45. Loser.
I'm supposed to be at his match right now.
Front row, hands clasped tight. Heart racing every time the bell rings. I'm supposed to watch him win, watch the crowd erupt, watch him scan the arena until his eyes land on me and then watch him run to me like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
That was the plan.
Instead, I'm sitting on the edge of my bed. Yeah, my bed.
I'm not at our penthouse.
My house feels empty and not safe especially after that stalker incident.
The room is quiet in that awful, suffocating way. My ballet bag is still by the door, shoes half-unzipped, like even they're confused about why I'm here. My ankle throbs dully, not unbearable, just enough to remind me of the choice I made.
I twisted it during rehearsal cause of a wrong landing and a sharp flare of pain that made Madame Dubois narrow her eyes and insist I get it checked.
I was supposed to be at the hospital right now.
I couldn't be the reason he didn't step into that ring. Couldn't be the thing that pulled him away from the one place he's fought his whole life to stand in. So I smiled, nodded, said I was fine. Told everyone I'd go get it checked later.
I told myself he'd never know.
That he'd win. That he'd be happy. That I'd be watching from a screen somewhere, heart in my throat, cheering quietly.
That he'd still have his title.
I reach for my phone finally, and switch it on.
The screen lights up.
My breath leaves me all at once.
And a text.
My chest tightens painfully as I open it.
Call me when you see this.
Why was he calling me so much?
My thumb hovers over his name as guilt crashes over me in waves. I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to answer. I was supposed to see him before the match, kiss his knuckles, tell him to come back to me in one piece.
I swallow hard.
What if he needed me and I wasn't there?
What if something happened?
My phone buzzes.
I assume, no, I hope it's Xavier.
But the name at the top of the screen makes my stomach drop.
For a second, I just stare at it. The digits look familiar in the worst way, like a half-remembered nightmare. I know this number. I know I do. But it isn't saved in my phone.
My heart stops.
Why is he texting me here? Why why why.
Another message pops up before I can even process the first.
My breath stutters.
Cold spreads through my chest, sharp and immediate.
"What?" I whisper aloud.
Xavier's place.
My pulse crashes violently in my ears as I bolt upright.
My fingers curl around the phone so tightly it hurts.
Shit.
Another buzz.
I grab my jacket, my keys, barely registering the dull ache in my ankle as I force my foot into my shoes. My hands are shaking now, adrenaline drowning out everything else—logic, caution, common sense.
Xavier's place.
If he's there. If he knows about it.
I'm already moving before I finish the thought.
The elevator ride feels endless, every floor ticking by like a countdown. I keep checking my phone, half-expecting another message, half-dreading it. None comes. The silence is worse.
By the time I reach the street, my breath is shallow, my chest tight. I hail a cab without thinking, rattling off the address
The city blurs past the windows as my mind races.
I hope he understands, I hope I can make him stay.
When the cab finally stops, I'm out before the driver can even finish speaking. I walk towards the building, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs.
I take the elevator, and reach the hallway. I know the pin so not a problem- but the door is open?
I freeze.
Something's wrong.
He's sitting too still on the couch, shoulders squared, posture controlled in that way he gets when he's holding himself back from something ugly. The city lights spill in through the windows behind him, but they don't soften his face. They only sharpen it.
The door shuts quietly behind me.
Relief floods me first—pure, dizzying relief. He's here. He's safe. No blood. No bruises. No swelling on his knuckles. Thank God.
In his hand, I notice the gray bracelet.
My bracelet.
My chest tightens. I must've left it here. I always forget things when I'm around him.
"Xav," I breathe, voice soft.
"Amara." The way he says my name makes my smile falter.
There's no warmth in it. No teasing. No softness. It sounds... flat. Distant. Like he's put space between us on purpose.
I step closer anyway. "A-are you okay?" I scan him instinctively, eyes tracing his face, his hands, his posture. "You seem fine. I don't see any bruises." I let out a small breath, then add, lighter, "How was the match?"
I smile at him. The real one. The one that comes naturally when it's him.
He doesn't smile back. "I'm okay," he says. Then, after a beat, "Why are you here?"
The question lands heavier than it should. "Why weren't you at the match?"
It's okay, Amara. He's just mad. Of course he is. You didn't show up.
You know how much you matter to him.
I force myself to relax, to keep things light.
"I tripped during rehearsal," I explain quickly.
"Twisted my ankle a bit. But I'm fine now.
" I take another step toward him, my tone playful, reassuring.
"I mean, I'm with you, right? I'm pretty sure you can carry me around everywhere in your strong arms."
I try to joke. Try to soften him.
He doesn't laugh.
Instead, his fingers roll the bracelet slowly around his wrist, over and over, like he's grounding himself.
"Are you sure?" he asks quietly. His eyes lift to mine, sharp, searching. "Because you seemed to rush on your way here."
My stomach drops.
