Page 80 of American Beauty

She glances at her watch, a subtle smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “It’s almost five, and the studio is across town. You better get a move on.”

I stare at her, realization creeping in. I nod once, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. “Right. Thanks for the suggestion.”

As I turn to leave, her voice follows me, softer now. “For what it’s worth, we all knew she was seeing someone while we were in Sydney.”

I freeze, my feet rooted to the spot.

“She was in love, and it was obvious. She was so damn happy. I’d never seen her like that before. She didn’t want to come home—it was clear she was leaving someone behind who had her heart.”

A dull ache settles in my chest. “You think so?”

She nods, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I know so.”

I give her a tight nod before pushing through the door and stepping into the sticky Charleston heat.

If Magnolia was so damn happy, how did we end up like this?

Chapter 24

Alex Sebring

The dance studio’sbrick facade blends with the row of historic buildings on a quiet Charleston side street. A small brass plaque by the door reads Elevate Aerial Arts.

Students gather around the edges of a padded large mat, their gazes fixed upward. Wide silks hang from the ceiling in thick, cascading sheets of white, their length pooling where they meet the mat.

A woman steps into my line of sight. “Who are you here to watch?”

I blink, confused. “Watch?”

“Which student did you come to see?”

“Magnolia Steel.”

The woman’s eyes widen with recognition, and she nods toward the silks hanging in the middle of the room, gesturing toward the mat. “You made it just in time. Magnolia’s performing next.”

My pulse kicks up a notch as I scan the studio in search of her.

My American beauty is here, across the studio, standing near the silks draped from the ceiling.

Magnolia moves with a quiet grace that punches the air out of my lungs. She hasn’t seen me yet—thank God. I need a second to pull myself together, to breathe through the ache clawing its way up my chest.

She’s wearing a white fitted top and yoga pants that hug every line and curve. Her hair twists into a bun at the crown of her head, loose wisps escaping to frame her face.

She’s always been beautiful, but now, wrapped in silk and bathed in white, she looks less like a woman and more like an angel carved from pure light.

My angel.

Or at least she was.

I swallow hard, my fists clenching at my sides as I take her in, piece by piece. Every inch of her is a painful reminder of what I lost. The sight of her hits like a hammer, cracking open the place inside me I’ve tried so hard to keep locked up.

For a second, I wonder if it was a mistake coming here, if seeing her again is only going to rip me apart even more. But I know the answer.

I have to see her.

Even if it destroys me.

The soft hum of the speakers crackles to life, and her routine begins. A familiar melody drifts through the studio, wrapping around me like a ghost from the past. “All Cried Out” by Allure and 112.

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