker?”

“He’s my client. I talk to him almost every day.”

“Your what?”

There aren’t words in existence that describe my state of mind.

“You’re working with that bastard?”

“I own a business, and he’s a paying client. My only client. My rent gets paid and there’s food on my table because of him.”

I shoot up, dragging my hands through my hair, trying to process what I’m hearing.

This isn’t a coincidence. Tyson McRae didn’t just wander into Magnolia’s life at random, needing a designer. No—this has calculation written all over it.

There is some fuckery afoot here.

“I told you how much Tyson hates me. How could you believe anything that came out of his mouth about me?”

A whisper slips from her lips— “Shit” —so soft I almost miss it over the pounding in my ears. Her eyes squeeze shut, like she’s trying to block out the mistake she’s just realized she made. A shaky breath escapes her, and when she lifts her gaze to mine again, the fury is gone, replaced by something raw and aching.

“You aren’t marrying anyone?”

“No. Of course not.”

She covers her mouth with shaking fingers, her gaze locked on mine like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Oh my God, Alex.”

She sees it now. She knows the truth.

We’re standing here, both gutted, both raw—and somehow, we’re not part of the same story.