"I-what?" I blink. "No, I just wanted to be here."
His gaze doesn't waver. "You look like you ran," he continues calmly. Too calmly. "Like you were scared of being late."
The room feels smaller suddenly. The air heavier.
I swallow, my hands curling at my sides. "I just wanted to see you," I say softly. "I missed you."
Something flickers in his eyes then- pain, maybe. Or restraint.
He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening as he stands, closing the distance between us in two slow steps. He's tall, looming, but not threatening. Just... intense.
"Amara," he says low, holding the bracelet up between us, "you didn't answer your phone."
My heart stutters.
"I called you," he continues. "seven times."
My chest aches. "Xav, I swear I'll make it up. Kisses, cuddles, matching PJs, you know our thing" I stand on my tiptoes and was about to press a kiss but he turned his head, and my lips brush his cheek instead of his mouth.
The rejection soft but firm and intentional. My smile falls, but I force it to stay in place.
Please tell me he didn't find out this way.
"No" he says, voice dropping further.
His thumb brushes over the bracelet once more before he meets my eyes again.
"Oh," I say quickly, scrambling. "Uhm, okay. How about dinner? I can order your favorite. You must be exhausted after the match."
He doesn't answer right away.
He looks past me, toward the windows, toward the city lights that usually calm him. His jaw tightens. His fingers curl once around the bracelet.
"Actually," he says quietly, "I didn't win."
My heart stutters.
"No," I breathe, shaking my head before I even think. "No, that's not possible."
He finally looks at me.
"I didn't even get on the ring, Amara."
The words hit me like a slap.
"What?" My voice comes out thin. Small.
"I lost my streak before the bell even rang," he continues, tone flat, controlled—too controlled. "Disqualified. Violence."
My chest tightens painfully. "Violence? Xavier what are you talking about?"
He takes a step closer. Not angry. Not shouting. Just intense in that way that makes my stomach knot.
"I ran around the arena looking for you," he says. "You wouldn't pick up. Dom tried too and then I saw him."
The words slice clean. Precise. Nothing like him.
"Xav-" I step forward instinctively.
"And," he cuts in, eyes dark now, sharp with something far worse than anger, "I don't believe you twisted your ankle."
My breath catches.
He reaches into his pocket slowly, deliberately, like he's bracing me for the impact. When he pulls it out, my heart drops straight into my stomach.
The burner phone.
My burner phone.
He turns the screen toward me.
3 missed calls — D.H
My knees feel weak.
"I believe," he says quietly, dangerously calm, "that D.H stands for Damon Hunt."
The room feels too small. Too tight. I can barely breathe.
He steps closer.
Then closer.
"Why," he asks, voice low and steady like he's holding himself together by sheer will, "is he contacting you, Amara?"
I shake my head, tears already burning my eyes. "Xavier, I—"
He doesn't stop.
"Why would he text you," he continues, reading off the screen like every word is carving into him, "Is everything going according to the plan?"
My lips part, but no sound comes out.
"And then," his jaw clenches, pain bleeding through now, raw and unfiltered,
"'Make sure he doesn't get in the ring.'"
The tears fall before I can stop them. Hot. Silent. One after another.
He looks at me like I've shattered something sacred.
"Was this," he asks softly, voice breaking just enough to hurt, "all a plan to bring me down, Amara?"
The silence between us screams.
And for the first time since I met him, the man who always protected me, who always believed me doesn't know if he still can.
I don't say anything at first.
Silence stretches between us, thick and unbearable. My tears keep falling, but I don't wipe them away. What's the point? Whatever this was or whatever we were it's already in pieces on the floor between us.
He exhales, shaky, like he's bracing for a hit he still hopes won't land.
He says finally, voice rough but softening, "I don't care about being the Ring Lord. Or the titles. Or the streak." His eyes search mine desperately, like he's reaching for something solid in a burning room. "I just need you."
My chest tightens painfully.
"We can still leave," he continues, taking a careful step toward me. "Run away to some island. Just us. No cameras. No fights. No expectations." His voice cracks. "Nothing but you and me."
He swallows hard.
"Just tell me you love me, Amara," he pleads quietly. "That you loved me for real. Not for the act. Please. Say it, and I'll kill that fucking bastard."
please.
That word almost breaks me.
Almost.
But I step back.
One step. Clear. Deliberate.
"No," I say.
The word hangs in the air, sharp and final.
His breath stutters. "What?"
"I don't," I say again, forcing my voice to stay steady even as my heart feels like it's tearing itself apart. "I never did."
He looks at me like I've struck him.
"It was all a game to me, Xavier," I continue, every word tasting like poison. "You were... convenient." I lift my chin, building the lie brick by brick because if I don't, I'll crumble. "You're pathetic. Ridiculous."
I see the hurt bloom in his eyes, deep and devastating.
"A lonely bastard who craves attention," I finish, my nails digging into my palms. "You aren't made for love."
