Chapter 4

Jaxon’s POV

Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years.

You’d think I would have moved on by now. I have everything. The title. The fame. The money. The respect.

But the one thing that mattered? Gone.

I let her go.

No-I pushed her away. And I’ve been paying for it every day since. I roll my shoulders, forcing the tension out of my muscles as I sit under the too-bright lights of the press room.

Another post-fight interview. Another night pretending like I give a damn about anything other than the hole inside my chest.

The reporters start with the usual shit-how did it feel? What’s next? Who’s the next challenger? I answer on autopilot, giving them the soundbites they want.

But then-a question I don’t expect.

The female reporter leans forward, her eyes sharp, her voice steady.

“Jaxon, I have to ask. There’s something you do at the start of every fight. You kiss two fingers and press them against your chest. The fans have speculated for years-some say it’s superstition, others say it’s a dedication to someone. But you’ve never explained it. Who is it for?”

The room goes silent. I go still. No one has ever asked me that before. The cameras are rolling.

The world is watching.

I could lie. I could brush it off. I could say it’s nothing.

But I don’t.

Instead, the truth rips from my throat before I can stop it.

“It’s for someone I lost. ” The reporter blinks, sensing the weight behind my words.

“Someone you lost?” I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face.

Fuck it.

I lean forward, my voice raw, honest, broken.

“There was someone once. Someone I loved more than anything. And I let them go. ” The silence in the room is deafening.

The interviewer’s voice softens.

“You let them go?” I laugh, but it’s hollow.

Ugly.

“I didn’t have a choice. ” The words still taste like acid.

“I said things I didn’t mean. I made a choice I regret every day. And I lost them forever. ” The reporter inhales sharply, along with half the audience.

I grip the mic tighter.

“Some mistakes you don’t get to fix.” The entire studio is silent.

I lean back, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the burn in my chest. The reporter leans forward.

“You said you made a choice. What do you mean?” I shake my head.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s too late. ”

“Do you regret it?”

I laugh bitterly. “Every fucking day. ” The reporter hesitates, then delivers the question that changes everything.

“If you could say one thing to them right now, what would it be?” I inhale sharply.

My heart is hammering.

I stare straight into the camera, my voice wrecked, my body heavy with the weight of a past I can never fix.

My voice is hoarse, strained, but firm when I say- “I hope you’re happy. I hope life has been kind to you. I hope you got everything you ever wanted. ”

Then, in the smallest, barely-there whisper, I add- “And I hope that you never had to do it alone. ” A sharp inhale ripples through the studio.

The reporter’s eyes widen. A hush falls over the audience. And I sit there, staring into the camera, knowing that somewhere, they’re watching.

Knowing that for the first time in fifteen years, I let the truth slip through the cracks.

And the world will never let it go.