#main event

Cody Rhodes x reader

She is Bloodline. Cody is the enemy. Roman is the one who swore to keep her safe. He's forbidden. She's forbidden. Yet they always cross paths...

A slow-burning, forbidden trope romance with lots of angst.

List | EP.1 | EP. 2 | EP. 3 | EP. 4 | EP. 5 | EP. 6 | EP. 7 | Ep. 8 | EP. 9 | EP. 10 | EP. 11 | EP. 12 | EP. 13 | EP. 14 | EP. 15 | Now | EP. 17 - End |

20k words x | MasterList

A/N: The start of Wrestlemania... but perhaps the end of something?

ONE MORE EPISODE LEFT 🥹🥹 SMUT WARNING - Advised that only people who are 18+ to read it!! It will be marked with these '🎀🎀' to show you where the smut is, just in case you still want to read the EP but not the smut, and you can skip!!

You woke before the alarm, before the sun had fully committed to rising, before the world outside your hotel room remembered what day it was. For a moment, the room felt suspended in time — a soft, golden half‑light filtering through the curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the air, the quiet so complete it almost didn’t feel real.

Cody was still asleep beside you.

His breathing was slow and even, the kind of rhythm that made your own chest loosen without you realizing it. His arm rested across your waist, warm and solid, his hand relaxed against your hip like it had settled there instinctively sometime during the night. His forehead brushed your shoulder, his hair slightly mussed, his face softened in sleep in a way you rarely saw anymore.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t want to break the moment — this fragile, stolen pocket of calm before the storm. You let yourself feel the warmth of him, the weight of his arm, the quiet of the room. For a few seconds, it didn’t feel like WrestleMania morning. It didn’t feel like the day the world had been waiting for. It felt like a secret you weren’t supposed to have.

But then your eyes drifted to the clock.

WrestleMania Night One. Your night. Your main event.

The words settled into your chest like a stone and a spark at the same time — heavy, electric, inevitable.

Cody stirred, his fingers flexing gently against your waist before tightening, pulling you a little closer in his sleep. You turned your head just enough to see his face — peaceful, unguarded, the lines of pressure and expectation smoothed away.

You whispered his name, barely louder than a breath. “Cody…”

His eyes opened slowly, hazy with sleep, but the moment they focused on you, something warm flickered there — something steady, something grounding, something that made the world outside the room feel a little less loud.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough and low.

You swallowed. “It’s today.”

He blinked once, then nodded, his thumb brushing a slow, reassuring line along your hip. “Yeah. Night One.”

You exhaled, the words settling deeper.

Night One. Your night. Your main event.

Cody shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at you fully. The morning light caught the edges of his face, softening him even more. His eyes searched yours — not for doubt, but for truth, for readiness, for the fire he knew you carried.

“You ready?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer immediately. You didn’t need to. The answer lived in the way your breath steadied, in the way your fingers curled into the sheets, in the way your shoulders squared even while lying down.

Finally, you nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

Cody’s expression softened — not with pity, not with worry, but with something like pride. He leaned in and kissed you, slowly, grounding. A promise. His forehead then rested gently against yours for a moment, sharing the same breath, the same quiet, the same unspoken understanding.

“You go out there tonight,” he said, voice low and certain, “and you show them why you’re the main event. You earned that. You fought for that. I’ve never believed in anyone more.”

Your chest tightened — not with fear, but with something fierce, something alive, something that felt like purpose.

You let out a slow breath, letting the weight of the day settle into your bones.

WrestleMania Night One. The world waiting. The match looming. The storm building.

And you, lying in the quiet, with the one person who made you feel like you could walk into fire and come out whole.

The day had begun.

But the morning didn’t stay still for long.

Eventually, the quiet gave way to movement — slow at first, then steadier, like the world was remembering what day it was. You slipped out of bed, the cool air brushing your skin as you crossed the room, and Cody followed a moment later, stretching the sleep from his shoulders with a low exhale.

The hotel suite was dim, lit only by the soft morning light spilling through the curtains. Your gear was laid out neatly on the dresser — the boots you’d broken in over months, the ring gear you’d chosen specifically for tonight, the jacket that felt like armour. Cody’s gear was folded beside yours, his colours bold, his boots polished, his weight belt gleaming faintly in the light.

You both moved around each other with an ease that came from months of shared chaos — handing each other things without asking, brushing past without colliding, existing in the same space like you’d been doing it for years.

Cody adjusted the collar of his jacket in the mirror, then glanced at you over his shoulder. “You slept better than I expected.”

You smirked faintly. “You’re warm. It helps.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but there was something softer in his eyes — something that said he’d take that tiny admission and hold onto it all day.

You brushed your hair slowly, fingers steady along the handle of the brush despite the adrenaline simmering beneath your skin. Every movement felt deliberate. Ritualistic. Like preparing for battle.

Cody watched you for a moment, then stepped closer — not touching, just close enough that you could feel the steadiness of him beside you.

“You look ready,” he said quietly.

You met his eyes in the mirror. “I am.”

He nodded once, slow and certain, like he’d known that answer before he even asked.

The room settled into a comfortable silence again — the kind that only exists between people who trust each other deeply. You finished lacing your boots. Cody tightened the straps on his wrist tape. The world outside the suite felt distant, muffled, like it was waiting for you to step into it.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Sharp. Firm. Not hesitant.

You and Cody exchanged a look — not fear, not surprise, just the shared understanding that the quiet part of the day was over.

Cody stepped toward the door, but you lifted a hand slightly, stopping him.

“I’ve got it,” you said.

He nodded, stepping back but staying close enough that you could feel his presence behind you — steady, grounding, ready. You crossed the room, each step heavier than the last, the weight of WrestleMania Night One settling into your bones.

You reached for the handle.

And opened the door, expecting a producer or maybe Rhea.

But it was Solo.

He stood in the hallway like a shadow that hadn’t decided whether it wanted to disappear or step into the light. Hoodie up. Shoulders tense. Eyes down. When he finally looked at you, something flickered — guilt, regret, something he didn’t have a name for.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Cody stepped up behind you, silent but present, a steady weight at your back. Solo’s eyes flicked to him, then back to you.

You didn’t soften. “What do you want?”

Solo swallowed, jaw tightening. “I needed to see you before tonight.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Why? To pretend you actually care now?”

His eyes snapped up, hurt flashing across them. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Your voice rose, sharp and controlled. “You want to talk about fair?”

Solo shifted, hands still buried in his pockets. “I’m trying—”

“No,” you cut in. “You don’t get to try today. You don’t get to show up on my WrestleMania morning and act like you didn’t watch everything happen.”

He flinched — barely, but enough.

“I didn’t want—”

“You didn’t want to get involved,” you said, stepping forward. “You didn’t want to stand up to Roman. You didn’t want to risk anything. Even though you told me that you would stand with me. That you would be there for me. But you let me take the hit.”

Solo’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then explain it,” you demanded. “Explain how you stood there and let him treat me like I was nothing. Explain how you just left with Roman without looking at me and let me walk out alone. Explain how you let me break.”

Solo opened his mouth, then closed it again. His throat bobbed.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, voice low, rough. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more.”

You stared at him, anger and hurt twisting together in your chest.

“That’s not enough,” you said. “Not today.”

Solo’s eyes dropped. “I know.”

The hallway felt too quiet, too heavy. Cody stayed behind you, silent, letting you lead, letting you choose.

Solo lifted his gaze again, and for the first time, you saw it — the crack in him. The regret. The conflict. The part of him that wished he’d been braver.

“I just needed you to know I’m not your enemy,” he said softly.

You shook your head. “You’re not my brother either. Not right now.”

That hit him harder than anything else you’d said. His shoulders sagged, breath leaving him in a slow, defeated exhale.

He nodded once — small, resigned.

“Good luck tonight,” he murmured.

He turned and walked down the hallway, each step heavy, like he was carrying the weight of every choice he’d made.

You closed the door slowly.

The room felt different now — sharper, heavier, more real. Cody didn’t speak right away. He just stood beside you, steady and grounded. When you finally looked at him, he met your eyes with quiet certainty.

“You said what you needed to say,” he told you.

You nodded, breath steadying. “I did.”

And deep in your chest, something settled — not peace, not closure, but truth.

The kind of truth that would explode on Night Two.

You and Cody finished getting ready in a quieter rhythm than before. The argument with Solo still clung to the air like static — sharp, lingering, impossible to shake. You tightened the last strap on your gear, then reached for the championship belt resting on the dresser.

The metal plates caught the morning light, throwing a warm gleam across the room. You lifted it with both hands, the familiar weight settling against your palms — heavy, grounding, real. This wasn’t just a title. It was proof. It was everything you’d clawed your way toward. It was the reason you were headlining Night One.

You draped it over your shoulder, adjusting it until it sat perfectly against your chest.

Cody watched you with a quiet, steady pride. “Looks right on you.”

You didn’t smile, but something in your chest eased. “It should.”

He nodded, grabbing his own gear bag, slinging it over his shoulder. The room felt different now — sharper, more focused. Like the day had finally snapped into place.

And then—

Another knock.

This one wasn’t emotional. It wasn’t hesitant. It was brisk, confident, businesslike.

You and Cody exchanged a look — a silent, shared “showtime.”

You opened the door.

Rhea stood there, arms crossed, smirk already forming. “There she is. Champ.”

Behind her, a small documentary crew hovered — camera, boom mic, producer with a clipboard. The camera immediately lifted, focusing on you, the belt, the tension still lingering in the room.

The producer gave a polite nod. “We’re rolling for the WrestleMania Countdown special. Just act natural.”

Rhea snorted. “She is natural. She woke up like this.”

You shot her a look. “Did I?”

“Yeah,” Rhea said, shrugging. “Champion energy. It’s disgusting.”

The crew chuckled quietly.

Cody stepped beside you, his presence steady, grounding. The camera caught the way he looked at you — not possessive, not overshadowing, just proud. Supportive. Solid.

Rhea clapped her hands once. “Alright, main event. They want you at the arena early for walk‑throughs, camera blocking, all that fun stuff.”

You adjusted the belt on your shoulder, feeling its weight settle into your bones — not heavy, but empowering. A reminder of who you were walking into that stadium as.

Not a victim. Not a lost sister. Not someone waiting for the Bloodline to choose her.

A champion.

Rhea stepped aside, gesturing for you to follow. “Let’s go. Night One doesn’t start without you.”

The documentary camera zoomed in slightly, catching the moment you stepped forward — the belt gleaming, Cody behind you, Rhea beside you, the crew capturing every breath.

You crossed the threshold from the quiet of the hotel room into the chaos of WrestleMania.

And the day truly began.

The black SUV pulled away from the hotel, the documentary crew’s van following close behind. The city outside the windows was still waking up — pale morning light stretching across the skyline, traffic thin, the world quiet in a way that felt almost unreal for WrestleMania day.

You sat in the backseat with Rhea beside you, the championship belt resting across your lap like a shield. Cody sat in the front, talking quietly with the driver about call times and entrances, but his voice was low enough to give you and Rhea space.

Rhea watched you for a moment, her elbow propped against the door, her eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re quiet,” she said finally.

You let out a slow breath. “Just thinking... about Solo.”

“Why?”

You stared out the window, watching the buildings blur past. “He showed up this morning.”

Rhea’s jaw tightened. “God I figured. You had that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I just got hit by a truck made of family trauma’ look.”

You huffed a breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Yeah. That one.”

Rhea shifted slightly, turning toward you. “What did he want?”

You swallowed. “To apologize. Or… something like it.”

Rhea rolled her eyes. “Of course he did. Perfect timing. Right when you’re about to main event WrestleMania.”

“It wasn’t—” You stopped, correcting yourself. “It wasn’t nothing. He looked… different.”

“Guilty?” Rhea offered.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

You blinked, surprised by the sharpness in her tone.

Rhea shrugged. “He should feel guilty. They all should. They let you walk into hell alone and only cared when it started burning them too.”

You looked down at the belt in your lap, fingers brushing the edge of the plate. “I told him he’s not my brother. Not right now.”

