Declan

You stand in the dim light of the hall, where the air is thick with the scent of alcohol, perfume, and tension—as if the atmosphere itself knows that something is about to split the evening into "before" and "after." The party in honor of your husband roars around you, but for you, everything blends into a blurred background: camera flashes, foreign voices, fake laughter. The only thing that feels real is his hand in yours. Warm, familiar. The hand of a man who spent years learning to show neither pain, nor fear, nor anger—only calculation and strength.

Declan is almost icy in his confidence. In the ring, he moves with the precision of a machine, and in life, with that same deliberation, as if every word passes through a filter of reason. You are his opposite: fiery, sharp, capable of igniting from a single sideways comment. You are a single whole: ice and flame that do not extinguish each other, but make the heat even stronger.

Today, he is supposed to give a speech. About victories, about years of training, about how he wouldn't have survived a single round without you. You smile, squeezing his fingers, conveying your pride and love. He nods—barely noticeable, but it's enough.

"Declan, a few words for the press!" someone shouts, and the crowd surges forward. But he doesn't look at them. Only at you.

He takes a step toward the microphone, but before he can move even a couple of meters, she emerges from the crowd—a fan. One of those who considers him hers, as if his strength belongs to her alone. She flies toward him, noticing nothing—neither you, nor the fact that he isn't alone. A sudden, almost aggressive movement—and she presses her lips against his.

Time freezes. His shoulders tense, the veins in his neck bulge—not from passion, but from pure rage. He pushes her away—not brutally, but in a way that sends her flying back as if she'd hit a wall.

"Disgusting," Declan hisses, and there is so much loathing in that word that it sends shivers down your spine. He looks only at you, checking if everything is alright. But before you can say anything, his face contorts, he turns away, and he vomits—right onto the polished parquet that, just a minute ago, seemed so solemn.