Of course, Violet notices. “Oh, Mags.”

I shake my head, blinking against the sting. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” She reaches across the table, her hand resting over mine. “What happened?”

Emotion rises, thick and sharp. “I left him, Vi.” My voice cracks. “I got on a plane and left him, and I swear to God, it was like ripping out my heart.”

Her face softens, and for once, she doesn’t crack a joke. “Tell me everything.”

I exhale, fingers tracing the rim of my cup. “We agreed it wasn’t a goodbye. We left it open-ended—see you later instead of this is over. But with so much distance, it still seems like goodbye.”

“That’s because you love him and want to be with him.”

I nod, pressing my lips together.

She squeezes my hand. “Okay, first, you didn’t leave him. You came home. There’s a difference.”

I give her a doubtful look.

“It wasn’t possible for you to stay in Australia forever. You have a life here. You couldn’t drop everything and stay because of some good dick.”

“It is some really good dick. But more than that, it’s love.”

Violet’s smile softens. “That’s even more reason it isn’t over.”

I release a shaky breath. “I don’t know how this works, Vi.”

She pops the rest of a macaron into her mouth. “You’ll figure it out one step at a time. And let’s be real—you and Mr. Bazillionaire? This is only the beginning.”

I want to believe her. God, I need to believe her. But for now, all I can do is try to breathe through the ache in my chest and take it one moment at a time.

I tear off a piece of macaron, rolling it between my fingers before popping it into my mouth. The sweetness melts on my tongue, but it does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest.

Violet studies me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Has Alex changed his mind about marriage?”

“His search for a wife is on pause. For now.”

Violet hums, considering that. “I mean, that’s kind of huge for Mr. Commitment-or-bust.”

“Yeah. But that’s not even my biggest concern.”

She cocks her head. “What is?”

I swirl my cappuccino. “Being with Alex long-term means moving to Australia.” I whisper it, as though saying it too loud might make it real. “It means giving up everything here—my job, my home… you.” My voice wobbles on that last word.