The chime of the office doorbell pulls me from my thoughts. I straighten, plastering on the practiced smile I’ve been perfecting for weeks. “Here we go, Magnolia Steel,” I say under my breath, adjusting a stack of fabric swatches on my desk for the hundredth time.

When I look up, my breath catches for a split second.

My client fills the doorway—no joke. Broad shoulders that seem to stretch wider than the frame itself, a towering presence with a muscular build that speaks of years of rigorous training. Everything about him exudes power, from the way he carries himself to the confident smirk playing at his lips. His tailored charcoal suit molds to his form with perfection, the crisp white shirt beneath hinting at wealth that doesn’t need to be flaunted.

He’s not just large. He’s commanding.

I step forward, smoothing my expression into something polished and professional, and extend my hand. “Hello, I’m Magnolia Steel. You must be Mr. McRae.”

His handshake is firm, his palm warm against mine. “Tyson,” he says, his deep voice laced with an unmistakable Australian accent.

That accent. It slams into me with the force of a wave, and for a moment, the world around me blurs.

My heart stutters in my chest, but I school my expression, refusing to let anything show. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He nods, his sharp gaze sweeping across the office with a quick assessment. “Nice place. New?”

“Very new.”

His gaze sweeps over the room, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Classy and sophisticated. Just what I expected.”

“Chic is my style.”

I gesture toward the sleek leather chair across from me. “Please, have a seat.”

As he settles in, I take a breath and launch into my spiel. “I’d love to hear more about your vision for the project. What are you looking to achieve with the space?”

He’s filled with easy confidence as he launches into his plans—the boutique hotel, the concept, the luxury touches he wants to incorporate. He talks a good game, throwing around words like exclusive and bespoke, but there’s something about the way he speaks that comes off as calculated.

That voice—his voice—keeps replaying in my head like a terrible song I can’t shake. The cadence, the confidence, the arrogance. And his face.

And then it hits me.

Tyson McRae.

Not just any Tyson McRae. That Tyson McRae.

The one from Sydney who sent Alex over the edge that night at the wedding. The one always provoking him. The one who hates him so much that he intentionally hurt him, ending his career.

How did I not recognize him sooner?

In my defense, I only caught a glimpse of him that night. It was dark, and my focus wasn’t on Tyson. It was on Alex—on holding him back, on stopping him from making a mistake he couldn’t undo.