#triplehxreader

I tried to keep my eyes forward, intending to walk past him without incident. My brother and he were currently on-screen enemies, which meant, by the unwritten rules of the road, I needed to keep my distance. Fraternizing with the enemy, even if the enmity was scripted, was frowned upon. 

"YN," his voice rumbled out, low and gravelly. It wasn't a question; it was a summons. 

I stopped, taking a breath to steady my heart rate. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was an intense, electric awareness that I had been fighting for six months. "Hunter," I replied, turning to face him. I kept my face neutral, the mask I’d perfected in developmental. 

He took a slow sip of water, his eyes never leaving mine. He had that intensity, that cerebral assassin gaze that dissected you to find the weak point. "Good match tonight. Your selling is improving." 

A compliment from the top guy? That was rare currency. "Thanks. I'm trying to make sure the crowd actually buys it when I get thrown around." 

"They buy it," he said, pushing himself off the crate and stepping into my personal space. The hallway was bustling with producers and referees, yet it felt like the noise dropped away. "But you’re holding back. You’re wrestling like you’re afraid to hurt someone. You’re a Wight. You’ve got power. Use it." 

"I don't want to be stiff," I countered defensively. 

"There's a difference between being stiff and being believable," he murmured, stepping closer. He was so close I could smell his cologne—something expensive and woody that cut through the arena funk. "You need to take what you want, YN. In the ring. And out of it." 

The double entendre hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. My breath hitched. For months, there had been these moments. Stolen glances during catering, lingering touches when we went over spots for mixed tag matches, the way he’d watch my matches from the monitor when he thought I didn't see him. 

"I should go," I whispered, my voice betraying me. "My  brother is waiting for me." 

Hunter smirked, that distinct corner-of-the-mouth lift that drove the fans crazy. "Tell the Giant I said hello. And tell him to watch his back on Monday." 

He picked up his title belt, slinging it over his shoulder, and walked away without looking back. I stood there for a full minute, my legs feeling like jelly, before I could force myself to move toward the exit. 

The drive to the hotel was a blur. My brother, Paul, was driving our rental, complaining about the catering and the travel schedule. I loved him to death—he was my protector, my rock—but tonight, his voice was just white noise. My mind was stuck on that hallway. Take what you want. 

"YNN? You listening?" Paul asked, glancing at me. 

"Yeah," I lied. "Just tired. That bump off the apron took it out of me." 

"You need to be careful," he said, his tone shifting to big-brother mode. "And stay away from Hunter. I saw him talking to you." 

My stomach tightened. "He was just giving me advice on the match, Paul. It’s professional." 

"Nothing with him is just professional," Paul grumbled, turning into the Marriott parking lot. "He’s playing the game, 24/7. He’s got Flair in his ear and that belt on his shoulder. He’s looking for leverage. Don't be leverage, YN." 

"I can handle myself," I said, perhaps a bit too sharply. 

We checked in, and I immediately retreated to my room. I needed silence. I needed to decompress. I showered, scrubbing off the layers of body oil and makeup, trying to wash away the confusion. I changed into a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, staring at the cityscape of Kansas City through the hotel window. 

I couldn't sleep. The adrenaline from the match and the interaction with Hunter was still coursing through my veins. 

Against my better judgment, I decided to go down to the hotel bar. Usually, the "boys" took over the bar, and it was rowdy, but it was nearly 2:00 AM. Hopefully, it would be winding down. I just needed a club soda and a change of scenery. 

The hotel bar was dimly lit, jazz playing softly over the speakers. It was mostly empty, save for a few road agents in the corner and a solitary figure sitting at the far end of the bar. 

Of course. 

It was him. He had ditched the suit jacket and tie, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He was nursing a drink, staring at the ice melting in the glass. 

I froze in the entryway. I should turn around. I should go back upstairs, lock the door, and forget this crush that was threatening to ruin my career. But my feet didn't listen. They carried me across the plush carpet until I was standing a few feet away from him. 