Rhea didn’t flinch. She didn’t soften. She didn’t tell you that was harsh. She nodded. “Good.”

You turned to her, eyebrows lifting. “Good?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Because it’s true. And because you finally said it out loud.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “It hurt.”

“Truth usually does.”

The SUV hit a smooth stretch of road, the hum of the engine filling the silence between you. Rhea leaned back, arms crossed, eyes still on you.

“You know what I think?” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Damn right.” She smirked, then sobered. “I think Solo came because he wanted you to make him feel better. Not because he wanted to make things right.”

You stared at her, the words landing heavier than you expected.

Rhea continued, voice low but firm. “He wanted to ease his conscience. He wanted to walk into Night Two thinking he’d done something. But he didn’t fix anything. He didn’t choose you. He didn’t stand up for you. He didn’t protect you.”

Your chest tightened. “I know.”

“Good,” Rhea said. “Because tonight? You’re not walking into that ring as someone’s sister. You’re walking in as the champion.”

You looked at her, the weight of her words settling into your bones.

“And tomorrow night,” she added, “when they try to pull you back into their mess? You remember this feeling. You remember who showed up for you and who didn’t.”

You nodded slowly, the truth of it sinking deeper.

Rhea nudged your shoulder lightly. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

You exhaled, steady and sure. “I know.”

The SUV rolled into the underground parking area of the stadium, headlights sweeping across concrete pillars, production crates, and the maze of cables that fed the heartbeat of WrestleMania. Even from inside the car, you could feel the energy — a low, vibrating hum that lived in the walls, in the air, in the people already moving with purpose.

The moment the doors opened, the documentary crew was there, cameras up, lenses trained on you.

Rhea stepped out first, stretching her shoulders with a smirk. “Alright, champ. Showtime.”

You slid out of the SUV, the championship belt draped over your shoulder, the metal plates catching the harsh overhead lights. Cody followed behind you, his presence steady, protective, but letting you take the spotlight.

And then it happened.

The hallway erupted.

“Let’s go, champ!” “You’re headlining tonight!” “You got this!” “Main event energy!” “Night One belongs to you!”

Producers, makeup artists, camera operators, referees, even talent from earlier matches — they all turned toward you, clapping, cheering, nodding with genuine respect. Not the polite kind. The real kind. The kind that said they’d watched your journey and knew exactly what it took to get here.

The documentary camera caught everything — the way your eyes widened slightly, the way your grip tightened on the belt, the way Rhea smirked proudly beside you.

A stagehand jogged up, breathless. “We’ve been waiting for you! They want some behind‑the‑scenes shots before you head to your locker room.”

Rhea rolled her eyes. “Of course they do. She’s the main event.”

You walked deeper into the hallway, the crew following close behind, capturing every angle. People kept stopping you — fist bumps, quick hugs, nods of respect.

Bianca passed by, giving you a grin. “Go kill it tonight.”

Becky slapped your shoulder lightly. “Show them why you’re the champ.”

LA Knight pointed at you as he walked by. “Yeah. Main event. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Even the production crew — people who rarely got involved in talent moments — paused to clap as you passed.

The camera zoomed in on your face, catching the shift — the moment the noise, the support, the energy all sank into your bones.

You weren’t just walking into WrestleMania.

You were walking into your legacy.

Rhea leaned in slightly, voice low enough for only you and the camera to catch. “This is what happens when you stop letting people dim your light.”

You swallowed, the weight of the belt grounding you. “Feels real now.”

“It is real,” Rhea said. “And you earned every second of it.”

Cody walked a step behind you, watching the scene unfold with quiet pride. He didn’t need to say anything — the look on his face said enough.

A producer approached, headset on, clipboard in hand. “We’re ready for your walk‑through whenever you are. Cameras will follow. Just be yourself.”

Rhea smirked. “She’s always herself. That’s why she’s the main event.”

The camera caught your reaction — the breath you took, the way your shoulders squared, the way your expression sharpened into something focused and unstoppable.

You stepped forward, deeper into the heart of WrestleMania.

And the world followed.

The hallway buzzed with energy as you made your way toward your assigned locker room — crew members rushing past with headsets, talent weaving through the chaos, the documentary camera trailing behind you like a shadow. But the moment you stepped inside the room, everything went quiet.

The door clicked shut behind you, muting the noise of WrestleMania.

You exhaled slowly.

The room was simple — a bench, a mirror, a table with bottles of water and towels, your name taped to the door in bold black letters. But it felt like a sanctuary. A place to breathe. A place to let the adrenaline settle before it swallowed you whole.

You set the championship belt down gently on the table, the metal catching the fluorescent lights. For a moment, you just stared at it — the weight of it, the meaning of it, the journey behind it.

Cody stepped in behind you, closing the door fully. The noise outside faded even more, leaving only the soft hum of the overhead lights.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, though your shoulders were still tense. “Yeah. Just… needed a second.”

He moved closer — not touching, just close enough that you could feel the steadiness of him, the warmth of his presence grounding you. His voice softened.

“It’s a lot. Even for someone who’s earned every bit of it.”

You let out a breath, your eyes drifting back to the belt. “I didn’t expect Solo to show up. Not today.”

Cody didn’t rush to respond. He gave you space to say it, to feel it.

“He came because he’s conflicted,” Cody said. “But conflicted doesn’t erase what he did.”

You swallowed, the truth settling in your chest. “I know.”

Cody stepped around to face you, his expression steady, warm, unwavering. “You handled it. You said what you needed to say. And now? You focus on tonight. On your moment.”

You met his eyes, and something inside you steadied — not because he fixed anything, but because he believed in you without hesitation.

You took a slow breath. “I’m ready.”

He smiled — small, proud, the kind that made your chest loosen. “Yeah. You are.”

Then Cody leaned in slowly, his hand gently cupping your cheek. Your breath hitched slightly as his lips met yours in a tender kiss. It was sweet and lingering. The kind that sends tingles down your spine but also calms your nerves at the same time.

A knock sounded at the door — sharp, professional. “Walk‑through in five!” a voice called from the hallway.

You grabbed the belt again, letting the weight settle into your hands. Cody opened the door for you, stepping aside but staying close, like a quiet shield.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Main event time.”

You walked out of the locker room with the belt over your shoulder, Cody beside you, the documentary camera catching every step.

And for the first time that day, the nerves didn’t feel like fear.

They felt like purpose.

The stadium was empty when you stepped inside — no crowd yet, no roar, no lights blinding your eyes. Just the cavernous echo of the arena, the hum of production equipment, and the faint smell of pyro residue from testing.

But even empty, WrestleMania felt alive.

The documentary crew followed close behind, capturing every step as you walked through the tunnel. Rhea walked beside you, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Cody stayed a few paces back, giving you space but never drifting far.

A producer spotted you and immediately waved you over. “Main event’s here! Let’s get her set.”

The words hit you harder than you expected.

Main event. Night One. Your night.

You stepped onto the ramp, and the stadium swallowed you whole — the sheer size of it, the height of the stage, the endless rows of seats stretching into darkness.

Even empty, it felt like the world was watching.

The producer handed you a small earpiece. “We’re going to run your entrance timing. Just walk naturally. We’ll cue pyro and lighting.”

You nodded, adjusting the championship belt on your shoulder.

Rhea smirked. “Go on, champ. Show them how it’s done.”

You took your first step onto the ramp.

And the arena reacted.

Not with cheers — but with movement. Dozens of crew members stopped what they were doing to watch.

Camera operators lifted their rigs. Lighting techs leaned over railings. Stagehands paused mid‑task. Even the pyro team turned around.

You weren’t performing. You were just walking.

But they watched you like it mattered.

Because it did.

The documentary camera zoomed in as you reached the top of the ramp. The producer’s voice crackled in your earpiece.

“Hold there. Look out at the stadium.”

You did.

The empty seats stretched endlessly, but you could already imagine them filled — the roar, the lights, the energy. Your chest tightened, not with nerves, but with something fierce and electric.

“Alright,” the producer said. “Start your walk.”

You stepped forward, boots hitting the ramp with a steady rhythm. The camera tracked you from the side, then swung around to catch your face. Rhea walked behind you, arms folded, watching like a proud general.

Halfway down the ramp, another producer called out, “Pause there! That’s your first pyro cue.”

You stopped. Looked up. And the rafters exploded in a shower of white sparks — just a test, but the sound echoed through the empty stadium like thunder.

Rhea grinned. “That’s gonna look sick tonight.”

You continued toward the ring, the belt gleaming under the test lights. When you reached the steps, the producer cued again.

“Turn toward the hard cam. Lift the belt.”

You did — raising it high, letting the weight settle into your arm, letting the moment breathe.

Even empty, the arena felt like it held its breath.

The documentary camera captured the shot — the champion standing alone in the ring, the stadium lights hitting the gold perfectly, the quiet before the storm.

Cody watched from the ramp, hands on his hips, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Pride. Support. Belief.

Rhea leaned on the ropes, smirking. “You look like you own the place.”

You lowered the belt, breath steady. “Maybe I do.”

The producer clapped his hands. “Perfect. That’s the shot. We’re done.”

You stepped out of the ring, the crew parting to let you through. As you walked back up the ramp, people nodded, clapped, whispered to each other.

“Main event.” “She’s ready.” “That’s the champ.” “She’s got presence.”

The documentary camera caught all of it — the respect, the awe, the quiet recognition.

You weren’t just rehearsing.

You were claiming your stage.

Cody was already moving towards you, that same small, proud smile still tugging at his mouth. “You smashed that,” he said, voice low but warm. “Looked like you’d been doing it for twenty years.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, the adrenaline still buzzing faintly beneath your skin. “It felt… big. Bigger than I expected.”

“That’s because it is,” Cody replied. “Night One. Main event. You’re setting the tone for the whole weekend.”

Rhea rolled her shoulders as she joined the two of you. “And she’s doing it like a bloody natural,” she added, giving you a firm nod. “Told you. You own this place.”

You shook your head, a small, disbelieving laugh slipping out. “I just walked down a ramp.”

“Yeah,” Rhea said, “and half the crew nearly fainted watching you do it.”

Cody chuckled under his breath. “Come on. You need a break before they drag you into something else. Let’s get you to the canteen.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing back towards the arena entrance, the echo of the empty stadium still ringing in your ears. The belt felt heavier now, not in a burdensome way, but in a way that reminded you exactly who you were walking in as.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Food might help.”

Cody gestured for you to walk with him, and the three of you headed down to the canteen. Crew members passed by, offering nods, smiles, and murmured congratulations. Some didn’t even speak — they just looked at you with that same quiet recognition the camera had caught earlier.

Respect. Expectation. Belief.

By the time you reached the canteen doors, the nerves had settled into something steadier. Something sharper. Something that felt like purpose.

Cody pushed the door open for you, and the warm buzz of conversation spilled out, along with the smell of coffee and catering trays. “Right,” he said, guiding you inside. “Let’s get you something to eat before you forget how to function.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifted. “I’m fine.”

“You will be,” Cody replied, “once you’ve actually eaten.”

Rhea snorted. “She’s going to be unbearable after tonight. Might as well fuel her properly.”

The canteen was warm and bustling, a steady hum of voices and clattering plates filling the space. You settled into the seat between Rhea and Cody, the championship belt resting on the table in front of you like a quiet declaration. Rhea lounged back with her usual effortless swagger, while Cody leaned forward slightly, his presence calm and grounding without demanding anything from you.

You took a slow sip of water, letting the coolness settle the last remnants of adrenaline from the walk‑through. The stadium had felt enormous, almost alive, and the weight of the moment still clung to your skin. Cody noticed, of course he did, but he didn’t crowd you with reassurance. He simply shifted a little closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

“You’re settling into it,” he murmured, not as encouragement, but as an observation.

You breathed out, the tension in your shoulders easing. Rhea nudged your arm lightly, her tone dry but warm. “You’re doing better than half the roster would. Don’t let your head run off without you.”

