My head falls back against the door, the cool wood grounding me for a fleeting second before another sob wracks my body. I thought I was moving on. Thought I was building something new, something solid. But one conversation with Tyson McRae has me crumbling to pieces again.

This can’t be my life. I won’t let it be.

I press my palms to the floor and push myself up. My legs are unsteady, like they don’t quite belong to me anymore, but I force them to hold me.

One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. That’s how you survive heartbreak.

Flicking on the bathroom light, I take a long, shaky breath, forcing myself to meet my reflection.

Red-rimmed eyes. Blotchy cheeks. A mess.

I splash cold water onto my face, letting it wash away the evidence of my breakdown—at least on the surface. I smooth my hair, straighten my blouse, and press my lips together until they stop quivering. Bit by bit, I put myself back together.

Chapter 18

Magnolia Steel

Charleston’s evening air clings to my skin as I step onto the sidewalk, gliding my hands down the sleek lines of my black dress. Professional, yet elegant. A calculated choice. Tonight is about business—nothing more, nothing less. I remind myself of that with every click of my heels against the sidewalk leading to the front of the restaurant.

Inside, the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses weave together with the soft strains of jazz. The lighting is dim, golden, casting a warm glow over the rich mahogany furniture and deep velvet booths. It’s the kind of place where people whisper promises and share secrets over wine priced like mortgage payments.

A place of Tyson McRae’s choosing.

And there he is.

Tyson McRae is dressed in a tailored navy suit, crisp and sharp, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure. His signature smirk plays on his lips the moment his eyes find mine, and he strides forward with the ease of a man who’s never known rejection.

“Miss Steel.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek.

Bold move.

I don’t like it.

“Mr. McRae.”

The scent of his expensive cologne surrounds me—something dark and spicy. My spine stiffens at the uninvited display of intimacy, but I force a polite smile, brushing it off as though I’m unbothered.

Like it doesn’t make my skin crawl.

I step back, creating a space between us, but his grin only deepens, as if he enjoys the game already in motion.

We’re seated at a private table tucked away in a secluded corner, candlelight flickering between us. Very romantic. Not the type of setting for talking business.

Tyson McRae settles into the chair across from me, his eyes lingering on me for too long.

What is he playing at?