Chapter 29
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 elbowing my 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 cover it.
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 to know 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.”
The sound of my name comes from behind me. It isn’t loud. It isn’t sharp. It’s eerily calm.
My body reacts before my mind does. Every muscle locks. My breath stops halfway in my lungs. For a fraction of a second, I am sixteen again, standing in a hallway with nowhere to run.
I turn slowly.
Jackson Rhoades stands near the edge of my kitchen with his coat draped over one arm as if he has been waiting politely for me to arrive. His expression is composed. Mild. Almost paternal.
My first instinct is to scan for forced entry. Broken glass. Splintered lock. But there’s nothing.
“How did you get in?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
He glances toward the hallway that leads to the mudroom. “You should review your security protocols,” he replies evenly. “You’ve grown comfortable.”
That is not an answer. It is a demonstration.
I straighten fully, refusing to allow my body to betray the surge of adrenaline beneath my skin.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“On the contrary,” he says, folding his hands loosely in front of him, “I believe this is long overdue.”
The air in the room shifts. It feels smaller now, compressed by his presence.
“Shane’s suspension,” I say. “That was you.”
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t deny it.
“The athletic commission takes regulatory integrity seriously,” he says. “As do sponsors. As do voters.”
Voters. There it is. He always has an angle.
“You’re leveraging pressure,” I say.
“I’m correcting instability,” he counters. His tone is infuriatingly measured. He isn’t shouting. He isn’t threatening in any overt way. He is explaining. As though I am a problem that requires management.
“You had me institutionalized,” I say quietly. “And now you’re calling me unstable.”
“You were unstable,” he replies, voice cool but firm. “You were violent. You were irrational. You created a narrative that damaged multiple families.”
My hands curl against the counter behind me, but I don’t break eye contact.
“I protected innocent children from you,” I say.
“You attacked an elected official.” The phrasing is intentional.
He steps closer, though he keeps a careful distance. Close enough to lower his voice, not close enough to touch me.
“You are about to become very visible again,” he continues. “Talk shows. Interviews. Public sympathy. That visibility will invite scrutiny. When that scrutiny reaches my doorstep, it will be handled. Efficiently.”
“And how do you plan to handle it?” I ask.
“With truth,” he replies.
I almost laugh. “Your version of it.”
“The version supported by medical records,” he says. “By incident reports. By witness statements.” He means the medical reports, the foster records, and the sealed court documents.
“You expect me to confess and take full blame for everything you did,” I say slowly.
“I expect you to demonstrate accountability,” he answers. “Acknowledge your breakdown. Your aggression. Your treatment. Frame it as growth.”
“And absolve you.”
He pauses just long enough to make the silence uncomfortable.
“If you choose defiance,” he continues, “there will be consequences. Regulatory reviews. Licensing audits. Background disclosures. You’ve positioned yourself around minors, Andi. That invites scrutiny.”
The youth center. The gray suit. The clipboard woman.
“You’ve already started,” I say.
“I am thorough,” he replies. The calmness in his delivery makes my skin crawl. He isn’t bluffing. He is mapping my downfall in fully calculated steps.
“If they suspend me,” I say carefully, “if they remove me from the center, that becomes a headline.”
“Yes,” he agrees softly. “And the public tends to side with caution when children are involved.”
The implication lands harder than any shouted threat could. He doesn’t need to say the word dangerous. He has already planted it.
“You’re running for the Presidency,” I say.
He doesn’t confirm it, but something in his expression shifts. A flicker of ambition barely contained.
“You are a liability,” he says. “And I am offering you a way to minimize the damage to everyone you claim to care about.”
There it is. The emotional lever. He’s a master manipulator.
“Shane’s career,” he continues. “Luke’s sponsorships. Sam’s development projects. Mack’s future progenies. The youth center’s license. These are fragile ecosystems.”
“You’re threatening everyone I love because of what you did,” I say.
“I’m explaining reality,” he replies.
For a moment, the room feels unbearably small. I step away from the counter and move toward him just enough to eliminate the physical power dynamic he is trying to establish.
“You miscalculated something,” I say quietly.
His brow lifts slightly.
“You assumed I would be ashamed,” I continue. “You assumed I would hide.”
His gaze sharpens.
“I survived you,” I say. “I won’t protect you.”
The mask slips for half a second. Not anger. Fear. Then it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
“You have until the interview airs,” he says. “After that, events will accelerate beyond your control.”
He turns toward the front door. The casualness of it is deliberate. He wants me to feel powerless in my own home. At the threshold, he pauses without looking back.
“Public redemption is powerful,” he says. “Public instability is fatal.”
Then he leaves. The door closes with a quiet click.
I stand in the center of my kitchen for several seconds before my legs finally register that I am shaking. Not from fear. From clarity.
He is not improvising. He is constructing. And he is desperate. The fact he stood in my house, in my kitchen, and had a full threatening conversation with me confirms he’s not acting alone. The problem is I’ll never know who’s in his network of degenerates until they make a move.
When Luke arrives, he knows immediately something has shifted. I tell him everything, without drama. I don’t cry. I don’t soften it. He listens in complete silence, pacing once, twice, then stopping directly in front of me.
“He walked into your house,” he says slowly, as if testing the weight of the fact.
“Yes.” I’m still as shocked as he is.
“And you were alone.”
“Yes.” The very thought of being alone with him makes my skin crawl.
His jaw tightens, but the explosion I expect never comes. Instead, something colder settles in.
“He’s escalating again. This, today, is another level entirely, Andi,” Luke says.
“You’re right.”
“And he thinks you’ll fold because the collateral damage is too high.”
“Yes.”
Luke runs a hand over his face and exhales.
“Then we stop reacting,” he says finally.
“We move first. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the ring, it’s fights are won by noticing what other people ignore—tiny shifts in posture, hesitation in the eyes.
Patterns matter. His pattern is emerging, so let’s get ahead of him. ”
“You’re right, Luke.” That’s when I pull the notebook toward me. Because if Jackson’s pattern is part of a larger machine, then it has pressure points.
And I intend to find them.