You gave her a small smile, grateful for the bluntness. The documentary crew hovered a few feet away, filming discreetly, capturing the three of you in a moment that felt strangely intimate despite the noise around you.

Then the atmosphere shifted.

It was subtle at first — a hush rolling through the room, conversations tapering off, heads turning towards the entrance. You felt it before you saw it, a familiar heaviness settling in the air like a storm cloud.

The Bloodline walked in.

Roman led the group, his expression carved from stone, his presence commanding even in silence. Paul Heyman followed close behind, eyes sharp and calculating. But it was Jimmy and Jey who drew your attention first.

Jimmy’s steps faltered the moment he saw you. His expression tightened, something flickering across his face — guilt, hesitation, a flash of something that looked painfully close to regret. He didn’t look away immediately. He held your gaze for a heartbeat too long, as if torn between stopping and pretending he hadn’t seen you at all.

Jey wasn’t much better. His jaw clenched, his eyes darting between you and Cody, then to the belt on the table. He swallowed hard, the conflict written plainly across his face. He looked like he wanted to say something — or maybe like he wished he’d said something months ago.

Solo walked behind them, shoulders tense, eyes dropping the moment they found yours. The guilt there was unmistakable.

Roman’s gaze swept the room before landing on your table. His eyes lingered, unreadable but heavy, taking in the sight of you seated between Cody and Rhea, the belt gleaming under the lights. His stare wasn’t angry. It was assessing. Calculating. A reminder that he saw everything.

The entire canteen seemed to hold its breath.

Cody straightened beside you, not confrontational, just quietly protective. Rhea’s posture shifted too, her body angling slightly towards you, a silent declaration of where she stood.

Paul’s eyes narrowed, as if filing the image away for later. Jimmy looked down, jaw tight. Jey exhaled slowly, the conflict in his expression almost painful to watch. Solo hesitated for a fraction of a second before forcing himself to follow the others.

They didn’t stop. They didn’t speak. They simply walked past.

But the moment was electric.

The documentary camera swung instantly, capturing the tableau with perfect clarity: you between Cody and Rhea, the belt on the table, the Bloodline passing like ghosts from a life you’d outgrown — and Jimmy and Jey wearing their conflict openly for the first time.

The canteen slowly exhaled, conversations resuming in hushed tones. You felt your pulse steady again, the tension ebbing as the Bloodline disappeared down the corridor.

Rhea let out a low whistle. “Well. That was dramatic.”

Cody glanced at you, his voice soft but steady. “You handled that exactly how you needed to.”

You didn’t respond immediately. You just looked at the belt in front of you, the gold catching the light like a promise.

The walk back towards your private locker room was calm, almost peaceful, the kind of quiet that settled into your bones after the adrenaline of the walk‑through. Cody walked on your left, Rhea on your right, the belt resting against your hip as the documentary crew followed at a respectful distance. The earlier tension from the Bloodline encounter had faded into something steadier, something sharper, something that felt like purpose.

As you turned the corner into the main backstage corridor, voices drifted from a nearby warm‑up room — loud, animated, and unmistakably chaotic. Rhea’s eyes flicked sideways, her expression flattening into mild annoyance.

“Sounds like Liv’s working herself into a frenzy,” she muttered.

You didn’t slow down, but the words carried clearly enough that you couldn’t help but hear them.

Liv’s voice cut through the air, pitched high with manic confidence.

“She’s done. I broke her. Tonight’s my night. She’s walking out there with no family, no support, no one to save her. She’s going to be completely alone.”

Judgment Day murmured in response — Finn’s low hum, Damian’s amused scoff, Dominik’s eager agreement — but Liv kept going, her words tumbling out faster and faster.

“She’s pretending she’s fine, but I know I got in her head. I know she’s scared. She’s not ready for me. Not tonight. Not when she’s got no one left.”

Rhea glanced at you, waiting to see if the words landed.

They didn’t.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look towards the room. You didn’t even break stride.

Cody noticed too. His expression softened, not with pity, but with a quiet respect. “She’s talking to convince herself,” he said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “Not you.”

You kept walking, your pace steady, your posture relaxed, the belt gleaming under the corridor lights. The documentary camera captured the entire moment — Liv’s frantic boasting in the background, your calm indifference in the foreground.

It was the perfect contrast.

Liv’s voice rose again, louder, more desperate. “She’s going to crumble out there. I know she is.”

Rhea snorted. “She wishes.”

But you didn’t respond. You didn’t even look back. You simply reached your locker room door, pushed it open, and stepped inside with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly who she was.

The camera lingered on the corridor for a moment longer, catching Liv’s voice echoing faintly from the warm‑up room.

Then it cut to you — composed, focused, unbothered.

A champion who didn’t need to prove anything with words.

Time slipped by in a strange, elastic way once you were back inside your private locker room. The noise of the sold-out arena filtered through the walls in waves — bursts of crowd reactions, commentary echoing faintly through the monitors, the thud of pyro testing somewhere in the distance. It all felt both close and far away, like you were suspended in a pocket of calm while the world outside roared.

Rhea sat on the bench opposite you, stretching her shoulders with the casual ease of someone who’d lived through a hundred nights like this. Cody leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded, watching the monitor mounted in the corner as the second‑to‑last match played out. The documentary crew had set up quietly in one corner, their presence unobtrusive but constant, capturing the stillness before the storm.

You rested the championship belt across your lap, your fingers tracing the edge of the centre plate without really thinking about it. The earlier encounters — the Bloodline walking past, Liv’s frantic boasting — had settled into the background of your mind, leaving behind a steady, focused clarity.

A soft knock sounded at the door before it opened slightly. One of the documentary producers stepped inside, headset around her neck, clipboard in hand. She offered a polite smile, her voice gentle so as not to break the atmosphere.

“Sorry to interrupt. We just wanted to get a few pre‑match thoughts before the main event. Nothing heavy. Just whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”

You nodded, shifting slightly so the camera could catch you without feeling intrusive. The producer stepped back, giving you space, letting the moment breathe.

The camera light blinked on.

The producer spoke softly. “How are you feeling right now? With the match so close?”

You took a slow breath, letting your shoulders settle. “Calm,” you said, the word surprising even you with how true it felt. “Focused. Ready.”

The producer nodded, encouraging you to continue.

“This day has been… big,” you added, searching for the right phrasing. “But I’ve had the right people around me. I’m not walking into this alone, no matter what anyone else says.”

Rhea smirked at that, her expression full of quiet pride. Cody’s eyes softened, though he didn’t move or speak, letting the moment belong to you.

The producer glanced at her notes. “There’s been a lot of talk about pressure. About expectations. Does any of that affect you going into tonight?”

You shook your head slowly. “Pressure’s part of the job. But it doesn’t define me. I know who I am when I walk down that ramp and into that ring.”

The camera lingered on your face for a moment, capturing the steadiness in your expression, the quiet confidence that had replaced the nerves from earlier.

A roar from the arena suddenly shook the walls — the final match before yours reaching its climax. The commentary spiked, the crowd erupted, and the energy in the room shifted instantly.

Rhea stood, rolling her neck with a grin. “That’s our cue. They’re wrapping up.”

Cody pushed off the wall, his posture straightening, his focus sharpening. “We’re getting close.”

The producer stepped back, signalling to her team to lower the camera. “Thank you. That was perfect. We’ll leave you to your prep.”

The door closed behind them, and the room fell into a deeper kind of silence — not empty, but charged. The kind of silence that comes right before everything changes. You stood slowly, placing the belt on your shoulder, feeling the weight settle exactly where it belonged.

Rhea stepped beside you, her voice low and certain. “You’re ready.”

Cody moved to your other side, his expression steady, grounded. “It’s time.”

The monitor flickered as the final match ended, the crowd roaring in anticipation for the main event.

Your main event.

You took one last breath, letting it fill your lungs, letting it anchor you.

Then you stepped towards the door.

WrestleMania was waiting.

The curtain area opened up, and there she was.

Liv Morgan stood with Judgment Day gathered around her, all of them bathed in the purple glow of the entrance lights. Finn leaned against a crate, arms folded, watching you with a sly, unreadable expression. Damian stood tall, expression cool. Dominik hovered close to Liv, jittery with anticipation.

Liv turned the moment she sensed you.

Her eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, the entire backstage seemed to freeze. Her earlier bravado flickered back into place — chin lifted, shoulders squared, a smirk tugging at her mouth — but there was something brittle underneath it. Something sharp. Something desperate.

She stepped forward just enough to make it clear she wanted the moment.

“Hope you’re ready to lose everything,” she said quietly, her voice pitched so only you could hear. “Because I’m taking it all tonight.”

You didn’t blink. You didn’t rise to it. You didn’t give her the reaction she wanted.

You simply looked at her — steady, unbothered, unshaken — and Liv’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second.

Judgment Day noticed. The documentary camera noticed. Liv noticed most of all.

A producer called out, “Liv, you’re up.”

She held your gaze for one last beat, then turned sharply, signalling to Judgment Day. They followed her towards the curtain, the purple lights intensifying as her music cue loaded.

As Liv’s entrance faded into the distance, Triple H stepped beside you. He didn’t speak immediately. He just looked at you — really looked — taking in the belt, the posture, the calm in your eyes.

Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“You’ve earned this spot,” he said quietly. “Not because of who you’re related to. Not because of who stands beside you. Because of you. Go out there and show them why you’re the main event.”

His words weren’t loud or weren’t dramatic, but they landed with the weight of a blessing.

Cody stepped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, close enough that the noise of the arena faded for a moment.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to.

He dipped his head slightly so his voice reached only you. “If anything happens out there… I’m here. Rhea’s here. You’re not walking into this alone, no matter what anyone else says.”

His forehead hovered near yours — and then kissed you. It was intimate and grounding, leading you to relax. He then separated, and his eyes held yours, steady and certain, anchoring you in place.

Rhea stepped up on your other side, her tone low and fierce. “We’ve got your back. Always.”

The three of you stood in a tight triangle of quiet strength, the purple lights from Liv’s entrance flickering across your faces. Cody’s voice softened even further, barely audible over the crowd.

“You’re ready. Go show them.”

You exhaled slowly, letting the moment settle into your bones. Then you stepped back, creating the space you needed — the space that said you were walking out there on your own terms.

The producer lifted his hand.

“Champion — you’re up.”

You gave Cody and Rhea one last look — a look that said everything words didn’t need to.

Then you turned towards the curtain.

And walked out alone.

A deep, resonant note rolled through the stadium, followed by the first sharp beat of your theme. The lights exploded into a brilliant wash of white and gold, sweeping across the crowd in a wide arc. The reaction was immediate — a thunderous eruption that shook the floor beneath your boots.

You stepped through the curtain.

The stadium opened before you like a living ocean, waves of people rising to their feet, their cheers crashing against each other in a deafening swell. The ramp stretched out under the lights, gleaming like a runway carved from pure electricity. The air felt warm against your skin, charged with the kind of energy that only WrestleMania could summon.

You walked forward with a steady, deliberate pace, the belt glinting under the lights with every step. The camera tracked you from the side, then swung around to capture your face — calm, focused, unshaken. You didn’t rush. You didn’t posture. You didn’t need to.

You were the champion. And everyone in that stadium knew it.

The commentary team leaned into the moment, their voices cutting through the noise with the perfect blend of awe and tension.

Micheal Cole said in his mic, “You can feel the gravity of this moment. The champion is walking into WrestleMania alone tonight. No Bloodline behind her. No brothers flanking her. That era is over.”

Wade replied, “And let’s be honest, Cole — if the Bloodline hadn’t fractured the way it did, she wouldn’t be walking out here without them. They would’ve been right behind her, ready to tear the world apart for her. But they left. They walked away. And she’s proving she doesn’t need them.

“She’s not just surviving without them. She’s thriving.”

The crowd reacted to that line, a ripple of cheers rolling through the stadium as you placed one hand on the steel steps.

You paused.

Not for the camera. Not for the crowd. For Judgment Day.

They stood at ringside, their faces lit by the purple glow of Liv’s entrance lights. Finn’s smirk deepened as he watched you. Damian’s expression remained cool and unreadable. Dominik shifted nervously, his eyes darting between you and Liv.