He didn't look up, but I knew he sensed me. "Couldn't sleep?" 

"Adrenaline," I answered, sliding onto the stool two seats away from him. A respectful distance. "You?" 

"Thinking," he said. He signaled the bartender, pointing to my empty spot on the bar top. "Club soda with lime, right?" 

I blinked, surprised. "You noticed?" 

"I notice everything, YN. It’s my job." He finally turned to look at me. In the dim amber light of the bar, the arrogant 'King of Kings' facade was softened. He looked tired. Not physical fatigue, but the mental exhaustion of carrying the weight of the company on his back. 

"My brother thinks you're trying to manipulate me," I blurted out. I clamped my hand over my mouth immediately. Why did I say that? 

Hunter chuckled, a low, genuine sound that did weird things to my insides. "Your brother is a smart man. Paranoid, but smart." 

"Are you?" I asked, lowering my hand. "Manipulating me?" 

He swiveled his stool so he was facing me fully. The intensity was back, but it was different now. Intimate. "I don't play games with things that actually matter, YN. The ring? The belt? The politics? That’s all chess. But this?" He gestured vaguely between us. "I don't know what this is yet. But it's not a game." 

The bartender set my drink down. I took a long sip, the carbonation burning my throat. "There is no 'this,' Hunter. You're the top heel. I'm a rookie face. I'm the Big Show's sister. We are literally on opposite sides of every line drawn in this company." 

"Lines are made to be crossed," he said softly. He picked up his glass and moved to the stool directly next to me. The heat radiating off him was palpable. "You think I talk to every rookie diva in the hallway? You think I watch their matches?" 

"Maybe you're just scouting weaknesses," I whispered. 

"The only weakness I've found," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, "is that I can't seem to get you out of my head. And it's distracting. I don't like being distracted." 

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was dangerous territory. If anyone walked in—Ric Flair, Randy Orton, my brother—it would be a disaster. But I couldn't pull away. The magnetic pull was too strong. 

"I'm not a distraction," I said, trying to regain some ground. "I'm a competitor." 

"You're a woman," he corrected. "A beautiful, intelligent, dangerous woman who walks around this locker room like she doesn't know she owns the place. It drives me crazy." 

He reached out, his rough fingers grazing the back of my hand which rested on the bar. The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight up my arm. I looked down at his hand—large, taped fingers, capable of so much violence, yet touching me with such unexpected gentleness. 

"Hunter..." 

"Paul," he corrected. "When it's just us, it's Paul." 

"Paul," I tested the name. It felt heavy on my tongue. "We can't do this." 

"Why?" 

"Because of the fallout. The locker room would tear me apart. They’d say I’m sleeping my way to the top. My brother would kill you. Or try to at least." 

"Let me worry about the locker room. And your brother," he said dismissively. "I’m not asking you to marry me, YN. I’m asking you to stop pretending you don't feel this tension. It’s been months. Every time we’re in the same room, the air changes. You know it." 

I did know it. I had spent so many nights denying it, telling myself it was just admiration for his talent, or fear of his status. But looking at him now, stripped of the lights and the cameras, I knew it was more. 

"I'm scared," I admitted. A rare moment of vulnerability. 

"Good," he said. "Fear keeps you sharp." 

He leaned in, his face inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. The world narrowed down to just the space between us. I waited for him to close the gap, my lips parting slightly, but he pulled back at the last second. 

"Get some sleep, YN," he said, standing up abruptly. He threw a twenty on the bar. "We have an early call time for travel tomorrow." 

He walked away, leaving me breathless and confused on the barstool. It was the ultimate power move. He had brought me to the edge and then left me there. And god help me, it only made me want him more. 

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of torture. 

We traveled from city to city, the grind of the road wearing us down. We exchanged glances, brief nods in the hallway, but he didn't approach me again. It was as if that night at the bar had been a hallucination. 

