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“You ready to answer them?”

I set my spoon down. The metal clinks against the ceramic bowl.

I think about the alternative. I think about returning to the penthouse. I think about issuing a sterile PR apology, blaming the grueling weight cut, and burying myself back in the concrete tomb my father built. I think about spending the next ten years lying to every camera, every fan, and every person I meet.

I look at Micah. I look at the silver Saint Christopher medal resting against his collarbone. I look at the fierce devotion shining in his dark eyes.

I know my answer.

“I’m going to tell them the truth.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the laminate table. “I’m going to tell them Dan Kendall is a liar. I’m going to tell them Jason Ortega threatened my career to protect his brand. I’m going to tell them I kissed the man I love, and I don’t regret a single second of it.”

Micah smiles at me. Proud. Not surprised, not waiting for me to take it back. Proud. I want to keep being the man who earns that look.

“They will try to tear you down,” Micah warns, his tone dropping an octave.

“Let them try.” I reach across the table. I grab his hand, tangling my fingers with his. “They cannot erase the fights I won. They cannot unring the bell. I’m the undefeated champion of the world.” I pause, correcting myself. “I was the undefeated champion. Until you.”

“I earned that decision.”

“You earned the decision,” I agree instantly. “You earned the belt. I earned my freedom. I consider it a fair trade.”

Micah laughs. The warm, rich sound fills the cramped apartment. He squeezes my hand, his grip unyielding.

“We have a lot of work to do today,” Micah reminds me.

“We handle Victor first.” I stand up, pulling him up with me. “Then Theo. Then we face the firing squad.”

I walk toward the front door. My shoes hit the scuffed floorboards with heavy, deliberate steps. The exhaustion and the ache are still there. I can face the door anyway. A roaring, undeniable fire burns in my blood. I’m stepping out into the open, completely exposed, and I have no fear left in my body.

I grab the brass deadbolt.

I turn my head. I look at Micah.

He stands right behind me. His dark eyes lock onto mine. He reaches for my hand. He stands shoulder-to-shoulder with me, ready to take the incoming fire.

“Ready?” Micah asks.

I turn the lock. The heavy metal clicks open.

“Yeah,” I answer. The truth rings loud and clear in the quiet room. “I’m ready.”

I pull the door open. We face the storm together.

30

EPILOGUE

MICAH

The apartment is different now.

Not my cramped studio. Not Zane’s sterile penthouse. A place we chose together—a two-bedroom unit with solid oak furniture and large glass windows letting in morning light. Zane’s protein powder sits next to mine in the cabinet. Two toothbrushes rest in the bathroom cup. His clothes fill the dresser. This is his home too.

I wake to the smell of scorched butter and eggs drifting down the hallway.

I lie flat on the mattress, listening to Zane swear at the stove. A smile stretches across my face.

Six months since the fight. Six months since the kiss that shattered the earth.