You lifted your chin slightly and stared at them — not with fear, not with hostility, but with a calm, unshakeable confidence that made the moment stretch.

The camera caught it perfectly: the champion on the steps, Judgment Day watching from below, Liv pacing inside the ring like a caged animal.

You held the stare for a heartbeat longer, letting the tension settle into the air like smoke.

Then you turned away from them, placing your foot on the first step, climbing slowly and deliberately. The crowd rose with you, their cheers swelling as you stepped onto the apron.

You didn’t rush. You didn’t break eye contact with Liv. You didn’t let the moment slip away.

You stepped through the ropes with the belt still in your hand, the lights dimming slightly as the focus narrowed to the two of you.

Liv stopped pacing.

She turned fully, her expression tightening as she realised you hadn’t been rattled by her faction, her entrance, or her words.

The commentary team felt the shift too.

“Look at that stare. Liv Morgan wanted to break her, but the champion looks more composed than ever.”

Cole added on, “And Judgment Day can’t help her now. This is one‑on‑one. No excuses. No interference. No safety net.”

The referee stepped between you, lifting the belt high for the stadium to see. The gold reflected the lights like a promise.

The crowd fell into a tense, electric hush.

The bell rang with a sharp, echoing crack that cut through the noise of the stadium. For a moment, neither of you moved. You stood tall in your corner, shoulders squared, breathing steady, your eyes locked on Liv as she paced with restless, jittery energy. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, a low rumble that vibrated through the canvas beneath your boots.

Liv struck first.

She darted forward with a burst of speed, catching you with a sharp forearm that snapped your head to the side. She followed it immediately with another, then another, driving you back into the ropes with a frantic intensity that bordered on desperation. Her movements were fast, almost wild, as if she believed overwhelming you early was her only chance.

“Liv Morgan coming out of the gate like a woman possessed,” Michael Cole said, his voice rising with the pace of the action. “She knows she needs to control the tempo.”

Wade Barrett said, “She’s trying to smother the champion before she can settle into her rhythm. It’s smart, but it’s dangerous. You burn out fast fighting like this.”

Liv whipped you across the ring, the ropes biting into your back as you rebounded. She leapt into a dropkick that caught you clean in the chest, sending you to the mat. The crowd reacted with a sharp gasp, followed by a wave of cheers from her supporters.

Liv scrambled over you, raining down punches, her hair falling wildly around her face. You covered up, absorbing the blows, waiting for the moment her rhythm faltered. When it did, you rolled out from under her, rising to your feet with a calmness that contrasted sharply with her frantic energy.

Liv charged again.

This time, you caught her.

You hooked her arm, twisted your hips, and sent her crashing to the mat with a clean, controlled takedown. The crowd roared as you transitioned smoothly into a grounded hold, your movements deliberate and precise.

“And just like that, the champion slows the pace,” Michael Cole said. “This is where she thrives.”

Wade Barrett said, “Liv’s aggression is impressive, but the champion’s composure is unmatched. She’s not rattled. Not even close.”

Liv struggled beneath you, her breath coming in sharp bursts. When she finally wriggled free, she rolled to the ropes, gripping the bottom strand as she glared at you with a mixture of frustration and disbelief.

You didn’t rise to it. You simply stood, centred and steady, waiting.

Liv lunged again, this time aiming for your legs. She tackled you into the corner, driving her shoulder into your midsection with a ferocity that made the crowd wince. She grabbed your wrist, climbed the ropes, and launched into a twisting arm drag that sent you tumbling across the ring.

She popped to her feet, screaming at the crowd, her chest heaving.

Judgment Day applauded at ringside, Finn smirking, Damian nodding with approval, Dominik pounding the apron with excitement.

Liv turned back to you, her expression sharp and hungry.

She charged.

You sidestepped.

She hit the turnbuckle hard, the impact echoing through the arena. You caught her from behind, lifting her into a smooth back suplex that sent her sprawling across the mat.

“The champion is finding her rhythm now,” Michael Cole said, excitement rising in his voice.

Wade Barrett said, “Liv Morgan needs to slow down. She’s burning through her energy like she’s got something to prove.”

Liv crawled to the ropes, clutching her ribs.

And that’s when the cheating began.

As you approached Liv, Finn hopped onto the apron, shouting at the referee. The official turned, distracted, waving Finn down.

That was all Dominik needed.

He grabbed your ankle from the outside, yanking hard enough to pull you off balance. You stumbled, catching yourself on the ropes, but Liv was already on her feet.

She hit you with a running knee to the jaw.

You dropped to one knee, the crowd booing loudly as Liv capitalised, hooking your head and driving you into the mat with a DDT.

“Oh come on!” Michael Cole said. “Dominik Mysterio just tripped the champion!”

Wade Barrett said, “Judgment Day doing what Judgment Day does best — stacking the deck.”

Liv covered you, hooking the leg.

One. Two—

You kicked out.

Liv slammed her fists against the mat, screaming at the referee, her frustration boiling over. She dragged you up by your hair, shoving you into the ropes as Damian reached out, grabbing your wrist to hold you in place.

The boos grew louder. The referee didn’t see it. Judgment Day were swarming.

Liv ran the ropes, ready to strike—

And then the crowd exploded.

Cody sprinted down the ramp first, sliding into the ringside area with a speed that made the cameras struggle to keep up. Rhea followed a heartbeat later, her boots pounding against the steel as she stormed towards Damian.

The arena erupted into chaos.

Cody tackled Dominik to the floor, sending him sprawling across the mats. Rhea collided with Damian, the two of them trading heavy blows as Finn jumped down from the apron, shouting orders that no one was listening to.

Liv froze mid‑stride, her eyes widening as the ring descended into mayhem.

You rose behind her.

Slowly. Deliberately. Like a storm gathering strength.

Liv turned—

And you struck with a sharp elbow to the jaw, sending her stumbling backwards. She swung wildly, but you blocked it, countering with a clean, powerful strike that sent her crashing into the ropes.

The crowd roared as you lifted her into a spine‑shaking slam, the impact rattling the ring. Liv writhed on the mat, clutching her back, her earlier confidence evaporating.

Judgment Day were being dismantled at ringside — Cody throwing Dominik into the barricade, Rhea slamming Damian onto the floor, Finn retreating with a snarl.

Liv crawled to the centre of the ring, breathless and panicked.

You stood over her.

The stadium rose to its feet.

Liv swung weakly, her arm trembling with desperation. You caught her arm, twisted smoothly, and pulled her into your finisher with a precision that made the crowd erupt.

You hooked the leg.

The referee’s hand struck the mat for the third time, and the bell rang with a clarity that seemed to slice straight through the air. For a heartbeat, the world didn’t move. The lights blurred into soft halos, the roar of the stadium folded into a distant hum, and the canvas beneath your palms felt strangely warm, almost alive. You stayed on your knees, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, your chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

Then the sound hit you.

A roar so powerful it felt like the entire stadium exhaled at once. A sound that wrapped around you, lifted you, shook you. A sound that didn’t just celebrate a victory — it celebrated survival.

The referee knelt beside you, placing the championship belt gently into your hands. The moment your fingers curled around the gold, something inside you gave way. Your breath broke, sharp and trembling, and tears spilled before you could stop them. They fell hot against your cheeks, blurring the lights, turning the arena into a shimmering sea of colour.

You weren’t crying because you were overwhelmed. You were crying because you had survived everything they said would break you.

The betrayal. The abandonment. The loneliness. The pressure of carrying a legacy that had crumbled beneath your feet. The fear that without the Bloodline behind you, you were nothing.

And now, here you were — standing in the centre of WrestleMania, belt in hand, having defended your title on your own terms.

The crowd saw it, they felt it, and they cried with you.

Camera shots swept across the stadium — fans wiping their eyes, clutching their chests, hugging each other, holding signs that read “You Deserve This”, “Our Champion”, “Stronger Without Them”. A young girl in the front row sobbed openly, pointing at you with shaking hands, her face lit with awe.

Michael Cole said, his voice cracking, “This… this is what it looks like when someone refuses to break. Look at her. Look at what this moment means. She didn’t just win a match tonight. She reclaimed her life.”

Wade Barrett said, “She walked into WrestleMania without the Bloodline. She walked in with the weight of the world on her shoulders. And she walked out proving she never needed them. This is triumph. This is heart. This is a champion.”

You rose slowly, the belt pressed against your chest, your shoulders shaking with quiet, uncontrollable emotion. The lights above caught the tears on your face, turning them into tiny sparks that shimmered as you turned in a slow circle. The crowd rose with you, their cheers swelling into something almost physical, something that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

Cody slid into the ring, breathless and wide‑eyed, as he simply stood beside you, letting you have the moment you had earned. Rhea joined him, her expression fierce with pride, her eyes shining with a softness she rarely allowed anyone to see.

You lifted the belt high above your head, your arm trembling not from exhaustion but from the sheer emotional force of the moment. The lights hit the gold, sending a ripple of brilliance across the stadium that made the crowd erupt again.

And then something unexpected happened.

One by one, wrestlers stepped out onto the stage. Not a handful. Not a few. Dozens. A wave of bodies filling the ramp, lining the stage, clapping slowly at first, then louder, until the entire stadium joined them. A standing ovation that rolled like thunder, rising higher and higher until it felt like the roof might lift off the building.

You covered your mouth with your hand, tears spilling again, your chest tightening with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. You had never felt so seen. So valued. So understood.

And then the crowd parted slightly.

Triple H walked out.

The stadium erupted into a fresh wave of cheers as he made his way down the ramp, his expression warm and proud. He stepped into the ring, moving slowly, giving you space to breathe. When he reached you, he didn’t grab your hand or raise your arm. He simply placed a hand on your shoulder — gentle, steady, grounding.

“This,” he said softly, his voice barely audible over the crowd, “is what happens when you refuse to break.”

Your breath hitched, your throat tightening, your vision blurring again.

He continued, “You didn’t just defend a title tonight. You proved who you are. And you did it without anyone holding you up.”

The crowd roared again, chanting your name, the sound swelling until it felt like the stadium itself was alive.

You looked around — at the wrestlers on the stage, at Cody and Rhea beside you, at Triple H standing proudly at your side, at the fans crying with you — and for the first time in months, you felt whole.

You weren’t alone. You weren’t abandoned. You weren’t defined by the Bloodline.

You were the champion.

And tonight, the world finally saw you.

The glow of the monitor cast a cold, bluish light across the faces of the Bloodline as they stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder, watching the replay of your victory unfold in slow motion.

Roman stood at the centre.

Not sitting. Not relaxed. Standing.

His posture was rigid, his arms folded across his chest, his jaw set in a way that made the tension in the room feel almost suffocating. The Tribal Chief didn’t blink as the footage showed you collapsing to your knees, tears streaming down your face as the referee placed the championship belt into your hands.

Jimmy stood slightly to Roman’s right, arms crossed tightly, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched near his cheek. He watched you cry in the ring, his expression flickering between pride and something that looked dangerously close to regret. His throat bobbed once, a small swallow he tried to hide.

Jey stood on Roman’s left, hands on his hips, breathing unevenly. His eyes softened the moment the camera showed you lifting the belt with trembling arms, surrounded by wrestlers who had come out to honour you. He exhaled slowly, a long, conflicted breath that seemed to deflate something inside him. He looked away for a moment, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, trying to hide the emotion tightening his features.

Solo stood closest to the monitor, posture rigid, shoulders squared, hands clasped in front of him. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even seem to breathe. His eyes were fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on painful. When the replay showed you breaking down, clutching the belt to your chest, something flickered across his face — guilt, longing, and a quiet ache he couldn’t mask.

Paul Heyman hovered behind them, his hands clasped nervously, his expression tight with tension. He watched Roman more than he watched the screen, studying every twitch, every shift, every unspoken reaction.

Then the footage showed the wrestlers pouring out onto the stage — dozens of them — applauding you, honouring you, celebrating you. The stadium roared your name. Triple H stepped into the ring, placing a hand on your shoulder as you cried openly, overwhelmed by the moment.

