“I was a bastard to you.” His gaze flickers to mine and then away. “I know that now.”

  I say nothing.

  “You didn’t deserve what I did to you. What I put you through. You didn’t deserve any of it. Neither of you.”

  I cross my arms. “No. We didn’t.”

  He nods. “It wasn’t a lie when I said I fell in love with you.” His voice drops a little, almost inaudibly. “That part was very true, but I understand that doesn’t matter. It never mattered. You love him. It’ll always be him.”

  I hold his gaze, feeling no need to confirm what he already knows to be the truth.

  He looks down at the unmistakable curve of my stomach. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “Didn’t find out. We want to be surprised.”

  His mouth lifts, almost a smile. “My money’s on a boy. I can see Sebring with a son.”

  His smile fades, but the softness stays. And for once, there’s nothing sharp in his expression. Just acceptance.

  I don’t move closer. I don’t soften. But I don’t harden either.

  “I hope you mean what you’re saying about being a better person.”

  “I do.” His voice cracks, then finds its footing. “Facing down death changes things for a person. But I’m lucky. My odds are good. The cancer has responded to the treatments.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Truly.” I pause. “But whatever part of your story included me is finished.”

  He nods, throat working as he swallows.

  “There’s nothing left here for you, Tyson. No anger. No resentment. Nothing at all. And that’s not bitterness—it’s peace. I found it. Please don’t come looking for pieces of something I’ve already let go.”

  His lips press into a thin line, his eyes briefly closing. “I understand.”

  “Good,” I say, offering nothing more. No false comfort. No invitation to rewrite the past.

  After a pause, he nods again, slower this time. “Then I guess I’ll go.”

  I stay exactly where I am. “Take care of yourself, Tyson.”

  He looks at me—really looks—and for the first time, I think he sees me clearly. Not the version he wanted. Not the one he tried to control.

  “You too, Magnolia,” he says, voice low. “You look happy.”

  “I am.”

  Fiercely, finally, completely happy.

  He turns, and I watch him walk out of the hotel. Not because I’m still tangled in him, but because I’m not. Because there’s something triumphant in standing still while the past walks itself out the door.

  Chapter 37

  Alex Sebring

  The cameras are back, circling like buzzards outside the stadium, behind the barricades at press events, even parked near the end of our street in cars with tinted windows and long lenses.

  Last week, a van was parked beyond the hedges. Same one from the day before. Different guy behind the wheel but the same hungry expression.

  They’ve followed me home, tracked me to restaurants, caught me outside my parents’ house. That was fine when it was only me, but now I’ve got a wife who’s carrying the most important thing I’ve ever done with my life.

  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.”

  “You’ve rewritten your story, Magnolia. You took all that pain and turned it into something beautiful. This baby is just the next chapter. And you’ll give him or her everything you never had. That’s not just good parenting… it’s healing as well.”

  “Thank you for trusting me to be your child’s mother.”

  I squeeze her hand, holding her gaze. “There’s no one on this earth I’d trust more than you.”

  I’ve seen her strength, her softness, her fire. She’s survived things that would’ve leveled anyone else, and still, she came out loving. Open-hearted. Brave. She’s the only woman in the world I’d ever want as the mother of my children.

  She blinks down at our joined hands, then back up. “What are you most excited about?”

  How the hell do I choose?

  I glance at her belly. “Meeting the mini version of you.”

  She smiles. “According to what I learned in biology, I think it’s fair to say this baby will probably look more like you and your dominant genes. And I’m more than all right with that.”

  I lean forward, nudging her foot under the table with mine. “If it’s a girl, I want her to have your eyes.”

  “Mmm… likely not, but we’ll see. Sometimes genetics do weird things.”

  Music drifts from the yacht’s speakers—something slow and old, made for swaying more than stepping. I stand and hold out a hand.

  “Dance with me, Mrs. Sebring.”

  She gives me a look that says she’s both amused and very pregnant. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.”

  I help her to her feet and pull her close, careful not to press too hard against her stomach. Our bodies don’t quite line up the way they used to, but I don’t care. She’s warm and beautiful and mine.

  We sway, slow and steady.

  “I was thinking about the first time we came out on this yacht––the weekend we cruised to Newcastle. That was before I knew who you were.”

  I kiss her hair. “That was when I was still trying to pretend that I wasn’t falling helplessly in love with you.”

  She laughs as her stomach bumps into me. “Okay, this isn’t working.”

  Magnolia twists in my arms, leaning her back against my front, and I wrap my arms around her from behind. One hand slides up to rest over her belly. The other drifts higher, fingers brushing over her swollen tits through the fabric of her dress.

  She melts into my arms, and I press a kiss just beneath her ear.

  “You know what I keep thinking about?”

  “Tell me.”

  “That night… on this deck… having you right here… on top of this table.”

  Her breath catches. “Yeah. We should do that again.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  She’s wearing a simple dress beneath the hoodie, one I love—soft and sleeveless. I tug both up and over her head in one smooth motion, letting them fall to the deck. Her knickers slide down her thighs. She steps out of them, bare now under the silver wash of moonlight and the soft flicker of fairy lights strung above us. She turns, her eyes catching mine in the dark.

  “You’re overdressed.”

  I undress myself, to make it easier on her, and my sweater comes off in one motion. The elastic waistband of my shorts gives way with a flick, leaving us skin to skin beneath the open sky.

  She lets out a startled squeak as her bare skin meets the table.

  “Cold?”

  “Yeah but not for long.”

