Chapter 25
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 and bring 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.
The bell rings, and he comes out fast, just like Mack predicted. Heavy hands. Forward pressure. He wants to test my jaw early and make a statement. I give him angles instead. Footwork. Distance. Let him expend energy while I reserve mine.
He throws a right that whistles past my cheek. I counter punch, connecting with his body, then pivot away. The crowd roars at every exchange, but I stay measured. Discipline has been my focus for weeks. Discipline over emotion. Discipline over pride.
Midway through the first round, he lands a grazing hook. It’s not clean, but it’s loud enough to make the audience gasp. I feel the sting, welcome it, and let it sharpen me. I’ve learned to not only accept the pain but to lean into it. The bite from his punch only makes me more dangerous.
Between rounds, Mack leans in close. “He’s frustrated. Don’t rush. Break him down.”
Round two, he tries to lean on me, tie me up, and use his weight to control me. I feel the difference in mass when he presses forward, but I’ve trained for that. I work his ribs. Short shots. Inside damage. Nothing flashy.
Across the ring, I can see her every time we separate. She isn’t flinching. That steadiness does more for me than any pep talk.
Round three, he connects clean. A hard right catches my jaw and snaps my head sideways. For a split second, the arena lights blur, and the sound becomes distant, like I’m underwater.
And in that brief haze, something shifts in me.
In my mind’s eye, I see a fifteen-year-old girl standing in a doorway, holding a knife in shaking hands because no one else would protect a child.
I straighten, instantly ready to go again. When he steps in again, expecting me to wobble, I meet him head-on. The rest of the round changes tone. I stop circling. I start dictating. I’ve always fought to finish the exchange.
After a left hook to his liver, he exhales sharply.
I see it—the flaw Mack has driven out of me.
He hesitates, for only a split second, but his hesitation reveals a weakness in his game.
I follow with a right cross that snaps his head back.
The crowd rises to its feet, and the noise increases exponentially.
By round four, his aggression has thinned into desperation.
He’s swinging wider now, chasing something that isn’t there.
I stay compact. Controlled. Efficient. Hours upon hours of Mack’s voice and training techniques pay off.
Mack’s teaching me how to control the fight, something Reynolds couldn’t give me. I can see that now.
The opening I’ve waited for comes not because he’s weak, but because he’s impatient. I slip inside his jab and drive a hook to the body that folds him just enough. When he bends, I bring the uppercut straight through the middle.
He drops to the mat. The sound of it is dull and final. Confusion is etched in his features. The only factor driving him to move is his training. It seeps into the subconscious and takes over when the mind can’t think for itself.
The referee begins the count. The arena vibrates around us, thousands of voices merging into one sustained roar.
Seven.
He tries to push up.
Eight.
He tries to push up from one knee.
Nine.
His legs betray him.
Ten.
It’s over.
The referee lifts my hand. Mack is shouting. Shane is pounding the apron. Brandon nearly vaults the ropes before security catches him.
But I’m not looking at any of them. I’m only looking at her.
She’s standing now, not cheering wildly, not waving. Just watching me like she knew this outcome was inevitable. I step through the ropes before anyone can redirect me. Cameras follow, flashing white bursts into my vision.
When I reach her, I don’t hesitate. I pull her into me and kiss her. Not for show. Not for the cameras. Because I want the world to see exactly where I stand.
The reaction is immediate. Some cheer. Some boo. Reporters shout questions, their microphones crowding closer. “Luke, do you stand by her despite the allegations she’s unfit to oversee vulnerable minors?”
I don’t release her as I turn toward the reporter with the camera in our face. My arm slides around her waist, glove and all, and she lays her hand on my forearm as I pull her close against my body.
“Yes,” I say. Clear. Direct. Unqualified.
Her fingers tighten around my arm.
For a brief moment, the chaos fades. The arena, the press, the politics. It’s just her breathing against my chest and the certainty that I made the right choice.
On the other side of the ring, I see a man who obviously doesn’t belong here. He’s wearing an expensive black suit, and he’s watching us intently as he lowers his phone.
Then Andi’s phone vibrates.
She glances down, her expression shifting in a way I recognize instantly. It’s not fear written across her face. It’s realization. She answers without stepping away from me. Then I watch her face change as she listens, and my stomach drops.
“What?” she whispers.
The crowd is still roaring, oblivious.
She lowers the phone slowly and looks up at me.
“They’ve opened an investigation,” she says quietly. “About whether I disclosed my prior psychiatric confinement since I work with vulnerable youth.”
The noise of the arena suddenly feels hollow.
I just won a fight. And walked straight into a war.