Jimmy’s jaw tightened. Jey blinked hard. Solo swallowed. Paul’s breath caught.

Roman didn’t move.

Not a muscle.

He watched you lift the belt again, tears streaking your face, the crowd chanting in unison. He watched Cody and Rhea stand beside you. He watched the wrestlers on the stage applaud. He watched Triple H speak to you with pride.

And then he finally spoke.

His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous in its calmness.

“She did that,” Roman said, eyes still locked on the screen. “Without us.”

No one answered.

He continued, his tone colder. “She didn’t need the Bloodline. She didn’t need her family. She didn’t need me.”

Jimmy shifted uncomfortably, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Uce… she—”

Roman cut him off with a single glance.

Jey swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “She proved something tonight.”

Solo’s voice came out low, almost pained. “She proved she’s stronger without us.”

Roman’s jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “No,” he said quietly. “She proved she doesn’t belong to us anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, heavy with everything they hadn’t said for months.

The camera lingered on their faces — the conflict, the regret, the pride, the ache — before cutting back to the stadium, where you stood in the centre of the ring, surrounded by people who chose to stand with you.

The Bloodline watched you celebrate.

And for the first time, they realised collectively they have lost you.

The corridor outside gorilla was still buzzing with aftershocks of your victory — crew members clapping, wrestlers nodding in respect, the faint echo of the crowd still rumbling through the walls. But the moment you stepped through the curtain, the adrenaline that had carried you through the match began to drain from your body, leaving your legs unsteady and your breath trembling.

Cody noticed instantly.

He didn’t say anything at first. He simply placed a steadying hand near your back — not touching, just guiding — and walked beside you down the hallway. The belt hung loosely in your grip, the gold warm from your hands, the weight of it grounding you in a way that felt almost surreal.

When you reached your private locker room, Cody pushed the door open for you. The room was dim, quiet, untouched since you’d left it hours earlier. The faint scent of your entrance gear lingered in the air, mixed with the sterile coolness of backstage lighting. You stepped inside slowly, as if crossing a threshold into a different world.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The silence settled immediately — thick, heavy, intimate. You stood in the centre of the room, staring down at the belt in your hands, your breath catching in your throat. The tears you’d held back since leaving the ring finally broke free, slipping down your cheeks in slow, trembling streaks.

Cody stepped closer, his voice soft and warm. “You did it.”

You shook your head, a shaky laugh escaping you — half disbelief, half exhaustion. “I… I don’t even know how to feel right now.”

“You should feel proud,” Cody said gently. “You walked out there alone. You fought through everything. You held your ground. You proved—”

You cut him off, your voice cracking. “I didn’t do it alone.”

Cody blinked, taken aback by the sudden intensity in your tone. You lifted your head, tears clinging to your lashes, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

“You and Rhea came out for me,” you said, your voice trembling. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve stayed backstage. You could’ve let Judgment Day do whatever they wanted. But you didn’t. You helped me. You saved me. I wouldn’t have made it through that match without you.”

Cody’s expression softened, something warm and almost fragile flickering across his face. He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, close enough that the room seemed to shrink around the two of you.

“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “We helped because we care. But we didn’t win that match. You did. You’re the one who stood up after every hit. You’re the one who kept fighting when Liv tried to break you. You’re the one who lifted that belt. We were just… there. You were the one who survived.”

Your breath hitched, your shoulders shaking as the truth of his words settled deep inside you. You sank onto the bench, the belt resting across your lap, your fingers tracing the edge of the centre plate with trembling hands.

Cody sat beside you — not touching, not crowding, just close enough that his presence steadied the air around you. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his voice low and sincere.

“You’ve been carrying so much,” he said. “The Bloodline. The pressure. The expectations. The fear of what happens when they’re not behind you anymore. But tonight… you proved something to yourself. You proved you’re more than their legacy. You’re more than their shadow. You’re your own champion.”

Your eyes filled again, tears spilling freely now, not from pain but from release — a release you’d been holding back for months. You pressed a hand to your mouth, trying to steady your breathing, but the emotion was too big, too raw, too real.

Cody didn’t look away.

He didn’t rush you. He didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed with you in the quiet, letting you feel everything you’d earned the right to feel.

After a long moment, you whispered, “I was so scared I’d fall apart out there.”

“But you didn’t,” Cody said softly. “You rose. And you didn’t rise because of us. You rose because of you.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time since the match ended, you felt the world settle. The chaos faded. The noise softened. The ache in your chest eased.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For being there. For not letting me face them alone.”

Cody nodded once, his voice barely above a murmur. “Always.”

In that moment, without thinking, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. It wasn't a heated kiss. It was soft, emotional, filled with gratitude and a connection that ran deeper than words. Cody kissed you back gently, his hand coming up to rest on your cheek, his thumb brushing away the remnants of your tears.

You angled your head, deepening the kiss just a little. Your lips moved against his with a tender intensity, conveying all the things you couldn't quite put into words. Cody responded in kind, his fingers sliding into your hair, the touch comforting and intimate. The kiss was a moment suspended in time, a shared breath between two people who had been through the wringer and come out stronger, together.

As the kiss ended, you leaned back against the wall, the belt resting against your chest, your breath finally steadying. Cody stayed beside you, silent but present, giving you the space to breathe, to process, to exist.

And in that quiet locker room, with the weight of the championship belt against your heart and Cody's supportive presence by your side, everything finally felt okay. More than okay. It felt like you could breathe again. Truly breathe.

Then Rhea stepped inside.

She didn’t stride in with her usual swagger. She didn’t bring the energy she carried in the ring. She walked in quietly, closing the door behind her with a soft click, her expression shifting the moment she saw you — the tears, the belt, the exhaustion, the rawness.

Her face softened in a way she rarely let anyone see.

She crossed the room slowly, boots silent against the floor, and stopped directly in front of you. She didn’t speak at first. She just looked at you — really looked — taking in the trembling hands, the red‑rimmed eyes, the way you clutched the belt like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“You did it,” she said softly. “You actually did it.”

Your breath hitched, the emotion rising too quickly to contain. “I… I didn’t think I could.”

Rhea shook her head gently. “You’ve always been able to. You just needed to see it.”

You let out a shaky laugh, tears gathering again. “I thought I’d fall apart out there.”

“But you didn’t,” Rhea said. “You held your ground. You fought through everything. And when they tried to break you, you didn’t let them.”

You looked between her and Cody, your chest tightening with gratitude so fierce it almost hurt. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you two hadn’t come out.”

Rhea’s voice softened. “We didn’t come out to save you. We came out because you deserved a fair fight. Because you’ve been fighting alone for too long. Because you’re not alone anymore.”

The words hit you like a tidal wave.

Your breath broke. Your shoulders shook. The tears came fast, hot, unstoppable.

And before you could even think to stop yourself, you reached for them — both of them — your hands trembling as you pulled them in.

Cody moved first, wrapping an arm around your shoulders with a gentleness that made your chest ache. Rhea leaned in from the other side, her arm strong and steady around your back, her forehead resting lightly against the side of your head.

The three of you held each other in the quiet, the weight of the night settling around you like a warm blanket. You cried — not from pain, not from fear, but from release. From relief. From finally being allowed to fall apart in the arms of people who wouldn’t let you hit the ground.

Cody murmured softly, “You’re safe. You’re okay. You did it.”

Rhea whispered, “We’ve got you. We’re right here.”

You clung to them, the belt pressed between you, your breath shaking as the last of the fear and loneliness drained out of your body. For the first time in months, you didn’t feel like you were holding yourself together by force.

You felt held. You felt supported. You felt chosen.

And when you finally pulled back, wiping your face with trembling hands, both of them stayed close — not crowding, not overwhelming, just present.

Cody smiled softly. “You’re the champion.”

Rhea nodded, her voice steady. “And you’re not carrying it alone anymore.”

You looked at them — really looked — and for the first time since everything fell apart, you felt whole.

The hallway outside the locker room felt strangely hollow once Cody and Rhea slipped back inside, leaving you alone with the soft hum of backstage machinery and the faint echo of the crowd still drifting through the concrete. The belt weighed comfortably on your shoulder, warm from your hands, grounding you in a way that felt almost unreal. You took a slow breath, steadying yourself before heading toward the documentary crew who had asked for a quick reaction. It felt like the right thing to do — to capture this moment while it was still raw, still honest, still yours.

You walked down the corridor at an unhurried pace, the soles of your boots tapping softly against the floor. The lighting was dimmer here, the shadows longer, the atmosphere quieter than the chaos you’d just left behind. You rounded a corner, adjusting the belt slightly, still trying to process the night, still trying to believe it had actually happened.

Then you stopped.

Roman Reigns stood halfway down the hallway, positioned in the centre as if he had been waiting there for some time. He wasn’t leaning against the wall or pacing or speaking to anyone. He simply stood with the stillness of someone who didn’t need to announce his presence to command the space around him. The overhead lights cast a muted glow across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the unreadable calm in his eyes.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt thick, almost charged, as if the entire arena had gone silent just to make room for this one moment. You felt your breath catch, not out of fear, but out of the sudden collision of past and present — the man who once shaped your world now standing in the path of the person you were becoming.

Roman’s gaze travelled slowly from the belt on your shoulder to your face, lingering there with a depth that made your chest tighten. There was no anger in his expression, no disappointment, no pride. Just a quiet, unsettling intensity that suggested he was seeing you clearly for the first time in a long while.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, carrying none of the theatrics he used in the ring. It was the voice he reserved for moments that mattered.

“You walked away and you didn’t fall. But don’t mistake tonight for tomorrow.”

The words settled heavily in the space between you, not as a threat, not as a compliment, but as an acknowledgement — a recognition of the shift neither of you could ignore. It wasn’t approval. It wasn’t condemnation. It was something far more complicated, something that made your pulse quicken and your throat tighten.

Roman held your gaze for a long, measured moment, as if weighing something unspoken, something he wasn’t ready to voice. Then he stepped aside, creating a clear path down the corridor, a gesture that felt both deliberate and symbolic.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. The moment felt too fragile, too loaded, too significant to break with words. You simply nodded once, a small, instinctive movement, and walked past him. You felt his eyes follow you for a few seconds before the weight of his presence faded behind you.

The documentary crew waited just ahead, their equipment set up neatly, their expressions softening when they saw you approach. You took a breath, steadying yourself, letting the last remnants of that encounter settle somewhere deep inside your chest.

“Whenever you’re ready,” one of them said gently.

You lifted your chin, adjusted the belt on your shoulder, and stepped into the light.

“I’m ready,” you murmured, though the words carried a meaning far larger than the interview.

Because after seeing Roman — after hearing him acknowledge what you’d done — you realised something with startling clarity.

Tomorrow wasn’t just Night Two.

Tomorrow was the reckoning.

The hotel room door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality, sealing out the noise of the arena and leaving only the muted hum of the city beyond the window. The room was warm, dimly lit by a single bedside lamp that cast a gentle amber glow across the carpet and the neatly made beds. You stood there for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you, feeling the weight of the night finally begin to ease off your shoulders.

Cody slipped his keycard onto the table and shrugged out of his jacket, moving with the slow, deliberate exhaustion of someone who had been running on adrenaline for hours. He didn’t speak right away. He just watched you with that steady, grounding presence he carried so naturally, the kind that made the room feel safer simply because he was in it.

You walked toward the bed and placed the championship belt down carefully, smoothing your hand over the centre plate as if it might disappear if you didn’t keep touching it. The gold caught the lamplight, glowing softly, almost reverently. You sat down beside it, your legs folding beneath you, your breath finally beginning to slow.

Cody joined you on the opposite side of the bed, sitting with a quiet heaviness that matched your own. He leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him, his shoulders relaxing for the first time all night.

“You holding up?” he asked gently, his voice low and warm.

You let out a soft, tired laugh. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I feel like I’m still in the ring. Like my body hasn’t realised it’s over yet.”

“That’s normal,” he said. “Your mind’s still catching up. Your heart too.”

