Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LUKE
The constant barrage of paparazzi and reporters is wearing me down.
Every headline, every soundbite, is another twist of the knife—none of them know Andi, but that doesn’t stop them from dissecting her life, painting her as someone she’s not.
The smear campaign hasn’t let up for weeks, and I can see the toll it’s taking on her.
She told me, quietly, that there was something else she needed to share about her past—about him. But I haven’t pressed. Whatever it is, it doesn’t change how I feel. She doesn’t owe me confessions or explanations. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. She has my support, no matter what comes next.
Mitch has managed to keep most of the press out of the club, so for a few hours, we get to be just us—friends, music, and the comfort of routine.
But even as I sit at our table, the tension in my shoulders never really fades.
The deep thrum of bass vibrates through the floor, glasses clink at the bar, and laughter rises and falls around me, but all I can focus on is Andi.
When she steps onto the stage, the lights catch in her hair, and for a moment, the rest of the world blurs at the edges.
My heart pounds, heavy and uneven, as I watch her—really watch her—the way her eyes search for mine in the crowd, the way her voice wraps around the lyrics and makes them mean something new.
When she sang “Umbrella” last week, it wasn’t just a song.
It was a promise, quiet and fierce, that we’d weather anything together.
I felt it in my chest, a tight ache that wouldn’t let go.
She has a voice that turns every song into a story, and sometimes I catch other guys watching her, wishing they were the one she was singing to.
The thought twists in my gut, sharp and possessive, but then she finds me in the crowd and smiles, and for a moment, I can breathe again.
She chooses me—again and again—and that knowledge settles deep, a quiet pride edged with disbelief that I get to be the one she comes home to.
Still, the media’s relentless. Even here, I can feel their presence pressing in from the street, the flash of cameras just beyond the doors.
Mack and Shane are hounded with questions about Andi, especially now that Shane’s so close to the title fight.
Andi’s convinced her presence is a liability, so she’s kept her distance from the gym, even though Shane keeps telling her she’s more important than any championship.
I see how much it hurts her to believe him, and it kills me that I can’t shield her from any of it.
Shane tries to lighten things up—he’ll show up at the club, make a big deal of being photographed with her, just to make her roll her eyes.
It’s his way of reminding her she’s not alone, even when the world feels hostile.
I watch them, grateful for the distraction, but beneath it all, I’m restless.
My hands clench around my glass, knuckles white, as I fight the urge to do something—anything—to make this easier for her.
Every day, I watch her navigate this constant barrage, and every day I wonder how much longer we can keep pretending the world outside doesn’t exist. When we’re in the club, the music, the laughter, and the warmth of her hand in mine—they’re all real, but so is the fear that it could all be taken away.
That’s what keeps me up at night, long after the club has emptied and the lights have gone out.
Lately, I’ve been spending more time at the youth center with Andi and less at the gym.
I haven’t told her yet, but a decision is weighing on me—one I’m still trying to untangle.
After years of fighting to prove to my family that boxing was my future, I’m starting to wonder if it’s really what I want.
It’s not Andi’s influence, not exactly. But being with her, seeing how she gives herself to these kids, has made me question what I’m fighting for.
It’s ironic, really. I have an advanced degree in psychology, yet when it comes to my own motives, I’m as lost as anyone.
There’s a quiet satisfaction in working with my hands—turning over soil, planting something that might outlast me.
Even helping my mom with her backyard project, despite her relentless attention to detail, felt good.
There’s something grounding about building rather than breaking, about creating something tangible.
For the first time in a long while, I’m starting to see that maybe my worth isn’t measured by what I can destroy in the ring but by what I can help grow outside it.
Andi slides into the seat across from me, her hand brushing mine as she settles in. “How was your day?” she asks easily, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
“Better now,” I say, squeezing her fingers. The restaurant is quiet, tucked away from the usual noise and curious eyes. For a moment, it feels like we’re in our own little world.
She hesitates, searching my face. “You seem distracted. Is everything okay?”
I shake my head. “I should be asking you that. You look worried.”
