I’m still here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LUKE
Fight night has always carried its own gravity, but this one feels different. The locker room is louder than usual, not in volume but in tension. Every noise carries more weight, as if the air itself is thickening. The slap of tape. The tear of gauze. The scrape of metal benches shifting against concrete.
Mack wraps my hands with steady, practiced movements. He’s done this hundreds of times, but tonight he doesn’t rush. He pulls the tape tight, checks my knuckles twice, then looks up at me as if he’s measuring something beyond my pulse.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod. Physically, I’m more than ready. Six weeks of brutal conditioning. Controlled sparring. Film study. Roadwork before sunrise. I’ve never walked into a fight better prepared.
But preparation doesn’t silence noise.
And tonight, the noise isn’t just inside the arena.
Brandon stands near the doorway, scrolling through his phone. He hesitates before speaking, which tells me the headline isn’t good.
“They’ve got protest signs outside,” he says carefully. “Mostly small groups. Cameras are picking it up.”
I don’t need to ask what the signs say.
Andi’s name has been circulating for weeks. The hospital photos. The “unstable heiress” narrative. The gossip about the youth center. The political machine doesn’t move quickly, but when it does, it moves deliberately. Each attack is a new wave, carefully orchestrated to build precisely the momentum they want.
Shane pushes off the wall and steps closer. “You want her in the back?”
“No.” My answer comes immediately.
She doesn’t hide. And I don’t hide her.
Mack finishes the wrap and presses his palm against my shoulder. “Then you stay focused. He’s coming in aggressively. He wants a highlight reel knockout.”
“Let him try,” I say.
But even as I say it, I know this fight isn’t just about rankings anymore.
The walk to the ring is a tunnel of light and noise. Music vibrates through the floor, bass echoing up through my legs. The crowd is on its feet. Some are chanting my name. Some are booing. A few voices cut through with something uglier.
“Stand by your girl now!”
“Hope she doesn’t stab anyone!”
Shane stiffens beside me, but I keep moving.
And then I see her. Front row. No sunglasses. No attempt to disappear.
Her posture is calm, but I know her well enough to see the tension in her shoulders. Cameras are angled toward her as much as they are toward me. Every reaction she makes is being recorded.
I stop before stepping through the ropes. The crowd thinks I’m playing to them. I’m not. I lean over the barricade andbring my forehead to hers. The world narrows to the space between us.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
Her hand slides against my cheek. “Win,” she says.
That’s it. No speech. No drama. Just her demonstration of complete confidence in me.
I climb into the ring with the confidence of the woman I love fully in my corner. I’ve already won.