  Soft light from the moon washes over us, while the gentle sway of the yacht is beneath our feet. The stars are out, clear and endless above us, and the hum of the sea is the only sound. I lean in, trying to recreate that perfect moment from our first weekend away together.

  She lies back, shifting to get comfortable. Then wiggles again.

  “Are you okay, babe?”

  “Definitely not,” she says.

  We both burst out laughing, discovering that pregnancy changes everything.

  “I’m sorry, Alex, I can’t. I feel like I’m being smothered. And my back is about to snap in half.”

  “It’s fine, favorite. Sex this late in the game is trickier than usual.”

  “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  She moves ahead of me, stepping below deck as I follow. Inside, the cabin is dim and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of the overhead sconces.

  I help her onto the bed, steadying her as she lies down on her side. I slip in behind her, molding my body to hers, chest to her back, hand sweeping over the curve of her hip.

  “Comfortable?” I ask, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

  She nods, scooting back into me. I bend her leg at the knee and lift it, sliding inside her with a slow, careful thrust from behind. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, don’t stop.”

  My hand glides down, fingers parting her slick folds, stroking in slow, steady circles—each pass synced with the rhythm of my hips. Every movement is for her. Every sound she makes, mine to chase.

  We move together—slow, aching, synced in every pulse and thrust. The rhythm isn’t rushed—it’s deliberate, a conversation shared between our bodies. She grinds her pelvis back against me, meeting every push with a glide of her own, her breath stuttering each time I sink deeper.

  Her fingers clutch the sheets, a soft gasp escaping her lips with every crest. I keep my hand steady, the pad of my thumb circling just right, drawing her higher. And when she shudders beneath me, her back arching, her body clenching tight around mine—I feel it like a ripple through my spine. Her climax takes over, and I follow her into it seconds later, a groan tearing from my throat as everything inside me unravels.

  She trembles against me, her fingers still fisting the sheets. Her moan is soft and breathless.

  I bury my face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in, letting the moment stretch. Letting the quiet hold us.

  For a long time, we don’t move. Just breathe. Just stay. And everything stills. The quiet swells around us, deep and full.

  We stay that way—entwined, spent, breathing each other in.

  My hand finds her belly and spreads wide across the life we’ve created.

  “My whole world,” I whisper into her hair.

  And it is. It always will be.

  She drifts off, breath warm and even, body soft against mine. I stay awake just a little longer, watching her sleep. Letting the hum of the yacht and the hush of the waves sear into my memory.

  This is the last time we’ll be out here this way—just us. No diapers. No cries in the night. No tiny socks turning up in strange places. No pitter-patter of small feet skidding across this very deck, laughter bouncing off the rails.

  But I can already see it. Feel it. The shift. The life we’re making room for.

  And somehow, even without having met this child yet, I already know—I’ll love that little heartbeat with everything I’ve got.

  She gave me peace.

  And now she’s giving me forever.

  Chapter 38

  Magnolia Sebring

  The energy in the stadium is electric—part nerves, part adrenaline, and a lot of hope. From the suite above the field, the roar of the crowd washes over us. I press a hand to the glass and search for Alex—steady and sure, eyes locked on the ball.

  Grand Final game.

  We made it.

  Or at least, I have. Still pregnant. Still intact. Still not in labor.

  Yet.

  Malie claps beside me, vibrating in her seat every time Alex touches the ball. “He’s on fire tonight,” she says, nudging Alexander, who responds with a proud grunt.

  I smile, trying to match their excitement. But beneath the flowy hem of my blouse, my hand drifts to the top of my belly again. Cramping. Persistent. Not unbearable—but more than simple nerves.

  It started this morning, dull and low. Now it’s sharper and more insistent.

  Still. This is the biggest game of my husband’s career. I won’t be the woman who cried labor over a few stubborn Braxton-Hicks contractions.

  I shift in my seat, inhale slowly, and try to focus on the field.

  The baby’s waited this long. He can wait a little longer.

  The pain sharpens halfway through the second quarter.

  It’s no longer mild cramping. It rolls through me in waves—low and sharp. I press my knees together and shift my weight, trying to breathe through it the way every birthing class told me to.

  But this isn’t a drill.

  Malie catches the movement, her brows furrowing. She leans closer. “Are you all right, lo’u afafine?”

  I nod. Lie. Then another pain hits, stealing the breath right out of my lungs, and I grab her wrist. “I think I might be in labor. But I’m not sure.”

  Her eyes widen, flicking to my belly, then back to my face. “How close together?”

  “They were every ten minutes or so. Now it’s more often––every five to six.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because this game is so important to Alex. If it’s false labor, I don’t want him walking off the field for nothing.”

  Malie looks at me, silent for a moment. Calculating. Then she nods. “All right. Let’s get up quietly and leave with no fuss.”

  She leans toward Alexander and murmurs something in his ear.

  He stiffens. “What’s going on?”

  “She might be in labor,” Malie says, calm as ever. “We need the car.”

  Alexander blinks once, then lets out a quiet “Bloody hell,” under his breath. “Right. I’m on it,” he says, standing. “I’ll swing the car around. Don’t let her give birth to our grandchild in the elevator.”

  I glance at the other wives, the press staff, the retired players sipping drinks in the corner. No one notices as Malie helps me to my feet. We walk, not making a sound.

  “We should send word to Alex,” she says once we’re in the hallway.

  “No, not yet. Let’s get to the hospital. If this is the real thing, I promise I won’t let him miss it. But if it’s not––”

  “He won’t be happy about this.”