I don’t open it right away. I just stare. Because I’ve been more than clear about my feelings. About my boundaries. About the fact that I want nothing more to do with him.

So what does he want now?

I open it. Not because I want to. But because I don’t trust him not to try something shady—legal threats, emotional manipulation, a guilt trip disguised as sincerity. I’ve figured out how he works. He’s shown me who he is.

Our contract is airtight, something I made damn sure of it before I ever signed my name beside his. I had to protect myself—my business, my future—in the event of a fallout. I may have been naïve about him and his motive, but I was never naïve when it came to protecting myself and my business.

Protecting myself––that’s one thing I’m very good at.

The email is long. Too long. Desperate in the way only guilt can be.

Subject: Please Read This

Magnolia,

I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now. And I don’t deserve your time—not even a second of it—but I’m asking anyway. Please.

I miss you so much. More than I thought was even possible.

I’ve spent every day since you left trying to figure out how I let this happen. How I lost you. And how I ruined it. I know I did. I took your trust and smashed it to pieces. And now I’m the guy waking up every morning filled with nothing but regret.

I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Please don’t throw us away. Please don’t let this be the end.

I’ll do whatever it takes. Just tell me there’s still a chance.

You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.

—Ty

I close the email and stare at the screen, jaw tight, breath shallow.

Tyson McRae is a lot of things. A liar, manipulator, master of twisting truth. But one thing he is not––a man who gets a second chance. Not with me.

He shattered my trust. He is the source of me being wrecked from the inside out. Destroyed for months.

And now he wants a chance to do it all over again? Hell no.

I don’t hesitate. My fingers move fast, fueled by disgust, as I block his email address without blinking.

He doesn’t get to speak to me again. Not now. Not ever.

I close the laptop, set it beside me, and stare straight ahead. The waiting room is too cold, too quiet, and I can’t sit still.

I glance at the time again. Only ninety minutes have passed. It feels like five hours.