She lets out a slow breath, her gaze dropping to the table. “Remember when I said there was something else I needed to tell you about him?” She doesn’t have to say his name—I know exactly who she means. I nod, waiting.
“I kept hoping he’d just disappear, that maybe if I stayed quiet, he’d move on. But Bill called today. Apparently, my former foster mother is involved now. They’re planning a joint press conference—trying to control the story, make me look unstable.”
Her words hang between us, heavy and raw. I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Andi. Whatever they say, whatever comes next—I’m here.”
She nods, but I can see the fear in her eyes, the exhaustion. I wish I could take it all away, but all I can do is hold her hand a little tighter and hope she feels it.
“When is this press conference?”
“Sunday morning,” she says cautiously.
The last thing I want is for her to feel like she can’t talk to me.
I force myself to unclench my jaw, roll my shoulders back, and let the tension drain from my body.
My thumb traces slow circles over the back of her hand before I lift it and press a kiss to her palm.
“I’m here, Andi. I’m not going anywhere. ”
She hesitates, fear flickering in her eyes. “I need to tell you who he is, Luke.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, the words more confession than statement.
I squeeze her hand, trying to anchor us both. “You could tell me he’s the President, and I’d still be right here.”
She winces, her gaze dropping to our joined hands. “You’re not far off. He’s one of the most powerful men in the state.” Her voice shakes, and I can feel her body trembling.
She swallows, and I see the fear flash in her eyes before she finally says it. “His name is Congressman Jackson Rhoades.”
The name hits me like a blow to the ribs.
I feel it in my chest—a cold, heavy certainty.
I sit back, letting the truth settle as I replay every odd moment from the last few weeks: the gray sedan outside the gym, the white SUV idling near her house, the black pickup parked too long on my parents’ street.
Each one seemed harmless on its own. Together, they form a pattern I can’t ignore.
“I was hoping you weren’t going to say that,” I admit, my voice coarse.
Her eyes search mine, desperate for reassurance. “You knew?”
“I didn’t know,” I say. “But I’ve been watching.”
I tell her about the gray sedan first—how it’s been idling outside the gym more than once, long enough to feel deliberate.
Then the restaurant after karaoke. The white SUV with the roof rack parked a couple of houses down from hers, not pulling into a driveway like someone who belonged there.
The black pickup with tinted windows parked near my parents’ place in a neighborhood where everyone knows everyone.
I explain how I told myself each one was a coincidence until I saw the sedan again outside my apartment and realized coincidence doesn’t repeat itself that precisely.
As I speak, she goes very still, her breaths become shallow, and her fingers tighten around mine, absorbing each detail instead of interrupting.
“I ran a partial plate through someone I trust,” I continue.
“The sedan is registered to Southbridge Holdings LLC, newly formed with no physical office. The registered agent is Hollis & Brent Legal Group. It’s two degrees removed, enough distance to deny involvement if anyone asks. But it’s not random.”
The truth settles between us without theatrics. This isn’t paranoia. It’s design.
She lets out a shaky breath, her lips pressed together. “No one will believe me now. And you can bet he’s behind the smear campaign—the photos, the headlines, the youth center being targeted. It’s not random. They moved faster than I expected.”
I nod, sensing the weight of it all. “They’re not just attacking your reputation. They’re mapping us—our routines, our friends, every place we go. They’re looking for a weakness.”
A heavy silence settles between us. I see the fear in her eyes, but also something else—guilt, maybe, for dragging me into this. I reach for her other hand, holding on tight.
“They followed me initially,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
“No,” I say, my voice fierce. “They followed both of us. They want to see if we’ll break.”
She looks at me, really looks, and I know she’s searching for doubt, for hesitation. But I’m already in this with her, and I won’t let go.
“You didn’t tell me,” she says, her voice trembling faintly.
“I didn’t want it to be real. But we can’t pretend anymore. We’re in this together, Andi. Whether we like it or not.”
The room feels colder, the air charged with dread and determination.
“They’re not just watching,” she whispers. “They’re testing us. Seeing what rattles us.”