I square my shoulders, voice like ice. “I’m not sure what you will or won’t do because I don’t trust you.”

“Magnolia—”

“Leave!” My voice breaks on the word.

He takes another step forward, something in his posture shifting. The mood changes. Heavy. Off. Threat laced in silence.

He continues to ignore my warnings, something sharp clicking in my head.

He’s not backing off. And that alone is enough to set every instinct I have on high alert.

My eyes land on the decorative glass bottle sitting on the display table—sea-glass green, smooth and coastal, part of the spa project I’ve been finalizing. I grip it by the neck and slam the base against the edge of the table.

The break echoes, sharp and final. Shards fall. What’s left is jagged and ugly—the weapon I need. I lift it between us, somehow steady and unshaking, the broken glass glinting under the warm light.

“Fuck around and find out how fast I’ll cut you.”

Something flickers in his expression and his mouth presses into a tight line. “I just wanted to talk and remind you of what we had.”

“You aren’t taking no for an answer, and that’s a problem.”

He looks at me for a moment, then turns and leaves without another word.

By the time I get home, the sun has dipped low behind the city skyline, throwing long shadows across the floor of my apartment. I drop my bag on the table, kick off my shoes, and sink onto the couch.

I’m okay. Nothing happened—technically––but the remaining tremble in my hands says otherwise. The way my chest still rises too fast, as if my body hasn’t realized the danger has passed.

Or has it?

I press the heels of my palms to my eyes and sit there, breathing slow and deep, trying to steady myself. To not let his voice echo in my head. But it’s there anyway.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or both.

Instead, I reach for my phone. Alex called while I was driving home, but I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t ready to talk, too afraid he’d hear it—the fear I couldn’t hide in my voice.

I could tell him what happened, let the anger in his voice wrap around me like armor. Let him rage for me. Worry for me.

But I don’t. Because I know what this would do to him.

He’s still healing, still in pain, even if he won’t admit it. If I tell him Tyson showed up at my office and crossed a line, I know what will happen.

Alex won’t just be angry. He’ll be consumed. And right now, he needs peace, rest, time to recover without this polluting his mind.

So I swallow it.

The flowers arrive mid-morning.