My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and find another photo from Theo in the family group chat. This one’s Emma asleep on the couch with Clara tucked against her chest, Chloe curled up on the other side, and Gus wedged in at their feet, all four of them out cold. Theo’s captioned it “My whole world” with a heart emoji, and the replies are already rolling in from Maren, Lark, and my brothers.
Emma went into labor the night before we left. I drove over before my flight to meet my newest niece, only staying a few minutes since they’re keeping visitors brief while her immune system is still fragile, but it was enough. Enough to see Clara’s tiny scrunched face with a tuft of red hair, and Chloe glued to Emma’s side, already whispering to Clara about all the things they’re going to do together.
I send back a quick reply, pocket my phone, and turn back to the window.
New York stretches out in every direction, that jagged skyline glittering against the dark. And somewhere in that endless sprawl of lights and concrete, Brooke Bennett is probably in some sleek apartment with a view just as good as this one, doing whatever it is she does when she’s not making my life difficult.
I haven’t seen her since the charity gala, but she’s been burning at the edges of my thoughts ever since, a distraction I can’t shake no matter how hard I try. And now I’m in her city, breathing her air, and I hate how much that thought gets under my skin.
I stand there longer than I should, staring out at the lights, before I force myself to turn away and start unpacking.
The next three days blur together in a haze of appointments and obligations, with media sessions where Roman says all the right things while I hover just out of frame, photo ops and weigh-in rehearsals and endless hallway conversations with people whose names I forget the second they walk away. Roman handles it all like he was born for this, and I start to let myself believe we might actually pull this off.
On the third day, we’re at a press event in one of the hotel ballrooms, the typical kind of conference room with chandeliers and carpet patterns designed to hide stains.
Herrera’s team is doing their media availability at a long table up front while we wait for Roman’s slot, the room packed with cameras and reporters and the usual fight week chaos of people who all seem very important and very busy.
I’m going over Roman’s talking points one more time, making sure he remembers not to say anything that’ll end up as a headline his mother will call to yell at him about, when he nudges me with his elbow.
“Hey,” he says, nodding toward the press section. “There’s Brooke.”
I lift my head and my whole body goes tight.
The press section is packed with reporters, maybe thirty or forty people crammed together with their phones and recorders and lanyards, but my eyes find her instantly like she’s the only person in the room. She’s near the front, holding her phone up to record something Herrera’s coach is saying, wearing a cream-colored blouse and dark fitted pants, her hair falling in loose waves around her face, and she stands out in that crowd like she’s lit from within.
I force my eyes back to the talking points.
“Yup,” I say flatly. “There she is.”
“We should go say hi,” Roman says.
“I don’t think we need to do that.” I flip to the next page of his media packet like it contains something urgent.
“It’s basic decency, Dom. She’s covering me. A little goodwill goes a long way.” He’s using his reasonable voice.
“Focus on your talking points,” I tell him. “You’re up in ten minutes.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Roman says, and I can already tell from his tone that I’m not going to like where this is going.
“Dangerous habit,” I mutter.
He ignores me completely. “I believe that she didn’t know her editor was going to publish that article.”
I flip a page I’ve already read three times. “Did she get you a fruit basket or something?”
“Oh my god, a rare Dominic Midnight joke. Mr. Serious actually has a sense of humor buried in there somewhere.” He clutches his chest in mock astonishment. “Somebody mark the calendar.”
“I allow myself one joke a year. Don’t get used to it.”
“Yeah, well, no fruit basket yet,” Roman says, grinning. “But I thought she was nice. And I kinda think you thought so too, even though you’d rather chew glass than admit it.”
I look up and narrow my eyes at him. “Have you been talking to Alex?”
Roman’s face scrunches in confusion. “What? No. What does this have to do with Alex?”
“Never mind.” I look back down at my papers. “I’m just surprised you’re so forgiving, considering her article made your fight ten times harder. Herrera’s camp has been using thatfootage breakdown to adjust their whole strategy. All of that came straight from her notes.”
“I mean, yeah, it sucked,” Roman says, shrugging. “But she said it wasn’t her fault. Her editor sounds like a massive dick. Plus she texted me that really nice apology.” He takes a swig from his water bottle. “Anyway, holding onto that kind of stuff takes energy I’d rather put somewhere else. Life’s too short, you know?”
