Chapter 23
ROMAN
I don’t sleep. Again.
The house is too quiet and too loud at the same time.
Every creak of the floorboards sounds like judgment.
Every tick of the clock is like a countdown to something I can’t stop.
I sit on the edge of the guest bed—my bed now, apparently—staring at the cracks in my knuckles, at the bruise forming across the bridge of my hand.
Adam didn’t fight back.
I wanted him to. God, I wanted him to hit me so I could justify breaking his face. But all he did was defend her and ask if she was okay. Like he was the good guy in all of this.
He probably was. But she’s fucking mine to defend.
I glance at the clock. 6:12 AM. It’s still dark outside.
But I hear Ava somewhere downstairs, padding around the kitchen like this is any other day. Like we didn’t obliterate our marriage and burn everything in our wake.
I walk downstairs barefoot, the chill of the floor grounding me. The living room is scattered with forgotten toys and folded laundry. It looks so normal, but it’s not.
She’s standing at the counter pouring coffee into a pale pink mug, her robe cinched tight, her hair in a braid over her shoulder.
I used to make her that morning coffee she loves so much.
She doesn’t look at me or acknowledge me at all. She just takes her coffee and walks out of the kitchen like I don’t even exist.
And I don’t stop her.
Because what the fuck would I even say?
I make my own coffee and sit at the table, trying to swallow it past the stone lodged in my throat. My phone buzzes beside me, screen lighting up with a new notification from TMZ.
I click it.
Ava Muller breaks silence in an empowering podcast interview.
I nearly drop the phone.
What the actual fuck?
There’s a photo of her—new, taken just yesterday judging by the timestamp. She’s sitting in a studio, wearing a tight pink dress. She looks fucking stunning. Her smile isn’t big, but it’s confident. The headline scrolls below it.
Femme & Fierce: Ava Muller Talks Reclaiming Power, Motherhood, and Moving On.
My heart punches my ribs from the inside.
Moving on?
She did it—she’s talking, and she didn’t even consult me. She knows my career is in ruins, and she did this regardless.
Tough, you deserve it all.
No one hates me more than me.
I tap play on the clip embedded in the article.
"I think when your whole world falls apart, you have two choices: you let it crush you, or you build something new from the wreckage. I picked up my daughter’s toys one night and realized I hadn’t smiled in days. That’s when I knew I needed to change everything."
Her voice is soft. She sounds…relaxed, and free.
Like she’s already forgotten me.
The interviewer laughs. "And now you're going viral for empowering women who've been cheated on. How does that feel?"
Ava’s reply is laced with quiet strength. "It feels like I'm finally in control. That I can help someone else feel less alone. And if that makes me a problem for certain men..."—a pause—"then good."
Fuck.
I slam my phone face-down, heart thudding.
The world is watching this unfold in real time. They’re not watching Roman the Quarterback anymore. They’re watching the man who lost everything because he cheated on his wife. The man who attacked someone in public. The man whose wife became an icon while he spiralled.
And it gets worse.
I check my email.
Subject: ACTION REQUIRED – League Conduct Violation Suspension
I skim it. Two games, no pay. A warning lodged on my record.
Then the text from Mitch:
Are you seeing this influencer fallout? Your girl torpedoed that woman. Text leaks, brands dropping her like she’s radioactive. Ava’s not just getting even—she’s setting the world on fire.
My hands shake.
It was her.
The messages—those goddamn messages. They were on my phone. Ava must’ve pulled them, timed their release. She wrecked Annie like a fucking hurricane, and she didn’t even flinch.
I can’t breathe.
But a tiny part of me feels proud.
Because Ava Muller is a goddamn storm, and I used to be the one who got to love her.
That afternoon, the world continues to cave in around me.
My agent calls. Again.
“Roman, you’ve got reporters camped out at your gym. Paparazzi took photos of you walking out. You looked like shit, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“They want a statement. Something apologetic. Something contrite.”
“I’m not giving them anything.”
He groans. “Roman?—”
“I said no.”
He hangs up.
My phone buzzes again. This time from a former teammate.
Yo, what the fuck, man? They’re saying you beat the shit out of that guy for no reason. Ava’s gone psycho. You're trending for all the wrong reasons.
I stare at the message and delete it.
No one fucking understands.
I didn’t hit him for no reason . I hit him because he was touching my wife.
Even if she’s not really mine anymore.
I go for a run, trying to outrun the noise in my head, but it follows me. The chants. The headlines. The photos. The image imprinted in my fucking mind of her kissing him. The knowledge that she’s out there rebuilding her life, and I’m fucking drowning.
When I get back, my legs are lead and my lungs are raw.
Ava is in the living room, watching Poppy’s favourite cartoon. She doesn’t look at me or acknowledge the sweat dripping from my jaw or the look of absolute devastation on my face.
She just picks up the remote and adjusts the volume so Poppy can hear better.
I go upstairs and scream into a pillow until my voice goes hoarse.
That night, I sit on the floor outside her bedroom door like a goddamn dog.
I don’t knock or say a word. I just sit there.
Because I have nothing else left.
And I’m hoping—praying—that maybe, somehow, she’ll remember who I used to be.
Across town, Annie posts a story trying to cry again. Her mascara runs too perfectly. The comments light up with more venom.
Take some accountability.
So you’re only sorry because you got caught?
Enjoy irrelevance.
Another brand drops her. Then another. A story leaks that she’s been evicted from her luxury rental.
She posts a long caption about healing and growth and boundaries, but the comments don’t believe her.
She even texts me:
Annie: SAY SOMETHING! FUCKING HELP ME, YOUR WIFE IS A PSYCHO!
What does she expect me to do? My empire has fallen too. But unlike her, I’m beyond caring. I don’t want anything if I don’t have Ava.
I fucking block her. I should’ve blocked her a long time ago.
Ava doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.
She just keeps smiling that quiet, dangerous smile of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
And I realize something: She’s not just moving on.
She’s loving this.
And I’m not even part of her world anymore.
By the end of the week, I’m unrecognizable.
The media dubs it "Roman Muller’s Fall from Grace." Even my mother texts me.
Maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist. I’m so disappointed in you, Roman, but for Poppy’s sake, you need to be stronger than this.
Gee, thanks, Mom.
The final blow comes in the form of a team email.
We are disappointed in your recent conduct. The board is considering further action if the behavior continues.
My position isn’t guaranteed anymore.
I am one more scandal away from being cut, and for the first time in my entire life, I can’t fight it or charm my way out.
Because I already lost the one person who ever made me want to be better.
And now I’m just a shitty example of what happens when you fuck everything up.
I lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, wondering if Ava is still awake.
If she’s thinking about me or if she ever will again.