“You take care of yourself too, Bennett,” he says.
He reaches out and cups my face one more time, his hands warm against my tear-stained cheeks. He pulls me in for a kiss that’s deep and fierce and full of everything we can’t say, every word we’ll never get to speak, every future we’ll never get to have. I kiss him back just as desperately, pouring all my grief and love and longing into it, trying to give him something to remember me by. Until we finally pull apart.
“Goodbye, Dominic,” I manage, and my voice breaks on his name.
He stands there, tall and solid and breaking right in front of me, and his voice is low when he says, “Goodbye, Brooke.”
I turn and walk toward my gate, my bag over my shoulder, my boarding pass clutched in my trembling hand. My vision blurs with tears but I keep walking, one foot in front of the other, because if I stop I’ll never start again.
I don’t look back. I can’t look back. Because if I do, I’ll run to him and abandon everything. Forget the life I’ve built, the careerI’ve sacrificed so much for. Forget all the reasons this can’t work for either of us.
CHAPTER 27
Dominic
The UFC wants Roman in Vegas for a title defense in March, and I’m reading through the email for the third time, trying to focus on the details that matter: the proposed opponent, the weight class logistics, the timeline for promotional obligations.
Instead I’m staring at the screen and seeing her face.
I haven’t heard from her since Mexico City. The silence between us feels permanent now, like a door that’s already swung shut and locked behind her.
I close the email and open it again, forcing myself to actually read the words. They blur together so I just close it.
I push back from the desk and rub my hands over my face, trying to focus on something other than the ache in my chest that won’t seem to fade no matter how many bags I hit or spreadsheets I review. I pull out my phone and check the family group chat, scrolling through the messages I missed yesterday.
Maren sent a photo of Calvin and Mateo in what looks like a half-finished nursery, both of them splattered with pale yellow paint and grinning. Her latest appointment went well, morningsickness finally easing up. Theo’s contributed a video of Clara asleep on his chest, captioned with approximately fifteen heart emojis. Alex has replied with a string of messages demanding more baby content. Jack’s sent a voice memo from somewhere in Europe that I still need to listen to.
My family is thriving. Roman’s got a title defense lined up. The gym is busier than it’s ever been. By any measure, life is good. It really is. But none of it seems to matter as much as it should when I can’t stop thinking about her.
A knock on the doorframe pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look up to find Benjamin Sterling standing there with a folder tucked under his arm.
Ben’s handled contracts and negotiations for the gym for almost a decade now, and when Roman started generating serious attention, it made sense to have him take on the career management side too. He’s based in Seattle, but he’s been in Dark River all week going over the flood of opportunities that have come in since Mexico City.
“Got a minute?” he asks. “Something came up I think you’re going to want to see.”
“Sure,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “What’s going on?”
He settles into the chair across from my desk, crossing one ankle over his knee. The folder stays in his lap for now, which means he wants to set something up before he shows me whatever’s inside.
“You know that I’ve been taking calls since Mexico City,” he begins, his voice easy but his eyes sharp. “The sponsorship offers for Roman, partnership inquiries, licensing deals, media requests, the whole flood of noise that happens after a title win. Most of it I can handle myself.”
“But?” I prompt, because there’s clearly a but coming. Ben doesn’t show up with folders for routine updates.
“But this one...” He uncrosses his legs and leans forward to set the folder on my desk, tapping it twice with his index finger. “This one is different from the rest. Not about Roman at all, actually. This one’s about you.”
I raise an eyebrow but don’t reach for the folder yet. “Me.”
“You,” he confirms. “Specifically, Midnight Boxing. Specifically, expansion.”
A flicker of interest cuts through the fog I’ve been moving through for two weeks. He slides the folder closer and I flip it open, scanning the first page.
The name at the top makes me pause mid-breath. Oren Castellanos. I know that name from industry publications, from the business side of fitness that I try to stay aware of even when I’m neck-deep in training schedules and fight prep. He’s built half a dozen boutique fitness empires across the country, each one more successful than the last.
He’s the investor whose projects come with eight-figure budgets and membership waitlists before they even break ground. The kind of money that operates in a completely different stratosphere from anything I’ve ever touched.
“Castellanos wants to back a gym,” Ben says, watching my face as I read. “Not Roman’s brand.Yours. Midnight Boxing, second location. He’s got two other investors lined up to come in with him, serious people with deep pockets, and between the three of them they’re offering full funding for build-out. You wouldn’t need to put up anything beyond first-year operating costs. They cover construction, equipment, lease negotiations, all of it.”
I look up from the page. “Why me? Why now?”
