“Savannah Monroe lied,” I say flatly. “She used her proximity to me to create a scandal that doesn’t exist. We were in a relationship years ago, when she lied about certain things... about having my child. But we’re not together now. There was no ongoing affair. The messages she leaked were carefully edited or completely fabricated. And I have the evidence to prove it.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. The reporters eat it up, but they’re not who I care about.
I pause, scan the people behind the barricade. Locals. Strangers. Employees. A few familiar faces.
And then I see her.
Mayor Willa standing toward the back of the crowd, arms folded, lips pressed into a line. Our eyes meet.
She doesn’t smile.
But she gives me a small, slow nod of support.
That one gesture almost cracks me in half.
I grip the edge of the podium to keep my hands from shaking. “The only story that matters now is the truth,” I say, quieter. “And the truth is I fell in love with someone unexpected. Someone who challenged me. Someone who saw through all the walls I built and called me out when I tried to hide behind them.”
A beat of silence.
“Her name is Josie Dawson.”
I hear the gasp ripple through the crowd. I don’t flinch.
“She’s not just some woman I dated. She’s the woman who changed my life. She’s the one who reminded me who I am, outside of fame, outside of football, outside of failure.”
I swallow. Hard. “And she’s carrying my children.”
The press explodes again, questions shouted, lenses zoomed, but I lift my hand and they quiet.
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” I say, my voice low and steady. “I don’t expect applause. I’m not here to sell a comeback. I’m here to take responsibility. And to say, as clearly as I can, that I love Josie. And I will spend the rest of my life making that truth louder than any lie.”
The wind kicks up again, sharp and cold. I let it hit me. Let it strip away what’s left.
I step back from the mic.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m finally standing in my own skin.
Not the ex-NFL star. Not the scandal. Not the ghost of a man hiding in his kitchen.
Just me.
Knox Knightly.
Man in love.
Father to be.
Willing to fight for what matters, no matter how late it is.
By the time the press clears out and Jace claps me on the back with a silent “Well done,” my phone is already ringing.
Gracie.
I pick up on the first ring. “Please tell me she saw it.”
“She did,” Gracie says, but her voice is tight. Cautious.
“What did she say?”
