Page 26 of Beloved Beauty

Krishna is radiant, and Kye trails behind her, carrying a bottle of something dark and expensive, a smug grin on his face. He chuckles as he hands over the bottle. “For later—marriage toasts and post-toast dancing. You’re in for a ride, Alex. The good kind.”

“Couldn’t be more ready, mate.”

Laurelyn and Jack arrive. “All’s right with the world again. She belongs here with us. I’m certain of it.”

I nod, the words hitting somewhere deep. “I am too.”

Jack stands a step behind her, hands buried in his pockets, smirk in place. “This part is the good stuff, mate. Better than any win you’ll ever have on the field.”

He steps closer, clapping a hand on my shoulder—solid, steady. “You’ve been through hell but that woman––” He lifts his chin toward Magnolia. “She’s your calm after the storm. Don’t screw that up.”

“I won’t.” I’ve never meant two words more in my life.

Jack grins. “Didn’t think you would. Now… where’s that whisky I keep hearing about?”

A voice cuts in before I can answer. “I second that,” Chloe says, stepping into the circle. “Tonight calls for something with some serious bite.”

She looks good—strong, bright-eyed, unapologetically herself. There’s a spark in her I haven’t seen in months.

“I’ve got you covered,” I say, already turning toward the bar.

I return with a glass of whisky, and she takes it with a satisfied nod. “Exactly what I needed.”

Her eyes gleam—sharp and certain. There’s strength in her spine tonight.

“Ben doesn’t deserve you, Clover. Not after what he pulled.”

She shrugs, smooth and unbothered. “He did more than wreck our marriage. He burned it down. But now it’s time to rise from the ashes and rebuild my life.”

We’re still roasting Ben when the next wave of guests arrives—my teammates, loud and rowdy in the best way. They’re slapping backs, shaking hands, shouting greetings across the lawn.

The wives follow behind, polished and poised, arms linked or fingers wrapped around crystal flutes. Some of them—especially the newer ones—make a beeline for Magnolia. Their smiles are sweet but too fixed and polished in a performative way. I watch them scan her—dress, hair, shoes, ring. Their eyes linger a little too long on the rock on her finger and the way she doesn’t shrink to make room for anyone. They try to size her up, but she’s already three steps ahead, champagne in hand without a care in the world.

Magnolia accepts their congratulations with a gracious nod and a soft “thank you,” letting the compliments wash over her without breaking stride. There’s no need to prove anything. She simply lifts her glass, offers a quiet, knowing smile, and moves on.

She carries herself like royalty—like a woman who built her own crown and doesn’t need anyone else’s approval to wear it. It’s one of the things I love about her.

Chloe watches the exchanges. “Your girl’s got a spine on her.”

“She does and it’s made of steel,” I say.

“Good. She’ll need it to be to deal with some of those bitches.”

I lift my glass, but my eyes don’t leave Magnolia—not as she links arms with Laurelyn, not as she leans into Violet, not as she tips her head back and laughs at something Tina says.

I’ve had good moments before. Great ones, even. But right now? Watching her glide through this crowd with all the grace of someone born to it?

God, I’m lucky.

And I know it.

I’m halfway through another conversation when I see an uninvited guest.

Celeste.

White dress. Blood-red lipstick. Wrapped around the arm of Deacon, one of our rookies, poor bastard. She clings to him, but her eyes aren’t on him. They’re locked on me.

Magnolia doesn’t blink. She simply lifts her champagne flute with the poise of a woman who’s already decided she can’t be touched, taking a sip as though Celeste’s arrival doesn’t affect her.

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