Page 126 of Beloved Beauty

I’ve dealt with this shit before. It comes with the territory. Grand Final week turns athletes into tabloid bait, especially when you’re the captain of the most-watched rugby team in the country. They want locker-room drama, sideline tantrums, shots of me bleeding and looking heroic. I can handle that.

What I can’t handle is the idea of them getting to her.

She’s only a week away from the baby’s due date. She can’t get her own shoes on without making a joke about needing a forklift. One unexpected camera flash and she might flinch hard enough to go into labor.

And that makes my blood boil in ways I’ve never had to reckon with before.

Magnolia—so close to giving birth—doesn’t need cameras flashing at her when we’re walking out of her OB’s office. If any of those bastards so much as shout a question at her, I won’t be on the front page for footy anymore. I’ll be there for throwing punches.

The game can have my time. The press can have their shots. But they don’t get her. They don’t get the quiet moments that matter most––Magnolia sitting across the table from me at her favorite restaurant, stealing fries off my plate with no remorse. Me running out at midnight to grab her favorite ice cream because the sudden craving won’t wait. The two of us at the pharmacy, her leaning into me while we wait for the meds she needs because she’s not feeling her best. Walking through the produce aisle while she inspects peaches like she’s choosing gemstones.

They don’t get to nose around in the personal part of our lives. And they sure as hell don’t get her.

So I’ve taken her away for the weekend. Not far—we’re less than an hour from land in case she needs anything. But far enough that no one’s watching. No one’s asking for a quote or a photo. Just water in every direction.

My wife deserves peace. And I need to see her breathe without flinching.

The yacht rocks as I finish checking the last of Chloe’s handwritten instructions. Tonight’s meal is grilled barramundi with lemon-herb butter, roasted baby potatoes with garlic and thyme, and a charred zucchini salad tossed in olive oil and sea salt. And for dessert—Chloe’s vanilla bean cheesecake, piled high with fresh berries and passionfruit.

No special occasion––only a weekend getaway because the city is crawling with cameras pointing at us. Ever since I stepped back onto the pitch, the media has been on a full-court press. Every game, every meal, every moment they think might sell. But they’re not just after me anymore.

They’re after her now too.

She steps onto the deck, my hoodie stretched over her bump, hair windswept, and eyes already lighter than they’ve been in days. Bringing her out here was the right call.

This isn’t about the yacht or the sea or the sunset or the food Chloe left for us.

It’s about her––us––and one of the final moments we’ll have before two become three.

The yacht is anchored far enough from shore that the city seems a world away. The deck is quiet except for the occasional lap of water against the hull and the soft hum of music drifting from the speakers.

Magnolia sits across from me, hair loose around her shoulders, her plate clean. She lifts her champagne flute of sparkling grape juice. “I could drink an old-fashioned the size of my belly.”

I grin and raise my glass to hers. “You, me, and a celebratory cocktail the second this kid makes his or her debut. It’s a date.”

We sip as the sky deepens, and the world shrinks to this: candlelight, good food, the curve of her belly, and talk about the baby.

She rests a hand on her stomach. “You still think it’s a girl?”

“I don’t know. I keep changing my mind.”

“Same.”

There’s a pause, one that fills with more than words.

“What scares you the most?” she asks.

I take a breath and answer, honest and unfiltered. “That I’ll mess it up. That I won’t be a good enough dad.”

She nods. “I get that. I’m afraid Robin ruined my chances at being a good mom.”

“No way, favorite. You’re going to be incredible because Robin was so bad at it.”

She lifts her gaze to mine, a faint crease between her brows. “Is that even possible? To become a good mother when yours was not?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “Because you know what not to do. You won’t make her mistakes because you’ve already broken every pattern she handed you.”

“Maybe knowing what love shouldn’t be is as powerful as knowing what it should be.”

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