Violet says nothing. She just sits beside me and slips her hand into mine. And together, we sit in the quiet wreckage of what I thought was my forever.

Love has done me dirty.

Chapter 8

Alex Sebring

The only thing worse than driving to a job I hate is driving to a job I hate without the love of my life in the passenger seat beside me.

“Love” by Kyle McKearney hums low through the speakers. It’s one of those songs that carries her in every note. Not because she played it. Not because it’s her favorite. She doesn’t even listen to this kind of music. But every time I hear this song, I see her. Feel her. Like the lyrics were written by a man who knows exactly what it’s like to love someone the way I love Magnolia.

I pull into the Sebring Hotels corporate lot with the energy of a bloke stepping onto the rugby field with no heart left for the game. No adrenaline. No grit. Just going through the motions, when the only thing I want is to be on a different field entirely—one where she’s waiting on the sidelines, cheering me on.

The sleek glass facade of the building reflects the morning sun like it’s doing something impressive, but all it does is remind me how cold everything is without her sweet Southern twang in my ear.

I tried calling her when I got up and again on my way to work. No answer. It’s afternoon for her, so she’s probably tied up with work. That’s what I tell myself when my call goes to voicemail.

She’s probably elbow-deep in pillows, fabric swatches, and furniture layouts. Solving on-set chaos like it’s nothing––that’s Magnolia. Focused. Brilliant. Turning blank spaces into something beautiful.

Her voice has become my favorite part of the morning. She says my voice does the same for her—even when it’s already afternoon where she is. So when my call didn’t go through, I left her a voice message.

Wish I could start every day hearing your voice. Fuck, I miss you. Love you, favorite.

Maybe she’ll listen to it on her break, and it’ll make her smile.

I enter the building, nodding to the lobby receptionist before heading upstairs. In my office, I drop my bag by the desk and shrug out of my jacket. The space is modern—polished hardwood, steel accents, and the faint scent of espresso drifting from the break room down the hall. I used to feel like an impostor in this world. Some days, I still do. But lately, the weight of it hasn’t felt quite so suffocating.

Because love has a way of softening sharp edges.