Page 26 of American Beauty

Violet’s grin falters. “Chill Mags.”

“I’m sure he’s busy with work.” I set the phone on my lap, trying to ignore the knot of impatience tightening in my stomach.

He’ll text me back soon. And when he does, he’s going to be ecstatic to hear the news.

We’re going to be together again. And this time, it’s going to be perfect.

The sun has long since set by the time I step into my apartment, kicking off my heels and tossing my bag onto the couch. The golden glow of the city paints the room, but I’m too distracted to care.

I’ve been checking my phone every few minutes for the past hour, waiting for Alex’s response. This is unusual for him. He’s always quick to respond—especially when I tell him to call me. But tonight? Nothing. Not a single text.

It’s… odd. And disappointing.

I stare at the message still sitting there with that quiet, mocking delivered status, more annoying than reassuring. A flicker of unease nudges at my chest, but I push it aside. I’m sure he’s tied up with work, or family, or perhaps something came up with the new hotel they’re building. There are a dozen reasonable explanations.

Sighing, I set my phone on the counter and head for the kitchen cabinet. If I’m going to sit here spiraling like a lovesick fool, I might as well do it with a glass of wine in hand. I pour a generous amount of pinot noir, the glug-glug of it filling the quiet with a strange comfort. I take a slow sip, savoring the way it warms my throat, then lean back against the counter, trying to stay calm.

It’s fine. He’ll text any minute now.

And a minute later, he does.

Shit, what took so long?

This relationship isn’t working for me.

Tell me about it, big guy. It’s not working for me either.

I need to be with him. Not an ocean apart. Not sharing goodnight texts instead of good-night kisses. I need to be near him. With him inside me. Every night.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, typing out my response, telling him I want him to call me as soon as possible because I have something wonderful to tell him. But before I can hit send, another message from Alex comes through.

I’ve had time to think about this, and I’ve made some decisions. I need a woman in my bed every night. My sex drive can’t handle the distance between us. If I don’t end this relationship now, I’ll end up cheating on you, and I don’t want to hurt you in that way.

Wait. What?

A sharp pain slams into my chest, like I’ve been sucker-punched. I blink, forcing myself to keep reading.

No, this can’t be right.

I need a woman who’s wife material. And that isn’t you.

My breath shudders, the room tilting around me.

Don’t call or text me again. That would only make this worse. This relationship is over.

The wine glass slips from my grasp and shatters on the floor, mimicking the way my heart has cracked into pieces. Red wine seeps into the cream rug, a slow, brutal bloom, no different from how my heart feels—broken and bleeding out.

My hands tremble, the simple act of breathing turning into a losing battle against panic.

This can’t be real.

I reread the text, my vision blurring, desperate to find something—anything—that makes it make sense. But the words don’t change. The meaning doesn’t shift.

A cold, ugly panic rises in my throat. My fingers move on autopilot, hitting the call button.

The line rings once. Then—straight to voicemail.

My pulse stutters. That’s not right.

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