Page 46 of Beloved Beauty

Heads turn in our direction. Conversations stall.

I step away from the buffet and raise my voice again, letting it carry across the suite.

“Or should I? Should I tell them about the stalking? The threats? The way you’ve been harassing Alex and me for months? The way you corner me, believing I won’t react because I don’t want to cause a disturbance?”

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

A hush falls over the room.

Tyson’s smile falters, and I keep going.

“Tyson McRae has been stalking me. Now he’s cornering me in this suite to harass me while my fiancé is on the pitch and not here to keep him away from me. He thinks I’ll keep quiet to avoid embarrassment.”

“Magnolia—” he says my name low, warning, but I cut him off.

“You think I won’t scream in a room full of people? Try me.”

A few of the men rise from their seats toward us, and Tyson’s eyes flick around the room. Nate strides over, broad and steady. His gaze goes straight to Tyson, unflinching. “Alex’s missus has spoken. You need to leave her alone. Now.”

Tyson shifts toward me, but Nate steps in, broad-shouldered and immovable. “You haven’t played on this team in years, McRae. You’ve got no business in this suite.”

“How’d you even get in here?” someone calls out.

The room stills around us, every conversation going quiet, every gaze locked on him.

Tyson straightens his shoulders, trying for some dignity, but it doesn’t stick. The weight of eyes on him is too heavy.

“See you later, Mrs. Wall,” he whispers.

He walks out, and I stand there—plate in one hand, the other clenched so tight my knuckles ache.

Silence ripples behind him, broken only when someone clears their throat.

Julia is the first to move. She steps close, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I nod, but I’m trembling. “I’m fine… but I’m done letting him intimidate me.”

A few others gather and I’m surrounded by murmurs of concern. Hands brushing my arm. Offers to walk me out. Someone brings me a fresh glass of wine.

It begins to sink in—the warmth, the support, the small, fierce circle rallying without hesitation.

I’m not alone. Not anymore.

A few of the wives close in around me, arms brushing mine, eyes sharp with concern and quiet fury.

“Are you all right?”

“Did he touch you?”

“That guy’s always been a snake.”

“Do you want me to grab security? We can have him banned from the stadium.”

My chest tightens—but not with fear this time. With gratitude.

“I didn’t know how everyone would react, but I had to do it. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Heads nod around me. A woman I haven’t met yet says, “You’ve got more people in your corner than you know. You’re a rugby wife now.”

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