When he hangs up, Victor throws his phone onto the bed and rubs his hands over his face.
“It was Marcus,” he says flatly. “Has to be. Reid.”
I sit up, pulling the sheet around my waist. “Marcus? Why would he?—”
“Because I saw him with you at Eclipse. When you kissed him.” Victor’s eyes meet mine, no accusation in them, just a statement of fact. “He was hunting you during the actual Hunt, too. Probably pissed he didn’t get to you first.”
Victor sits heavily on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders slumped. For a moment, I expect him to explode—the Victor I first met would have destroyed something by now. Instead, he lets out a long breath.
“You know what’s fucked up?” he says quietly. “Part of me is almost... relieved.”
I slide closer to him, saying nothing.
“This was always going to happen, Theo. Maybe I should have just stopped dragging my feet and come out on my own terms instead of being forced out like this.”
His hand finds mine on the bed, fingers intertwining automatically.
“It’s okay,” he continues, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or me. “It was going to happen at some point.”
I pick up Victor’s phone from the bed and see notifications flooding in. My stomach drops as I read the headlines scrolling across his screen:
“Fighter Owner’s Secret Relationship Exposed.”
“Kaine’s Gay Romance Rocks Fighting World.”
“Underground Fight Club Owner Caught in Compromising Position with Nightclub Mogul.”
“Victor, it’s everywhere,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
He takes the phone from my hand, scrolling through with a tightening jaw. By 9 AM, the story has exploded across every sporting outlet and local news source in the city. I watch his face harden with each swipe.
“Fucking Dawson,” he mutters, eyes never leaving the screen. “This is exactly what he wanted.”
Victor’s phone rings constantly—sponsors, fighters, media. He answers some calls, ignores others. I sit beside him, unsure what to say. This is the scenario he’s feared for months—his private life splashed across headlines, his career threatened, his personal life exposed without his consent.
When his screen lights up with Marco’s name, Victor answers immediately.
“I know. I’ve seen them.” He listens, running a hand through his hair. “Tell me how bad.”
I can’t hear Marco’s response, but Victor’s expression tells me everything. Three sponsors already pulling out. Two fighters announcing their departure to Dawson’s gym.
“Call Ray. Emergency meeting in my office, thirty minutes.” Victor’s voice shifts into something I recognize—the voice of a man accustomed to fighting back when cornered. “We need to get ahead of this. NOW.”
He hangs up and turns to me, his expression a complex blend of resignation and determination.
“I’ve spent months afraid of this moment,” he says quietly. “And now it’s here.”
I watch Victor stand and begin gathering his clothes, his movements mechanical, like he’s on autopilot. This is the moment I’ve both hoped for and dreaded—the world knowing about us, but not on our terms. The fallout is everything Victor feared, and yet he seems strangely calm.
“I should go,” he says, pulling on his jeans. “Marco and the team are waiting.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Part of me wonders if this is it—if the pressure will finally break whatever we’ve built together.
Victor pauses, one arm in his shirt sleeve. He looks at me, really looks at me, and the intensity in his eyes pins me to the spot.
“Theo,” he says, abandoning his shirt and walking back to the bed. He kneels in front of me, taking both my hands in his.
“I’ve spent months afraid of this exact moment. I’ve imagined losing everything—my gym, my fighters, my reputation.” His thumbs trace circles on my palms. “But now that it’s happening, all I keep thinking is—at least I still have you.”
