Page 27 of Made for Reign

Twenty minutes later, I descend the stairs to find Gio waiting in the foyer, his attention on his phone. When he looks up, his eyes darken as they travel slowly from my face down the length of my body and back up again.

“Perfect,” he says, tucking his phone away. “You’ll be the most beautiful woman there.”

He offers his arm, and I take it, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. As we walk to the waiting SUV, I notice there are now four security personnel surrounding us.

“Is all this security necessary?” I ask as one of them opens the car door.

Gio helps me into the backseat before sliding in beside me.

“Unfortunately, yes. There have been some threats recently.”

“Threats?” I turn to face him. “What kind of threats?”

His expression darkens. “Nothing for you to worry about. Just some disgruntled fighters and their managers unhappy with contract negotiations.” He moves closer, his thigh pressing against mine in the spacious backseat. “You’re safe with me, Audrey.”

As the SUV pulls away from the estate, Gio briefs me on tonight’s event. I listen and nod while the Wyoming landscape rushes past the tinted windows. Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks still snow-capped even in late spring. The sight of them brings an unexpected pang of longing.

I’ve always loved the mountains, the wildness they represent. Freedom. Possibility. Everything my carefully controlled life lacks.

The irony doesn’t escape me. I’m engaged to one of the most powerful men in professional fighting, yet I’ve never felt more powerless.

And then there’s Reign. The wild card I never expected. One weekend that somehow carved itself deeper into my heart than I could have ever imagined. One night that showed me what connection really feels like.

I know it’s ridiculous. You can’t fall for someone after a single night. That’s the stuff of fairy tales and romantic comedies, not real life. Real life is compromise and obligation and doing what needs to be done for your family.

The SUV slows as we approach Worthington Arena. As I look up at the building, my chest tightens with unexpected emotion.

Dad’s name is still there in bold letters across the facade: WORTHINGTON ARENA. Below it, a smaller sign reads “Home of Champions.” He would have been so proud to host a fight of this magnitude here. The arena he built from the ground up, his monument to the sport that made him everything he was.

The SUV pulls into the VIP entrance, where more security personnel wait. As Gio helps me from the car, camera flashes explode around us. I hadn’t expected media attention, but of course, there would be. This is the biggest fight Cooper Heights has seen in years.

“Smile,” Gio murmurs against my ear, his hand firmly planted on my lower back as we walk toward the entrance. “Let them see how happy we are.”

I force my lips into what I hope resembles happiness while reporters shout questions I can’t quite make out over the chaos. Inside, the arena buzzes with pre-fight energy. The main floor has been converted to accommodate the boxing ring, surrounded by rows of expensive seats filled with Wyoming’s elite. Above us, the general admission sections are already packed with fight fans clutching beers and programs.

“Come,” Gio says, steering me toward a hallway marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” “I want you to meet Ben before he gets into fight mode.”

We walk through a maze of concrete corridors, past equipment rooms and storage areas. The walls are lined with photographs of fighters who’ve competed here over the years, including several of my father during his championship days. My steps slow as we pass one particular photo—Dad at twenty-five, arms raised in victory after winning his first heavyweight title.

I’m doing this for you, Daddy,I remind myself.I won’t let your legacy die.

Gio notices my pause and follows my gaze to the photograph. “Arthur was a hell of a fighter,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “Ben reminds me of him sometimes. That same hunger, that determination to be the best.”

“Really?” The comparison surprises me. Dad always said the best fighters had something to prove, something driving them beyond just wanting to win.

“Absolutely. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him.”

The locker room area is controlled chaos. Trainers, managers, and cornermen move with purpose while the sounds of gloves hitting heavy bags echo from behind closed doors. Gio stops outside a door marked “MITCHELL” and knocks twice.

“Come in,” a deep voice calls.

Gio opens the door and gestures for me to enter first. The locker room is larger than I expected, with benches along the walls and a massage table in the center. But what stops me cold is the man sitting on the bench, wrapping his hands with practiced precision.

Ben Mitchell is enormous. At least six-foot-four with shoulders that could span a doorway, he’s everything you’d expect from a heavyweight contender.

“Ben,” Gio calls. “I want you to meet someone.”

Ben stands, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He’s got the same rugged, mountain man look that seems to be standard issue for men from this part of the country—thick, dark beard, calloused hands, the kind of presence that fills a room. But there’s something familiar about his features that I can’t quite place.

---