My eyes dart to his and widen.
“I can’t,” I breathe.
His movements pause. “What?”
I swallow thickly, even as my certainty solidifies. “I can’t do this,” I say, stronger this time.
To his credit, he looks concerned. “Are you…alright?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “No, I’m not. I am so far from alright.”
His expression shifts to confusion, but I don’t have time to explain. Grabbing my purse, I spin toward the exit. “I’m sorry about this. I’ll have the agency call you.”
The door has barely shut behind me when I’m pulling out my phone.
“Amara? We need to talk.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
SCARLETT
My stomach is a twisted knot of anxiety by the time I step into the arena.
It’s packed, the crowd so thick that I’d be surprised if it isn’t sold out. Which means if Nico didn’t leave me a ticket, I have no way of getting inside.Is my gesture still romantic if I watch from my phone at the arena ticket booth?
I try not to think too much while I stand in the Will Call line. And when I reach the front, I only allow myself one deep breath before asking, “Hi, is there a ticket for Scarlett Adler?”
The worker only grunts in response and turns toward his computer screen, his fingers tapping away on the keyboard. I don’t breathe the entire time he searches. But then…
“Yup, one ringside ticket for Scarlett Adler.”
My breath whooshes out of me.He kept his promise. He really does want me here.
I send the employee a grateful smile as I take the paper ticket from his hand. It takes me a few minutes to walk to my section, and another few minutes to wait for the hordes of people to find their seats.
Finally, I settle into my seat. I did enough research to know Nico is the co-main event tonight, so I’m not surprised that having his ticket puts me two rows behind the judges and event staff. I’m so close to the cage, I can see the blood stain on the mat.
Nerves once again flood my body at the thought that it could be Nico’s blood later.
I suck in a deep breath, forcing myself to remember that Nico is a professional, that he’s really good at what he does. That if I want to support him—bewith him—I need to trust him.
“First fight?”
Turning, I take in the sight of the older woman beside me. She’s smiling at me, and I get the sense that she’s trying to be reassuring.
“It’s always worse in your head, don’t worry,” she says comfortingly.
I return a tremulous smile. “Was I that obvious?”
She chuckles. “It’s not you. I’ve just been in the world for a long time, so I can spot the newcomers.”
Curiosity replaces some of my anxiety. “Do you know a fighter? Or did you fight?”
A loud bark of laughter comes from the older man sitting on the other side of her.
The woman rolls her eyes. “Ignore him. He’s laughing because I’m famous in our family for crying over killing spiders.” Her expression sobers. “My son is a fighter. We’ve attended every single one of his fights, which is a lot of fights over the years.”
Just then, a deafening cheer rolls through the crowd. All around me, drunk fans are screaming and pointing at the TVs in the arena.