The words land.
Hard.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Doesn't even breathe for a second.
Something in him goes very, very still.
And I know that whatever just broke inside him isn't something that heals easily.
I turn away before he can see me fall apart completely.
Because if I stay one second longer, I'll tell him the truth.
And the truth would ruin everything.
His voice is quiet when he speaks again.
Too quiet.
"I thought you were the only one who loved me," he says. Not accusing. Just... broken. "The only one who actually cared."
I stay where I am, my back half-turned to him. If I face him now, I won't survive it.
He laughs once, breathless and hollow. "Remember the first day we bumped into each other?" His voice cracks despite himself. "When you asked me if I was okay."
My throat tightens.
"That was fake too?" he asks softly. "That look in your eyes—was that just part of the act?"
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Because that moment replays in my head with cruel clarity. Me dropping my bag. Him steadying me without thinking. The way his brows had drawn together in concern, like my pain mattered more than his own.
That wasn't fake.
None of it was.
But if I say that now, Damon wins nothing—and Xavier loses everything.
So I force myself to turn around.
"Yes," I say, my voice steady only because I'm bleeding silently inside. "It was fake."
He stares at me like he's trying to find the crack. The lie. The mercy.
I give him none.
"I knew who you were," I continue, sharper now, crueler than I ever wanted to be. "The Ring Lord. The headlines. The attention. I played along. I knew the orphanage your mother runs, I knew it all Xavier."
His jaw clenches. His eyes glisten, but he doesn't let the tears fall.
"Congratulations," he says finally, bitterness lacing every syllable. "You played it well."
Silence crashes down between us again.
I grab the burner phone from his hand, my fingers numb. I walk past him, close enough to feel his warmth, his familiar presence and it takes everything in me not to collapse into his arms and tell him the truth.
At the door, I pause.
Without turning back, I whisper the only honest thing I can afford to say. "You should hate me, Xavier."
Then I leave.
And the door closes behind me with a sound that feels a lot like something dying.
I barely make it out of the building before it hits me.
The tears come hard, ugly, unstoppable. I clutch my coat to my chest like it might keep my heart from shattering completely.
I loved him.
I love him so much.
I press my forehead to the cold wall, sucking in broken breaths, trying not to sob loud enough for him to hear. If he opens the door now, if he says my name even once— I'll run back. I'll ruin everything I just sacrificed.
My phone vibrates.
The burner.
My stomach drops.
It rings again.
I answer, lifting it to my ear.
"Thank God," a familiar, oily voice says, amused. "Hayes loves you enough that I say shit about you and he loses his mind."
My blood turns to ice.
"Otherwise," he continues lightly, then whistles, long and slow, "your parents would be in a very... unfortunate situation right now."
I freeze.
"And don't worry," Damon adds softly, cruelly. "You did the right thing, or else the video would be leaked and boom."
My chest feels hollow, like someone carved the air out of me.
My nails dig into my palm until it stings.
The call ends.
This is not how i will let our story end.
I will end Damon with my own hands. Ruin him. Make him suffer.
I just hope Xavier doesn't hate me though.
Her words don't echo.
They burn.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sharp enough to cut clean through bone and settle somewhere deep in my chest where it hurts to breathe.
I never loved you.
It was all a game.
You aren't made for love.
I stand there long after the door shuts.
Long after her footsteps fade into nothing.
The penthouse feels wrong without her—too big, too quiet. Like a cage I locked myself inside.
My gaze drops to my hand.
Her bracelet.
The one I always found. The one I always put back on her wrist like it meant something. Like we were unbreakable.
My fingers curl around it until the edge bites into my skin.
She said it was fake.
That first day.
That concern in her eyes.
The way she touched me like I wasn't dangerous, or ruined, or too much.
Fake.
A hollow sound leaves my chest—almost a laugh, almost a sob.
Of course it was.
Why would someone like her ever look at someone like me and mean it?
I sink onto the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it might explain where I went wrong. My throat tightens. Breathing feels like work.
Ring Lord. Champion. Untouchable.
What a fucking lie.
I was ready to walk away from everything for her—the titles, the fights, the blood-soaked legacy I built with my own hands. I would've disappeared if she'd just said the word.
Please.
I said please.
I don't beg.
But I begged her.
And she looked at me like I was nothing.
I rise abruptly, pacing once, twice, before stopping by the window. The city glows below—alive, ruthless, indifferent.
She left or maybe she was never mine to lose.
My phone vibrates on the table.
I don't look.
Because right now, the only thing louder than the world outside- is the realization crashing through me all at once.
I lost in the ring.
I lost my woman.
I lost everything.
Maybe I'm not made for this.
The only Ring was her. Revolved around her.
And perhaps In The Ring of LoveI never stood a chance.
I'm a lonely sucker, after all.
A fucking loner and a fucking loser.