Page 32 of Beloved Beauty

“I’m not.”

Alex walks to the wall panel and presses the intercom. “Yeah?”

A man’s voice replies, “Delivery for Magnolia Steel.”

Alex glances back at me. “Did you order something?”

“Not that I remember. Someone probably sent a wedding gift.”

They’ve been arriving sporadically—candlesticks, crystal, an antique vase from people I don’t know.

Minutes later, a delivery van winds up the long drive. A man in a navy polo and matching cap steps out, holding a massive, rectangle-shaped parcel wrapped in bridal-white paper with an embossed finish and silver satin ribbon.

As he gets closer, recognition lights his face.

“No way—Alex Sebring?” The guy grins. “Didn’t dream I’d deliver to you today. My whole house is rooting for your comeback, mate.”

Alex smiles. “Appreciate that. Looking forward to being back on the pitch.”

The guy nods, then glances at the package. “Mind signing here, miss?”

I scribble my name on the tablet, and Alex pulls out his wallet, tipping him.

The delivery guy hesitates, glancing between us and the package. “Would it be weird if I asked for a photo?”

Alex chuckles. “Not weird at all, mate.”

“My brother’s gonna lose it when he hears I was here.”

He pulls out his phone and leans in for a selfie, but I’m already reaching. “Here—let me take it.”

The guy beams, handing me the phone. “Thanks, miss.”

Alex angles toward him, casual but patient. I frame the shot and snap several times. I should probably get used to this.

“There should be a good one there,” I say, handing the phone back.

The guy nods again, eyes still wide. “Heard you were getting married. Congrats to you both,” he says, his voice full of genuine warmth, before heading back to the van.

“Thanks.”

Alex gestures to the parcel. “Let’s see who this one’s from.”

I reach for the ribbon, and it unties with ease. The paper parts with a soft, luxurious tear, revealing a sleek white box beneath. Alex lifts the lid while I steady the base.

And then?—

My breath catches in my throat.

No.

No, no, no.

Framed in matte linen, every delicate brushstroke the way I remember it, is The Unseen Queen by William Bloom.

The same one I stood in front of in Charleston. The same one Tyson bought on the day I’ve tried so fucking hard to forget.

The painting Tyson knows I love. The painting he’s now sent me.

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