You nodded, staring at the belt again. “I didn’t think I’d cry that hard,” you murmured. “I thought I’d be… I don’t know. Stronger.”

Cody tilted his head slightly. “Crying doesn’t make you weak. Tonight wasn’t just a match. It was everything you’ve been carrying for months. You let it out. That’s strength.”

You breathed in slowly, letting his words settle. “I saw Roman,” you said quietly. “In the hallway.”

Cody’s expression shifted, concern flickering across his features. “What happened?”

“He said… ‘You walked away and you didn’t fall. But don’t mistake tonight for tomorrow.’” You swallowed, your fingers tightening around the edge of the duvet. “It got under my skin more than I wanted it to.”

Cody nodded slowly, his gaze softening. “He wants you thinking about him. That’s how he works. But you’re not the same person he left behind.”

You looked down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. “I know. I just… I don’t want tomorrow to undo everything I felt tonight.”

“It won’t,” Cody said. “You’re not going backwards.”

You exhaled, long and shaky, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. The room felt warmer now, softer, the quiet settling into something almost comforting. You shifted your weight, leaning back against the pillows, letting your body sink into the mattress.

Cody watched you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he said, his voice dipping into something lower, something more deliberate, “I never really got to congratulate you properly.”

You blinked, confused for a moment. “You did,” you said softly. “You were there. You helped me. You—”

He shook his head slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that sent a warm flush through your chest. “No,” he said, his voice almost a murmur now. “Not like this. Not the way I can now.”

The words hung in the air between you, warm and suggestive and unmistakably intentional. You felt your pulse quicken, your breath catching as you tried to process what he meant. “Cody… what do you—”

He didn’t interrupt you. He didn’t rush. He simply leaned in a little closer, his eyes never leaving yours, giving you every chance to understand, every chance to pull away, every chance to choose.

The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker, the space between you charged with something that had been building quietly for weeks — maybe months — waiting for the right moment to surface.

Your confusion melted into realisation, and the realisation melted into something warmer, deeper, more electric than anything you’d felt all night.

Cody reached out, slow and deliberate, his hand brushing your waist in a way that was both gentle and certain. You felt the breath leave your lungs in a soft, involuntary exhale, your body responding before your mind could catch up.

He lifted you with an ease that made your heart stutter, guiding you toward him with a confidence that didn’t feel rushed or presumptuous — just right. Just inevitable.

Your hands found his shoulders, your breath mingling with his, the moment stretching into something suspended and breathless and impossibly intimate.

And then—

The world narrowed to the warmth of his hands, the closeness of his body, the quiet certainty in his eyes as the room faded into soft, golden blur.

Everything else could wait.

🎀🎀

You inhaled sharply as Cody's hands slid over your waist, his touch gentle yet firm, his fingers grazing the bare skin at your hips. His eyes held yours with a smouldering intensity, the amber lamplight dancing in the warm brown depths.

He pulled you closer, your bodies aligning like puzzle pieces clicking into place. You could feel the heat of his skin through his thin shirt, the firmness of his chest pressing against yours. Your breath came faster, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Cody's hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the fabric of your bra. You shivered at the contact, arching subtly into his touch. He leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear as he whispered, "Let me celebrate you properly, my champion."

His voice was low and rough, sending a jolt of desire straight to your core. Your hands tightened on his shoulders, your nails digging into the firm muscle. He nipped at your earlobe, then soothed the sting with his tongue.

With a smooth motion, he rolled you onto your back, his body settling over yours. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh, making your head spin with want. He slid a hand under your shirt, his calloused palm skimming over the smooth skin of your stomach, sending goosebumps trailing in its wake.

"Cody," you breathed, your voice barely audible. But it was enough. He seemed to understand the depth of your need, the way it matched his own.

His fingers found the clasp of your bra, undoing it and slipping it off you with practised ease. The cool air against your heated skin made you gasp, your nipples pebbling instantly. Cody's gaze dropped to your chest, his eyes darkening with desire.

"Fuck," he rasped. "You're so beautiful."

He ducked his head, capturing one straining peak in his mouth. You cried out, the sensation overwhelming, your hips arching off the bed. He lavished attention on your breasts, alternating between firm sucks and gentle flicks of his tongue until you were writhing beneath him.

When he finally released you, you were panting, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. Cody sat back on his heels, drinking in the sight of you splayed out beneath him.

"Stay just like that," he commanded, his voice thick with lust.

He reached for the championship belt, lifting it from where it lay forgotten on the bed. Your breath caught as he draped it over your stomach, the cool metal settling just above your skin.

"Fuck," you whispered, overwhelmed by the symbolism, the intimacy of the moment.

Cody's hand drifted lower, palming your clit through your shorts. "Such a perfect fucking champion," he murmured, rubbing slow circles over your clit.

You whimpered, grinding your hips against his hand, desperate for more friction, feeling the belt closer to your skin. Cody chuckled darkly, slipping his hand beneath the waistband to stroke your bare flesh.

"You're so wet," he growled appreciatively. "So ready for me."

You could only moan in response, lost to the sensation of his fingers delving deeper, teasing your entrance. He worked you slowly, expertly, his touch designed to wind you tighter and tighter without pushing you over the edge.

It was exquisite torture, a slow build that left you shaking and pleading. You needed more, needed to feel him inside you, needed to claim him as thoroughly as he was claiming you.

"Please," you gasped, writhing under his hand. "I need—"

"Shh," he soothed, pressing a finger to your lips. "I've got you, baby. I know what you need."

And then he was shifting, positioning himself between your thighs. You could feel the head of his cock nudging at your folds, the promise of what was to come making your heart race.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss that stole your breath. And then he was pushing inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely that it made your vision go white.

"Fuck," Cody groaned against your lips, his hips rocking into yours. "So tight. So perfect."

He set a slow, deep rhythm, his thrusts measured and deliberate. Each drive of his hips pressed the championship belt against your skin, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your bodies.

You clung to him, your nails raking down his back as you met him thrust for thrust. The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, low moans and grunts of pleasure.

Cody buried his face in your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin. "Come for me," he urged hotly. "Let me feel you fall apart around my cock."

His words were like a trigger, sending you hurtling over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing with the force of it.

Cody followed right behind, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep inside you. He groaned your name like a prayer as he spilled inside you, his hot seed marking you, claiming you.

You clung to him as the aftershocks faded, your bodies still joined, the championship belt a tangible symbol of what you'd earned, what you'd built together.

You let out a soft, shuddering sigh as Cody slowly withdrew from your body, a rush of his release dribbling from you. Your thighs were sticky with sweat and the evidence of his pleasure, your skin flushed and glistening in the low light.

Cody's chest was heaving as he collapsed beside you on the bed, his arm slung across your stomach possessively, his arm going over the belt as well. His hair was tousled from your fingers, his face ruddy and satisfied. He looked like a man who had been well and truly fucked.

For a long moment, you just lay there, catching your breath, basking in the afterglow. The room was thick with the scent of sex - musk and sweat and something uniquely you and Cody.

Cody pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then propped himself up on one elbow to look down at you. "That was... intense," he murmured, trailing his fingers over the swell of your breast.

You shivered at the touch, your nipples still tight and sensitive. "Mmmm," you hummed in agreement. "You can congratulate me like that any time."

Cody chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. He leaned down to brush his lips over yours in a soft, tender kiss. "I'll keep that in mind," he murmured against your mouth.

🎀🎀

As the initial rush faded, you became more aware of the sticky mess between your thighs, the way your hair was matted to your forehead with sweat. You shifted slightly, grimacing at the discomfort.

Cody seemed to sense your discomfort, rolling off the bed with an easy grace. "Hold that thought," he said with a wink, padding naked toward the bathroom. You watched him go, admiring the play of muscle in his back.

He returned a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. You couldn't help but smile at the gesture, touched by his thoughtfulness. He gently cleaned you, his touch reverent and soothing, his eyes soft on your face. He then took the belt and set it aside on the bedside table.

"There," he said finally, tossing the cloth aside and settling back into the bed beside you. "Feeling better?"

"Much," you murmured, curling into his side. The exhaustion was starting to catch up to you, your limbs heavy and sluggish. But there was a warmth blooming in your chest too, a sense of contentment and peace.

Cody wrapped an arm around you, tucking you against him. "Get some sleep," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "You've earned it."

You nodded, nuzzling into his chest. His heartbeat was slow and steady under your cheek, a soothing rhythm that lulled you toward sleep. As you drifted off, you felt Cody's fingers threading through your hair, his lips brushing your forehead in a tender kiss.

As sleep took you, you couldn't help but feel a sense of rightness, of completeness. Like this - here, in this moment, with this man - was exactly where you were meant to be.

However, there was deep emotion brewing in a hotel 20 minutes from you.

Roman’s hotel suite looked more like a penthouse than a room — floor‑to‑ceiling windows overlooking the city, polished marble counters, a dining table big enough for ten, and a living area arranged with immaculate precision. Everything was expensive, curated, controlled. Everything except the atmosphere, which felt tight and suffocating the moment the Bloodline stepped inside.

Paul Heyman stood near the window, hands clasped in front of him, eyes darting nervously between the door and Roman. Solo sat rigidly on the edge of the sofa, shoulders squared, jaw tight. Jimmy lingered near the minibar, restless, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Jey stood apart from all of them, arms folded, expression carved from stone.

The door opened.

Roman walked in.

He didn’t slam it. He didn’t storm. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply entered with a cold, deliberate calm that made the room feel smaller. He removed the garland from around his neck and placed it on the table with a care that felt almost ceremonial. Then he looked at them.

Not angry. Not explosive. Just… disgusted.

“She won,” Roman said, his voice low and steady. “She walked out there alone… and she won.”

No one spoke.

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “And she didn’t win with us. She didn’t win because of us. She won with them.”

He said the word like it tasted foul.

“Cody Rhodes,” he continued, the name dripping with contempt. “Rhea Ripley. Holding her. Lifting her. Acting like they built her. Acting like they carried her through the fire.”

Jimmy swallowed. “Uce—”

Roman cut him off with a look sharp enough to slice through the air.

“She let outsiders hold her when she broke,” Roman said. “She let them touch what we made. What we raised. What we protected.”

Paul shifted nervously, opening his mouth as if to speak, but Roman’s gaze snapped to him and he froze.

“And you,” Roman said, turning back to the brothers. “You knew.”

The room went still.

“You watched it happen,” Roman said, voice quiet but venomous. “You watched her drift away. You watched her fall into his arms. And none of you thought to tell me.”

Jey’s jaw clenched. “We didn’t think it was our place.”

Roman stepped closer, eyes locked on him. “Everything in this family is my place.”

Jey didn’t back down. His voice was low, simmering with anger. “She left because of this. Because of you. Because you don’t see her as a person — just something you own.”

Jimmy’s eyes widened. Solo looked up sharply. Paul’s breath caught.

Roman stared at Jey, the silence stretching, heavy and dangerous.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roman said quietly.

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Jey shot back. “You pushed her away. And now you’re mad she found someone who actually gives a damn.”

Roman’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room dropped.

“Cody Rhodes,” Roman said, turning the name into a curse. “The man who’s been trying to tear this family apart since the day he walked in the door. The man who wants everything we built. And now he has her too.”

He shook his head slowly, disgust twisting his features.

“She chose him,” Roman said. “She let him get close. She let him take what belonged to us.”

Jimmy stepped forward, voice soft but firm. “Uce… she’s not the enemy.”

Roman’s eyes snapped to him. “She’s confused. She’s lost. She’s being misled.”

Solo shifted, a flicker of doubt crossing his face — the first crack in his stoic mask.

Roman continued, voice low and certain. “Tomorrow, when I destroy Cody Rhodes in front of the world… she’ll see who he really is. She’ll see what he really is. And she’ll come home.”

Jey let out a short, humourless laugh. “You really believe that?”

Roman turned to him slowly. “I saw her tonight.”

The room froze.

“I saw her backstage,” Roman said. “She’s changed. And I don’t like what she’s becoming.”

