“Alex, I’ve had time to think things over, and I realize this long-distance thing isn’t working. I’ve known for a while, but I didn’t have the guts to tell you. I’ve met someone here in Charleston, and he makes me happy. He doesn’t want commitment, and that’s what I need right now. I want to be with him. This relationship is over. I wish you the best in finding the wife you want, but it isn’t me. Don’t contact me. This is over.”

Silence falls.

My heart misses a beat. Then another.

I blink at the screen, my mind refusing to process what I just heard.

What?

I listen to the message again like I’ll find a different meaning the second time around. But it doesn’t change. It’s still there. Cold. Final. Brutal.

My pulse hammers in my ears.

I scroll back up and read the first text again.

I have good news! Call me the minute you get this text.

Then this. What the hell kind of good news ends in that?

My breath stutters, my lungs forgetting how to function. A cold sweat breaks along my back, beading at my temples as my fingers twitch around the phone.

No. No, this isn’t right.

Magnolia wouldn’t do this. Not like this. Not after everything. Not without a call. Not through a bloody text.

But the message is still there, staring back at me, mocking everything I thought I knew.

My stomach twists, a sharp, gutting ache I can’t ignore. My hands go numb. I sit frozen, eyes locked on the words, willing them to disappear. Willing this to be a joke. A mistake. Something.

Anything but what it looks like.

Because if it’s not… if this is real… I’ve just lost the woman I love.

And I never even saw it coming.

The last line of her message hits like a gut punch. Don’t contact me. This is over.

I’m still staring at the screen when the soft knock comes. I don’t answer, but the door opens anyway.

“Alex? Quick question about the Oakridge Group contract.”

I don’t look up at Courtney. My brain can’t process contracts or logistics or anything that doesn’t involve figuring out how the hell Magnolia just slipped through my fingers.

“Not now.” My voice comes out flat. Sharper: “Close the door on your way out.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the briefest flicker of her gaze dropping to my phone. She backs out without another word, the door clicking shut behind her.

I scroll back to the top of the screen, staring at the thread again.

I have good news! Call me the minute you get this text.

And then, right below it, that cold, calculated exit. She sent the second text thirty minutes after the first—smiling, then stabbing. What the hell happened in between?