We were in Chicago now. Raw was live. The energy in the building was frantic. I had a mixed tag match. 

The match was chaotic. During the climax, I was thrown to the outside. I hit the floor hard, selling the impact. As I pulled myself up using the barricade, I looked up the ramp. 

Triple H was standing there. He wasn't scheduled to be out yet. He was just standing at the top of the stage, arms crossed, watching. 

The crowd noticed him and the booing started, a low rumble that grew into a roar. He ignored them. He was watching me. 

I locked eyes with him for a split second before rolling back into the ring to hit my finisher. I pinned my opponent, the ref counting one, two, three. My music hit, but I didn't celebrate. I looked back up the ramp, but he was gone. 

Later that night, I was packing my bag in the women’s locker room, trying to hurry. I wanted to get out of the arena before the main event traffic jam. 

"YN!" 

I turned to see a production assistant panting in the doorway. "Yeah?" 

"Hunter wants to see you. In his locker room. Now." 

The room went silent. The other girls stopped what they were doing, exchanging looks. Jealousy, pity, curiosity—I saw it all. 

"Tell him I'm leaving," I said, trying to be brave. 

"He said it's about the roster changes for the European tour," the PA insisted. "He said it's mandatory." 

I sighed, zipping my bag. "Fine." 

I walked the long concrete hallway toward the main event locker rooms. This was the elite territory. I knocked on the door marked with his name. 

"It's open." 

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. It wasn't a locker room; it was a suite. Leather couches, a flat-screen TV reviewing match footage, a spread of food. 

He was standing by the TV, reviewing the tape of my match from earlier. He hit pause on the frame where I was looking up the ramp at him. 

"You hesitated," he said, not turning around. 

"I was surprised to see you there," I replied, closing the door behind me. The lock clicked with a sound that felt incredibly final. 

"I wanted to see if you still had the fire," he said, turning to face me. He was still in his gear—trunks, boots, knee pads—having just finished the main event segment. He was glistening with sweat, his hair wet and slicked back. The raw physicality of him was overwhelming. 

"And?" I asked, setting my bag down. "Do I?" 

"You're getting there." He walked over to me, stopping just a foot away. The room felt suddenly small. "But you're still thinking too much. You're thinking about who's watching. You're thinking about the consequences." 

"I have to live with the consequences, Paul. You don't. You're the Game. You run this place. I'm just..." 

"You're just what?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "Just a Wight? Just a girl? Stop defining yourself by everyone else's standards." 

He reached out, grabbing my upper arms. His grip was firm, possessive. "You think I played games that night at the bar, don’t you? I didn't kiss you because I knew if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. And we were in public." 

My breath caught in my throat. "We aren't in public now." 

The air crackled. The tension that had been building for months, the unspoken words, the stolen glances—it all culminated in this moment. 

"No," he growled. "We aren't." 

He crashed his lips onto mine. 

It wasn't a gentle, movie-star kiss. It was hungry, desperate, and aggressive. It tasted like power and adrenaline. I gasped against his mouth, my hands instinctively flying up to tangle in his wet hair. He groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated against my chest, and pulled me flush against his body. 

I felt dwarfed by him, yet empowered. I matched his intensity, kissing him back with all the frustration and longing I had been suppressing. He walked me backward until my legs hit the edge of the leather couch, and I sat down heavily, pulling him with me. 

He broke the kiss for a second, his forehead resting against mine, both of us breathing heavily. His eyes were dark, dilated, searching mine for any sign of hesitation. 

"Tell me to stop," he whispered roughly. "Tell me to leave, and I will walk out that door and never touch you again." 

I looked at him—really looked at him. I saw the man beneath the gimmick. I saw the desire and the risk he was taking. If my brother walked in, if Vince walked in... it would be chaos. 

"Don't you dare stop," I breathed. 

He didn't need to be told twice. He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over my waist, pulling me closer as if he could merge us into one being. The world outside this room—the fans, the titles, the politics, my brother—it all ceased to exist. 