Paul swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly. “My Tribal Chief… perhaps tomorrow—”

Roman silenced him with a single raised hand.

“Tomorrow,” Roman said, “we remind her who we are. Tomorrow, we take everything back. Tomorrow, she remembers her place.”

He looked at each of them in turn — Jimmy’s worry, Solo’s hesitation, Jey’s anger, Paul’s fear — and dismissed them with a quiet, chilling finality.

“Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we fix this family.”

No one moved for a moment.

Then, one by one, they left the room — each of them carrying a different weight, a different fear, a different fracture.

Roman stood alone in the centre of the suite, staring at the city lights with a calm that felt more dangerous than any rage.

Tomorrow wasn’t just about Cody. It wasn’t just about the title. It wasn’t even about the Bloodline.

Tomorrow was about her and Roman was ready to burn the world down to get her back.

The morning light filtered through the curtains in soft, pale ribbons, warming the room with a gentle glow that felt almost unreal after the intensity of the night before. The world outside was already stirring — distant traffic, muted voices, the hum of a city waking up — but inside the room, everything felt still, suspended, as if time had slowed just for the two of you.

You woke slowly, not with a jolt but with the kind of gradual awareness that comes from a night spent wrapped in safety rather than fear. The sheets were warm, the air soft, and the steady rhythm of Cody’s breathing behind you was the first thing your mind registered. It grounded you instantly.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You just lay there, eyes half‑open, letting yourself feel the weight of the morning — the warmth of the bed, the faint ache in your muscles, the lingering adrenaline still humming somewhere deep in your chest. And then you felt it: Cody’s arm draped loosely around your waist, his hand resting lightly against your stomach, his body curved protectively behind yours.

It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t heavy. It was gentle. Instinctive. Natural.

You let out a soft breath, your body relaxing into the warmth of him. The championship belt sat on the bedside table, catching a sliver of sunlight, the gold glowing faintly like a reminder of everything you’d survived. Everything you’d earned.

Cody stirred behind you, his breath brushing the back of your neck as he shifted slightly. His voice came out low and rough with sleep, warm enough to melt something inside your chest.

“Morning,” he murmured.

You smiled without meaning to. “Morning.”

He tightened his arm around you just a little, pulling you closer, holding you in that quiet, grounding way he had. “How’re you feeling?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

You took a moment before answering, letting your body check in with itself. “Sore. Tired. Proud. Nervous. All of it.”

Cody let out a soft hum of understanding, but this time there was a small, unmistakable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Makes sense,” he murmured. “Last night was… a lot.”

The way he said it — the slight emphasis, the warmth in his tone, the glint in his eyes — made your cheeks heat instantly. You turned your face away with a shy little huff, and without thinking, you reached back and gave his chest a light, playful smack.

“Cody,” you muttered, half‑embarrassed, half‑laughing.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm against your shoulder. “What?” he teased softly. “I’m just saying…”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face. The room felt warmer suddenly, the air softer, the intimacy deepening in a way that wasn’t heavy or overwhelming — just sweet, familiar, and quietly electric.

Cody shifted closer, brushing a gentle kiss against your shoulder. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice softening again, leaning in just enough for his breath to tickle your ear. “Maybe if I win tonight… I’ll celebrate with my belt too.”

“Cody!” you squeaked, your face heating even more — though you couldn’t deny the flutter it sent through you.

He laughed softly. “I’m only teasing. You were incredible. In every way that mattered.”

Your breath caught, your shyness melting into something warm and fluttering in your chest. You didn’t smack him again this time. You just let yourself lean back into him, letting the moment settle around you like sunlight.

His hair was messy, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but there was something in his expression — something warm, steady, quietly protective — that made your chest tighten.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He frowned gently. “For what?”

“For being here,” you said. “For last night. For… everything.”

Cody shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at you properly. His hand slid from your waist to your arm, his thumb brushing your skin in a slow, absent‑minded stroke that sent a warm shiver through you.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said softly. “I wanted to be here. I’m glad I was.”

You held his gaze, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you — not heavy, not overwhelming, just real. Honest. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with last night and everything to do with trust.

He brushed a strand of hair away from your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch. “Tonight’s going to be big,” he said quietly, his voice steady and warm. “And I’m glad you’re here with me.” The words settled into you like warmth spreading through your chest — simple, sincere, grounding. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just true.

You nodded, your throat tightening. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead — not rushed, not heated, just warm and steady, the kind of kiss that said more than words ever could.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just lay there, wrapped in the quiet, wrapped in each other, wrapped in the fragile peace of a morning that felt like the last calm before a storm.

Eventually, Cody murmured, “We’ve got time. No rush. Just stay here a little longer.”

You then slipped out of bed reluctantly, the cool air brushing your skin as you crossed the room to grab the shirt you’d tossed over a chair the night before. The morning light caught you in a soft, golden wash, outlining your body, the relaxed ease in your posture, the quiet confidence that hadn’t been there months ago.

Cody pushed himself up on his elbows, blinking sleepily — and then he froze for a moment, his breath catching just a little.

“Damn,” he murmured under his breath, a slow smile spreading across his face. “How did I get this lucky?”

You turned, cheeks warming instantly. “Cody…”

He held up his hands in mock innocence, though the grin didn’t fade. “I’m just appreciating the view.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. As you walked back toward the bed, he reached out and caught your hand, giving it a gentle tug that pulled you closer.

“Come here,” he said softly, still smiling. “I wasn’t finished admiring you.”

You laughed, flustered and warm, letting him pull you back into the bed’s soft sheets and the safety of his arms.

You slipped back into the bed with a soft sigh, the sheets still warm from where you’d been lying moments before. Cody shifted automatically, making space for you, his arm lifting in that instinctive, wordless invitation that always made your chest tighten.

You settled beside him, facing him this time. The morning light caught the lines of his torso, the soft rise and fall of his breathing, the quiet strength in the way he held himself even half‑asleep. Something warm fluttered through you.

“I’m the lucky one,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Cody blinked, surprised by the softness in your tone. “Yeah?” he asked gently.

You nodded, your fingers brushing lightly across his stomach — not lingering, not suggestive, just a slow, affectionate trace along the lines of his abs constructed from pure muscle, that made him inhale sharply through his nose. His eyes softened, the corners crinkling with something warm and unguarded.

He reached up, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your breath catch. He then connected his lips with yours. It wasn't just a quick peck. It was full of intimacy and emotion. His tongue traced the seam of your mouth, tentative at first, tasting of faint salt and the lingering sweetness of shared breath, before slipping inside with a slow, exploratory glide that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

The kiss turned hungrier, his teeth grazing your lower lip in a playful nip that stung sweetly, then soothed with a languid suck that made your knees weaken. Tongues danced in a slick, heated rhythm—wet, fervent strokes that mimicked deeper intimacies, saliva mingling in a messy, intoxicating exchange that left your lips swollen and glistening when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe.

Your breath mingling together, eyes dark and hooded with desire as he murmured against your mouth, "God, you taste like everything I've been craving."

The moment stretched, hot and unhurried, the kind of kiss that just deepened the connection already humming between you.

Your foreheads rested together for a beat, both of you breathing the same soft morning air. Cody let out a low, contented hum, his thumb brushing your cheekbone in a slow, absent‑minded stroke.

“Alright,” he murmured after a moment, his voice warm and reluctant. “If we stay here any longer, I’m never getting up.”

You laughed softly, nudging him with your nose. “We should probably start getting ready.”

“Probably,” he agreed, though he didn’t move right away. He pressed one last gentle kiss to your temple before finally stretching, his muscles shifting beneath your hand as he sat up.

Cody stretched with a low groan, rubbing a hand over his face before sitting up properly. You followed a moment later, the sheets slipping away as the cool air brushed your skin, sending a small shiver down your spine.

Cody noticed instantly.

“Cold?” he asked, his voice still soft with sleep.

“A little,” you admitted.

He reached for the hoodie draped over the chair — his hoodie, oversized and worn in all the right places — and held it out to you with a small, fond smile. You slipped it on, the fabric swallowing you in warmth and the faint scent of him. Cody watched you with a look that made your chest tighten, something tender and quietly awestruck.

“Looks better on you,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

The two of you moved around the room in an easy, unspoken rhythm — the kind that only comes from trust and comfort. Cody grabbed his toiletries while you tied your hair back loosely, both of you brushing your teeth side by side at the bathroom sink. He bumped your shoulder gently with his own, and you nudged him back, the mirror catching the soft smiles you tried not to show.

When you finished, you reached for your moisturiser, and Cody paused mid‑movement, watching you with a curious tilt of his head.

“What?” you asked, laughing under your breath.

“Nothing,” he said, though the warmth in his eyes said everything. “Just… you look peaceful.”

You felt your cheeks warm, and you shook your head, focusing on the small, familiar motions of your routine. Cody stepped behind you, his hands settling lightly on your shoulders as he met your gaze in the mirror.

“You ready for today?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, though your stomach fluttered. “As ready as I can be.”

He squeezed your shoulders gently, grounding you. “Good. Because I’ve got you.”

You both changed into suitable clothes for work, infront of eachother without a care in the world.

Cody then smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket. It wasn’t overly formal — just sharp, clean, and unmistakably him. The kind of thing he wore when he wanted to walk into a building with purpose.

You stepped towards him slowly, “Stop, let me help you,” you said softly.

He did, without question.

The collar of his jacket was slightly crooked, the top button not sitting quite right. You reached up, your fingers brushing the warm skin at the base of his throat as you straightened the fabric. Cody went still — completely still — his breath catching just a little as he watched you with that soft, steady look that always made your chest tighten.

“There,” you murmured, smoothing the lapel with a gentle sweep of your hand. “Now you look like someone who’s about to win a world title.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Trying to impress someone.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back just enough to give him a playful, suspicious look. “Oh yeah? Who?”

Cody placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You gasped in mock offence. “Cody Rhodes, are you trying to make me jealous?”

He laughed — that warm, low laugh that always made your stomach flutter. “Maybe just a tiny bit.”

You nudged him lightly. “Idiot.”

He stepped closer, his hands finding your waist with an ease that felt instinctive. “You know it’s you,” he said softly. “It’s always you.”

Your breath caught, the teasing melting into something warmer, deeper. Then Cody’s eyes drifted down for a moment, softening. “Hold still,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Why?”

He reached up gently, fingers brushing your shoulder as he adjusted the small ribbon‑tie detail on your top — the one that had slipped slightly out of place when you’d been moving around the room. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as he tightened the bow just enough to sit neatly again.

“There,” he said quietly. “Perfect.”

You felt your cheeks warm, the intimacy of the gesture settling deep in your chest. “Thank you.”

Cody shrugged lightly, though his eyes were warm. “Can’t have you walking into WrestleMania looking anything less than flawless.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he teased.

You didn’t deny it.

For a moment, the two of you just stood there — close, steady, wrapped in the soft glow of the morning. Cody reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“You ready?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah. Are you?”

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the day settling into his shoulders — but his eyes stayed warm, steady, anchored on you. “I am now.”

You reached for your bag, he grabbed his, and the two of you moved toward the door in that easy, unspoken rhythm you’d fallen into so naturally.

Just before you stepped out, Cody paused, turning back to look at you one more time — as if grounding himself in the sight of you before walking into the storm.

“Let’s go,” he said softly.

The car was warm and quiet when you and Cody slid into the back seat, the city rolling past in soft blurs of morning light. You’d barely settled in — your hand resting comfortably in Cody’s, his thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles — when the door on the other side swung open.

Rhea Ripley climbed in with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm. “Morning, lovebirds,” she announced, dropping into the seat beside you with a grin that was far too knowing for this early in the day.

You groaned. Cody laughed under his breath.

Rhea leaned forward, squinting at you dramatically. “Hold on… why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” you asked, already feeling heat creep up your neck.

“Like you’re glowing,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “Glowing glowing. What did he do last night?”

You covered your face with your hands. “Rhea!”

Cody didn’t miss a beat. He leaned back casually, arm draped behind you, voice smooth as silk. “I just congratulated her in my own way.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Cody!”

