I need to see the black dress. I need to see those red lips. I need to know she’s still looking at me the way she did before the bell rang—like I’m the only man on earth.
A microphone gets shoved into my face. The ring interviewer—Jim, a guy I’ve known for a decade—is yelling over the crowd.
“Ben! An absolute war tonight! You promised us a spectacle for the grand finale, and you delivered! Now that the final bell has rung, how does it feel? Any second thoughts about walking away while you’re on top?”
The crowd quiets slightly, waiting. They expect me to waver. They expect the adrenaline to make me reconsider.
I grab the mic.
“No second thoughts,” I say. My voice is rough, a deep rumble that booms through the arena speakers. “I said this was the last one. I meant it.”
Jim nods, playing to the crowd.
“It’s a sad day for the sport, Ben. What’s next for The Mountain? Hollywood? Coaching? You’re a young man.”
I scan the VIP section, ignoring Jim entirely.
And then I see her.
She’s making her way down the aisle toward the barricade, Charlotte guiding her through the crush. She looks small amidst the chaos, her hands pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide and shining. That black dress clings to her curves—my curves—like a second skin.
I lock eyes with her, and the air leaves my lungs.
“I’m going home,” I say into the mic, my eyes never leaving hers. “I found the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. And I have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
The crowd explodes. Cheers, whistles, shocked laughter at my bluntness.
“Well!” Jim stammers, caught off guard. “You heard it here first, folks! The Champ is trading gloves for a wedding ring! Let’s hear it for Ben Mitchell!”
I drop the mic. It hits the canvas with a heavy thud.
I don’t wait for the officials to clear the exit. I don’t wait for Koda to unlace my gloves. Every second I’m not touching her is a second I’m vibrating with agitation.
I stride to the ropes and vault over them, ignoring the steps entirely. I land on the concrete floor with a heavy impact, startling the ringside photographers.
The reporters swarm me like gnats. Microphones and cameras shoved in my face, blocking my path to the barricade.
“Ben! Ben, over here! One photo!”
“Ben, who is she?”
“Ben, just one comment on?—”
“Move,” I growl, shouldering past a cameraman who gets too close. Security tries to form a wedge, but I don’t need them. I’m a tank. I’m a force of nature. And nothing—absolutely nothing—is getting between me and Tilly.
I push through the mob, my eyes fixed on the target.
She’s at the barricade now, clutching her purse, her eyes searching for me through the wall of media. I reach the barrier and vault over it in one smooth motion, landing inches from her.
The world stops.
She looks up at me. I know what she sees—my eye is cut, there’s blood smeared across my chest, and I’m drenched in sweat. I smell like violence and iron and adrenaline. I am a mess.
But she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t step back.
She reaches up, her cool, soft hand cupping my jaw. The touch grounds me instantly. It quiets the noise in my head. She smiles at me, teary and shaking and beautiful.
“You won,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
