I am not done fighting back—and I promise, I will not stay silent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ANDI
When I walk into the gym, the number of people inside suddenly overwhelms me. Camera flashes are going off everywhere, and video cameras and microphones are being shoved in every direction. People are crowding me from all sides. Then the questions they’re asking finally register in my brain. They’re not directed at me. They’re not about me. They’re not taking pictures of me. In fact, they’re pushing me out of the way.
They’re going after Shane.
What. The. Hell. Is.Happening?
A cold prickling starts in the back of my mind—a portent of something I can't shake as the chaos tightens around Shane. It doesn't feel like random press or viral rumor. This is targeted, precise, and calculated to wound. Even in the noise, some distant, old memory rises: the way Rhoades once stood at a window, back turned, speaking of how the world is divided into two types—those who keep their legacy intact and those who have it stolen.
He never said so out loud, but I remember the bitterness lingering in his eyes every time he mentioned his brother, the one who lost everything, and how it haunted him at night. For Rhoades, power isn't just about control—it's about defending what he believes he was owed. Twisted as it is, I wonder who he lost that made him build his kingdom from shadows and threats, all to keep from feeling small or forgotten. For a split second, the menace outside grows teeth—and a shadow of something resembling desperation.
“Shane! Shane! Is it true you’ve lost eligibility for the title fight because of steroid use?”
“Are the allegations true?”
“Will you submit to more federation testing?”
Questions are being fired at Shane one after another. Even though I’m looking in the same direction as everyone else, I can’t find Shane. Or Mack. Or Luke. I start elbowingmy way through the crowd to get to the front. Shane is in the ring with all his gear on, still practicing and sparring as if no one else is here. Mack is standing to the side of the ring, watching me approach. He’s not happy at all.
Shane finishes his regular workout and exits the ring on the opposite side of the chaos. I turn and start ordering people out of the gym unless they have a paid membership. Will walks up and starts pushing the crowd toward the doors. When I threaten to call the police and have them arrested for trespassing, they begrudgingly leave the building and wait on the outskirts of the parking lot. Then I head in the direction Shane went to find out what happened.
Shane is unwrapping his hands when I walk into the locker room. “Shane, what is going on? What’s happened?”
He doesn’t look up when he answers, “The federation said my last drug test came back positive for illegal steroid use. They’ve blocked me from continuing my title fight run until this has been cleared up—one way or another.”
“Shane, this is my fault. I need to leave. I need to get away from you before I completely ruin your career and Mack's." I don't even know what else to say.“I'm sorry I destroyed your chance at a title fight,”just doesn’t seem to coverit.
Shane roars and slams his bare fist into the metal locker, the clang echoing through the gym. Blood smears across the steel, bright and shocking against the dull gray. Years of discipline, sacrifice, and pain end here—not because he failed, but because someone decided he should.
All of it—his training, his record, his future—wiped out by charges so flimsy they would’ve collapsed under scrutiny. Charges Jackson conjured with a few well-placed calls, a quiet favor owed, and a system that bends when the right hands apply pressure. The same charges he could erase just as easily if I gave him whatever it is he wants.
One thing is painfully clear: Jackson never moves alone. There are donors who bankroll the silence, advisors who shape the narrative, consultants who know exactly which lever to pull and when. They never appear on campaign posters, never give speeches—but they decide who rises and who is erased.
Now he’s turning that machine on the only family I’ve ever known.
When the sounds of the gym finally settle back into their familiar rhythm, I slip out quietly. There’s nothing I can say that will soften what Shane has just lost. He needs time—space—to absorb how thoroughly a political system can dismantle a life without ever raising its voice. Watching him lose everything he bled for tears something loose inside me.
Coming after me is one thing. Targeting the center is expected. But dragging anyone even remotely connected to me into this smear campaign is calculated cruelty—collateral damage meant to send a message.
I shouldn’t be surprised. In politics, truth has always mattered less than the story people are willing to believe. And Jackson has never been interested in truth—only power. How much he holds. How much others don’t.
I find myself wondering who he was before he learned how intoxicating that imbalance could be—before power became his personal drug and restraint disappeared. But that’s how deception survives. It rarely announces itself. The real destruction happens quietly, behind closed doors, while everyone else is distracted by the spectacle.
I’ve been invited to appear on a major morning talk show—one of those programs that claims to want the truth, but I know how quickly the narrative can shift. The thought of sitting under those bright studio lights, my words dissected and spun, makes my stomach twist. Still, as I drive home, headlights blurring past in the rain, I realize I’m done letting fear dictate my choices.
By the time I pull into the driveway, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll go on the show next week, no matter what angle they’re hoping for. I want my voice heard, even if it means stepping into the lion’s den. And after that, I’m going to confront Jackson Rhoades directly. I need toknow what he wants from me—so I can finally put an end to this.
The house is quiet when I walk in, and for a moment, I think that’s what unsettles me. No television. No refrigerator hum. No distant echo from the street outside.
Just stillness.
I drop my purse onto the counter and brace both hands against the granite, trying to push back the noise in my own head. Shane’s face. The reporters. The questions. The way everything connected back to me, whether it should or not.
“Andi.”