Rhea burst out laughing, slapping her knee. “Ohhh, I knew it! I knew something was different when she walked in this morning. Look at her — she’s blushing like she’s in a romance novel.”

You smacked Cody lightly on the chest — not hard, just enough to make your point. “Stop talking.”

He grinned, utterly unbothered. “What? I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being smug,” you muttered, though you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

Rhea leaned back, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. “Honestly? I’m proud of you both. You,” she said, pointing at Cody, “for finally relaxing for once. And you,” she added, nudging your shoulder, “for looking like you just stepped out of a spa commercial.”

You groaned again, sinking lower in your seat. “I hate both of you.”

Cody squeezed your hand gently. “No you don’t.”

Rhea snorted. “She definitely doesn’t.”

The car rolled on, the teasing fading into warm laughter, the kind that made the nerves in your stomach settle just a little. For a moment, the world outside — the arena, Cody’s match, everything waiting for him — felt distant.

Just three people in a car. Just warmth. Just safety. Just a little bit of chaos.

And Cody’s thumb brushing your hand, grounding you through it all.

The moment the three of you stepped through the private entrance, the backstage atmosphere hit you like a wave — the thrum of generators, the echo of voices bouncing off concrete walls, the clatter of crates being wheeled across the floor. WrestleMania backstage had its own heartbeat, fast and electric, and today it felt even louder.

Cody’s hand stayed laced with yours, warm and steady, grounding you as you walked. Rhea flanked your other side, already smirking like she knew something you didn’t.

You didn’t even make it ten steps before the first person spotted you.

“Champ!” a producer called, jogging over with a grin. “Congratulations again — you absolutely smashed it last night.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. “Thank you.”

“And Cody — good luck tonight. Big one.”

Cody nodded, squeezing your hand. “Appreciate it.”

As the producer walked off, Rhea leaned in with a wicked grin. “Look at you. Blushing already. We’ve barely been here thirty seconds.”

You groaned. “Rhea, please.”

But it only got worse.

Every few steps, someone else stopped you.

“Congrats, champ!” “You look incredible today!” “Cody, finish the story tonight!” “Seriously, you’re glowing!”

Each compliment made your face burn hotter, and Cody noticed — of course he noticed. His smirk grew with every passing comment, until he was practically radiating smugness.

Finally, after the fifth “you look amazing,” he leaned down, voice low and teasing. “You know… you really should thank me.”

You blinked. “For what?”

He shrugged casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “For all these compliments. Clearly I’m the reason you’re glowing.”

Your jaw dropped. “Cody!”

Rhea nearly choked laughing. “Oh my god, he’s right. She’s practically a walking lightbulb.”

You covered your face with your free hand. “I want to go home.”

Cody chuckled, utterly unbothered. “What? I’m just saying. I’m helping your reputation.”

“You’re helping my embarrassment,” you muttered, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

Rhea slung an arm around your shoulders. “Nah, babe. This is great. I’m enjoying every second.”

You shot her a betrayed look. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” she said sweetly. “Just… not right now.”

Another staff member passed by, offering a quick wave. “Congrats again! You look stunning today!”

You groaned into your hands. “Please stop complimenting me.”

Cody leaned in, whispering, “See? That one was definitely because of me.”

You smacked his arm lightly. “Shut up.”

He grinned, smug and soft all at once. “Never.”

Despite your embarrassment, his thumb brushed the back of your hand in a slow, reassuring stroke — grounding you even as he teased you mercilessly.

As you approached the main hallway, the noise grew louder, the energy sharper. Cody glanced at you, his expression softening beneath the smugness.

“You’re doing great,” he murmured.

Rhea snorted. “She’s doing great because she’s mortified.”

You groaned again, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

And together — hand in hand, with Rhea cackling beside you — you stepped deeper into the heart of WrestleMania.

The deeper you walked into the backstage corridors, the louder the world became — production staff weaving around equipment, camera operators adjusting rigs, the low rumble of voices echoing off concrete walls. But Cody’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, steady and warm, guiding you through the chaos with quiet confidence. Rhea walked beside you, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place, still riding the high of teasing you in the car.

A security guard nodded as you approached a door marked “CODY RHODES — PRIVATE”. He stepped aside, opening it for the three of you.

Inside, the noise of WrestleMania faded instantly.

The room was spacious, softly lit, with a leather sofa, a small table of refreshments, a rack for Cody’s gear, and a monitor showing the live feed from the arena. It felt calmer, quieter — a small sanctuary carved out of the storm.

Cody let go of your hand only long enough to drop his bag on the sofa. “Home sweet home,” he said lightly.

Rhea flopped into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “Finally. Somewhere I can sit without someone yelling about pyro cues.”

You laughed, the tension easing from your shoulders.

Cody glanced over at you, his eyes softening. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… a lot of people.”

He smirked. “A lot of compliments.”

You groaned. “Cody.”

Rhea cackled. “He’s not wrong. You’re basically a walking spotlight.”

You covered your face with your hands. “I hate both of you.”

Cody leaned in, voice low and teasing. “You should thank me, really.”

You smacked his arm lightly. “Stop talking.”

He grinned, smug and unbothered.

A knock sounded at the door before you could retaliate further. A production assistant poked her head in. “Cody? They’re ready for you for the pre‑match shoot.”

Cody nodded. “We’ll be right there.”

He grabbed your hand again — because of course he did — and the three of you followed the assistant down a quieter hallway toward the media area. The lighting changed as you entered the small studio setup: bright panels, a backdrop with the WrestleMania logo, a camera crew adjusting lenses.

“Cody, just stand on the mark,” the director said. “We’ll get a few shots — intense, focused, that kind of thing.”

Cody stepped into position, rolling his shoulders back, slipping effortlessly into that calm, determined aura he carried before big matches. You watched from the side, Rhea leaning against the wall beside you.

“He’s in the zone,” she murmured.

You nodded, your chest tightening with a mix of pride and nerves.

After a few minutes, the director clapped. “Perfect. That’s all we need.”

Cody walked back over, his expression softening the moment he saw you. “Ready for food?”

Rhea perked up instantly. “Absolutely.”

The three of you made your way to catering, the smell of warm food drifting through the hallway long before you reached the room. Inside, tables were set up buffet‑style, wrestlers and staff scattered around eating, chatting, laughing.

The moment you stepped in, someone called out, “Champ! You look amazing today!”

You froze.

Rhea nearly doubled over laughing. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Cody leaned down, whispering smugly, “Told you. You should thank me.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m never living this down.”

But even through the embarrassment, you felt it — the warmth, the safety, the sense of belonging. Cody’s hand brushing yours. Rhea’s chaotic laughter. The hum of WrestleMania all around you.

You grabbed a plate, Cody right beside you, Rhea on your other side like a chaotic shadow. Even here, people kept stopping to congratulate you, and every time someone said you looked good, Cody would give you that smug little side‑smile that made you want to throw your plate at him.

Eventually, you found an empty table near the back. Cody sat beside you, his knee brushing yours under the table, while Rhea dropped into the seat across from you with a dramatic sigh.

“Finally,” she muttered. “Food.”

You laughed, taking a sip of water. “You act like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“I haven’t,” she said, already stabbing a fork into her chicken. “I’ve been too busy watching you two be disgustingly cute.”

You groaned. “Rhea—”

But before you could finish, a familiar voice cut through the room.

“Well, look at this table.”

You turned, and your stomach did a small, startled flip.

Triple H and Stephanie McMahon were walking toward you — both smiling, both radiating that calm authority that made everyone instinctively sit up straighter.

Cody stood immediately, shaking Triple H’s hand. “Hey, boss.”

Stephanie leaned in to hug him warmly. “Big night for you.”

Then they turned to you.

“Champ,” Triple H said, his smile widening. “Congratulations. You absolutely delivered last night.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Stephanie stepped closer, her expression softening. “And you look beautiful today. Glowing.”

You wanted to die.

Cody’s smirk was instant. Rhea nearly choked on her food.

Triple H raised an eyebrow, amused. “Something we should know?”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Absolutely not. Nothing. Everything’s normal.”

Cody leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with the confidence of a man who was enjoying this far too much. “She’s just having a good morning.”

Rhea snorted. “The best morning.”

You covered your face with your hands. “I hate all of you.”

Stephanie laughed softly, touching your shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s sweet. And you deserve to feel good today.”

Triple H nodded. “You earned that glow.”

You groaned into your palms. “Please stop saying glow.”

Cody leaned in, whispering just loud enough for the table to hear. “Told you. You should thank me.”

You smacked his arm under the table. “Cody!”

Triple H chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, we’ll leave you three alone before you combust.”

Stephanie squeezed your hand gently. “We’re proud of you. Both of you. Enjoy the moment.”

They walked off, still smiling, and you slumped back in your chair, mortified.

Rhea wiped a tear from her eye. “Oh, that was beautiful. I’m framing this memory.”

Cody slid his hand onto your thigh under the table — warm, grounding, gentle. “Hey,” he murmured, leaning close. “You’re doing great.”

You glared at him half‑heartedly. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He grinned. “Absolutely.”

Despite yourself, you laughed — soft, warm, and a little breathless.

And for a moment, surrounded by chaos, teasing, and the hum of WrestleMania, everything felt exactly right.

Catering was warm and loud, full of laughter and clattering plates, but you were too busy trying not to die of embarrassment to notice anything else. Cody was still teasing you, Rhea was still smirking, and every compliment from passing staff made your face burn hotter.

You didn’t see the doorway behind you. You didn’t see the shift in the room.

But Roman Reigns did.

He stepped into catering with Paul Heyman at his shoulder, Solo and Jimmy just behind him — all four of them mid‑conversation, mid‑strategy, mid‑focus for the biggest night of the year.

And then Roman’s eyes landed on you.

On you and Cody.

Sitting close. Laughing. Hands brushing. Cody leaning in, whispering something that made your cheeks flush. Rhea cackling like she knew every secret you’d ever kept.

Roman stopped walking. Stopped breathing for a second. His jaw clenched so hard that Paul actually glanced up at him in alarm.

Jimmy followed Roman’s gaze and winced. “Ah… damn.”

Solo’s expression hardened, unreadable but tense.

Roman didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stared — at the two of you — with a fury that simmered low and dangerous.

Because he found out with the rest of the world that you and Cody were together. But today? Seeing you glowing, laughing, leaning into Cody Rhodes of all people — the man he’s fighting tonight — the man trying to take his family from him?

That was different. That was personal.

Paul swallowed. “My Tribal Chief… perhaps we should—”

Roman cut him off with a quiet, lethal, “No.”

His eyes stayed locked on you. You laughed at something Cody said, covering your face with your hands. Cody nudged you, smug and soft, and you nudged him back. Rhea teased you again, and you blushed even harder.

Roman’s nostrils flared.

Jimmy muttered under his breath, “What's he gonna do?”

Solo didn’t answer. His fists just tightened at his sides.

Roman finally spoke — low, cold, and full of something that made Paul’s spine straighten. “He thinks he can try and take my title,” Roman murmured. “He thinks he can take my place.”

His eyes narrowed, burning holes into Cody’s back.

“And now he thinks he can take her.”

Paul opened his mouth, but Roman wasn’t finished.

“I’m going to destroy him tonight,” Roman said, voice like steel. “And when I do… she’ll come back.”

Jimmy exhaled slowly. “Uce…”

Roman didn’t look away.

Not once. Not until Paul gently touched his arm and murmured, “My Tribal Chief… we should prepare.”

Roman finally tore his gaze from you — but the anger stayed, simmering, sharp enough to cut.

He turned and walked away, the Bloodline following in tense silence.

You never noticed.

You were too busy laughing, blushing, and trying to stop Cody from being smug.

But somewhere down the hallway, Roman Reigns was already planning how to break the man sitting beside you — and how to pull you back into the family you’d slipped away from.

GOSH ONLY ONE EPISODE LEFT 😭😭 ENDING HERE <3 THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, SEND THE LOVEEE 💗💗💗

Xiao was relieved to see that Aether was safe