My fingers fly across the keyboard, typing out my response, telling him I want him to call me as soon as possible because I have something wonderful to tell him. But before I can hit send, another message from Alex comes through.

I’ve had time to think about this, and I’ve made some decisions. I need a woman in my bed every night. My sex drive can’t handle the distance between us. If I don’t end this relationship now, I’ll end up cheating on you, and I don’t want to hurt you in that way.

Wait. What?

A sharp pain slams into my chest, like I’ve been sucker-punched. I blink, forcing myself to keep reading.

No, this can’t be right.

I need a woman who’s wife material. And that isn’t you.

My breath shudders, the room tilting around me.

Don’t call or text me again. That would only make this worse. This relationship is over.

The wine glass slips from my grasp and shatters on the floor, mimicking the way my heart has cracked into pieces. Red wine seeps into the cream rug, a slow, brutal bloom, no different from how my heart feels—broken and bleeding out.

My hands tremble, the simple act of breathing turning into a losing battle against panic.

This can’t be real.

I reread the text, my vision blurring, desperate to find something—anything—that makes it make sense. But the words don’t change. The meaning doesn’t shift.

A cold, ugly panic rises in my throat. My fingers move on autopilot, hitting the call button.

The line rings once. Then—straight to voicemail.

My pulse stutters. That’s not right.

I try again. Voicemail.

Again. Voicemail.

Again.

A strangled sound claws its way up my throat. No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. Alex wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t end things like this.

A violent twist rips through my stomach as panic takes hold, my breathing shallow and erratic. There has to be an explanation. There has to be. Nothing about this is right.

I yank open my laptop and type with shaking hands. What does it mean when calls go straight to voicemail?

The screen fills with answers I don’t want: one ring, voicemail, blocked.

Blocked?

The word echoes like a gunshot.

A sharp, splintering pain cracks through my ribs, radiating outward like wildfire. Alex blocked me. He ended things and cut me off. Erased me.

I choke on a sob, pressing a hand to my mouth as the weight of it crushes me. Only an hour ago, I was planning my return to Sydney. Planning a future with him.

And now? He ended it without even knowing I was on my way back to him.

Nausea churns in my gut. I barely make it to the bathroom before my stomach wretches, heaving up stomach contents but also everything I am, everything I feel.