Page 136 of American Beauty

My stomach drops so fast I become dizzy.

He looks more put-together today—dark jeans, a fitted tee, clean-shaven. But the intensity in his eyes is the same. Off.

“What are you doing here?” I try to keep my voice calm, but my fingers tighten around the edge of the door.

He steps forward, pushes past me like he has every right to. “We need to finish our conversation.”

I whirl around, my heart hammering. “No, we don’t. You need to leave.”

He doesn’t budge.

“This is your fault. You shut me out. You dropped everything we had as though it meant nothing. You want to play the victim now, but you lied too. You made me believe you wanted this.”

Something snaps inside me. The fear coiled in my chest unravels—not into panic, but into fury. Red-hot and righteous. Because how fucking dare he.

“You want to talk about lies?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just venom. “You are the reason Alex and I broke up. Then you pursued me just to get back at Alex. How fucked up is that? And now you want to rewrite the story like I asked for it? Don’t you fucking dare twist this around on me after everything you did.”

He scoffs, eyes flashing. “Yeah, I pursued you because it would destroy Sebring. But then you let me in. You made me believe we could become something. You said yes to dinner, yes to that gallery opening. You gave me permission to touch you. I finger fucked you until you came all over my hand. You led me to believe there was something real growing between us. And I fucking fell in love with you. Hard. And then you flipped the script and made me the villain.”

There’s a wild look in his eyes now—unhinged and glassy. Like a man coming undone in real time, right in front of me. It’s not just anger—it’s desperation. Entitlement. A spiral that comes when someone realizes they’ve lost control, and they’ll claw at anything to get it back.

Gaslighting at its finest.

He wants me to question everything. To rewrite the truth into something more convenient for him. But I’m not confused about what happened.

My pulse roars in my ears, my whole body shaking.

And then I hear it—Violet’s voice. “What kind of fresh hell is this?”

She steps into the apartment like a bullet, keys still in one hand, takeout bags swinging from the other.

She sees him. Sees me. And without a second of hesitation, she plants herself right between us like she’s been waiting her whole life for this fight.

“Ten out of ten don’t recommend you being here. You need to turn the fuck around and walk out that door and never come back.”

I’m glad Violet’s my best friend because, fuck, she can be a little scary when she’s mad.

“This is between Magnolia and me. It has nothing to do with you, so fuck off.”

Oh shit.

His jaw tightens, hands flexing at his sides. But Violet doesn’t flinch.

“Everything that happens to her is my business. I’m more than her best friend—I’m the motherfucking fire-breathing dragon at the gate.”

I grab my phone, heart slamming in my chest, and dial 911.

Violet crosses her arms, lips curling like she’s just getting warmed up. “You ever come near her again, and the police will declare ita case of fucked around and found out.”

Tyson’s eyes flick to the phone in my hand. He hears me give the dispatcher our address and turns, leaving without another word.

Violet races to the door and locks it, deadbolt and chain. “Holy shit, Mags. That dude is enormous. I’m a chihuahua who chased away an Irish wolfhound.”

I slide down the wall, legs folding underneath me, hands trembling.

She crouches beside me. “Are you okay?”

I nod, but I’m lying. I’ve never been less okay in my life.

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