The Last Round - Chapter 10

Sutton

The precinct is already buzzing when I walk in, the hum of voices and ringing phones filling the air.

It’s a familiar chaos, one I’ve learned to navigate with ease.

I weave through the desks, my badge clipped to my belt, my gun holstered at my side.

My mind is tangled in the Mercer case, piecing together every bit of evidence we’ve scraped together.

Another fighter.

Another body in an alley.

Leon Mercer is getting sloppy.

Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

He’s been untouchable for over a decade, running underground fight rings, laundering money, and controlling people like they’re pieces on a chessboard.

He’s smart.

Careful.

Never leaves his name directly attached to anything.

But this time? This time, I’ll be the one who brings him down.

I drop into my chair, pulling up my case files, skimming over the notes from last night’s briefing.

Autopsy confirms blunt force trauma, consistent with hand-to-hand combat.

No weapon.

No outside DNA.

Just like the others.

I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers to my temple.

The pieces are right there, waiting to click into place.

I just need to figure out which one makes Mercer crack first.

“Detective?” I glance up to see one of the front desk officers holding a stack of envelopes.

“These came for you. ” I frown, reaching for the pile.

I don’t get mail.

I flip through them, my stomach tightening when I see the handwriting.

Some are typed, printed labels.

Some are scrawled in ink, rushed and eager.

And one? One is a thick, black envelope with no return address.

What the hell? I already know what this is.

I don’t even need to open them.

This is about him.

Jaxon Kane.

The second Kingston told me about the interview, I knew this would start.

And now? The world is looking for me.

I inhale deeply, steeling myself before flipping open the first one.

“Sutton, I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but I had to try. I’ve followed Jaxon Kane’s career for years, and when I heard what he said…it broke my heart. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to lose someone like that. If there’s any chance you still love him, please…find him. He’s not the same man he was. You deserve your happy ending. ” Jesus.

I shove the letter back in the envelope and open the next.

“You were the one, weren’t you? The girl he loved? It’s all over the internet now. People are saying you left him. But I don’t believe that. I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re happy. But I also hope … maybe you can forgive him. ” I grind my teeth.

Forgive him? Forgive the man who threw me away? Who told me I was a fucking publicity stunt? Who walked out that door knowing I was carrying his child?

I shove that letter aside, my fingers already curling around the next one.

But this one? This one hits differently.

“Stay the fuck away from him. ”

“You had your chance, and you ruined him. ”

“He belongs to the fans now. We won’t let you take him from us. ”

“If you try, we’ll make sure you regret it. ” I exhale through my nose, my fingers clenching the paper.

Of course.

Of course, this would happen.

Fame does this to people.

Turns them into possessive, delusional assholes.

I force myself to relax, my hands flattening the letter against the desk.

It doesn’t matter.

They can send all the letters they want.

They can dig into my past, pull up old photos, speculate and beg and threaten.

But they’re sending them to the wrong fucking person.

I lean back in my chair, tapping the envelope against my desk.

They think his regret was about me.

It wasn’t.

I remember the way he said it all those years ago.

The way he looked at me with ice in his veins.

“I met someone. ”

“She doesn’t want to hide in the shadows anymore. ”

“I never loved you. ” I shake my head, a bitter laugh scraping up my throat.

What the hell are these people doing? They’re wasting their time.

He doesn’t regret losing me.

He regrets losing her.

The one he left me for.

I bet she’s long gone now, and now that he’s on top of the world, he’s finally feeling the weight of it.

So yeah.

Maybe he regrets something.

But not me.

The thought burns, but I shove it down.

I’ve done this for fifteen years.

I know how to lock it up, keep it buried, let the pain turn into something sharp and untouchable.

A slow knock sounds against my desk.

I glance up to see Detective Harris watching me, his sharp gaze flicking to the stack of letters.

“That what I think it is?” I scoff, tossing the threatening letter onto the pile.

“His fans are thorough, I’ll give them that. ” Harris lifts a brow.

“Any real threats?” I hesitate.

I could report them.

The smart thing would be to document everything, build a file.

But I don’t need to.

I’ve dealt with worse.

I’ve dealt with men far more dangerous than a bunch of angry superfans.

“Just noise,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady.

“They’ll get bored soon enough. ” Harris doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push it.

Instead, he nods at my screen.

“Mercer’s still top priority. You good to handle that, or do we need to assign someone else?” I exhale sharply.

“I’m fine. ” I am fine.

Jaxon Kane is just a name on a screen. Leon Mercer is the real threat.

And I’m going to take him down.