My mind was reeling, struggling to catch up with the reality of the situation. I was in Triple H’s locker room. I was kissing the top star in the industry. I was breaking every rule in the book and potentially lighting a fuse that would blow up my life. 

I pulled back just an inch, my hands cupping his face, staring into those intense eyes that were usually so cold but were now burning with heat. 

"I can not believe this is happening," I whispered, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. 

He smirked, that same damn smirk that caused half the trouble in the first place, but his thumb traced my lower lip with surprising tenderness. "Believe it, YN. Because I'm not letting you go. Not now. Not ever." 

"My brother..." 

"Will get over it," he said firmly. "Or he'll deal with me. But right now? I don't care about your brother. I don't care about the show. I only care about you." 

He kissed my neck, sending shivers down my spine that curled my toes. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this." 

"Six months?" I guessed, my voice shaky. 

"Since the day you signed your contract," he murmured against my skin. "I saw you walk in, head held high, looking like you were ready to fight the world. And I knew. I knew I had to have you." 

I leaned back into the couch, surrendering to the feeling. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was wrong in all the ways that made it feel right. 

"What happens tomorrow?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper as his hands moved to the small of my back. 

He pulled back to look at me, his expression serious. The Game was back, but this time, he was on my side. "Tomorrow, we go to work. We dominate. You climb the ladder. I keep the belt. We keep this..." he gestured between us, "...ours. For now. Until you're ready to tell the world to go to hell." 

"And if I'm never ready?" 

"Then we keep it ours forever," he said simply. "But you're a Wight. And you're with me. You'll be ready." 

He was right. I could feel the change happening already. The fear was receding, replaced by a strange sense of confidence. I wasn't just a rookie anymore. I wasn't just the Big Show's little sister. I was the woman who had captured the King of Kings. 

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay." 

He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Good." 

He leaned in again, and the rest of the world faded to black. I knew there would be storms ahead. I knew my brother would scream, the locker room would gossip, and the dirt sheets would run wild. But as his arms wrapped around me, solid and unyielding, I realized I didn't care. 

I was playing the game now. And for the first time, I felt like I was winning. 

The next morning, the sun was blinding as it cut through the hotel curtains. I woke up disoriented, the heavy arm draped over my waist pinning me to the mattress. For a second, panic flared. Then, the memories of the night before came rushing back. 

I turned my head carefully. Paul—Hunter—was asleep beside me, face buried in the pillow, looking younger and more peaceful than I had ever seen him. 

I carefully slid out from under his arm, grabbing my robe. I walked to the window and peered out at the bustling city of Chicago below. 

My phone, sitting on the nightstand, buzzed. I glanced at the screen. It was a text from my brother: We leave for the airport in 30. Where are you? 

I looked back at the sleeping man in the bed. The Cerebral Assassin. The man who ruthlessly buried talent to stay on top. The man who had held me all night like I was the most precious thing in the world. 

I picked up the phone and typed back: I'll meet you there. I had an early workout. 

A lie. The first of many, probably. 

Hunter stirred, rolling over and squinting against the sunlight. He saw me standing by the window and smiled sleepily. "Morning." 

"Morning," I said, clutching the robe tighter. "I have to go. Paul is asking for me." 

He sat up, the sheet falling to his waist, revealing the bruises and scratches from his match the night before. "Let him wait." 

"I can't. Not yet." 

He nodded, understanding the unspoken boundaries we still had to navigate. "Alright. But tonight, in St. Louis? You're riding with me." 

"My brother..." 

"Tell him you're learning from the best," he said, that arrogant glint returning to his eye. "Tell him you're studying the game." 

I couldn't help but laugh. It was insane. It was reckless. "You're impossible." 

"I'm the best," he corrected. He got out of bed and walked over to me, planting a firm kiss on my forehead. "Go. Before I decide to keep you here all day and make us both miss the flight." 

I quickly dressed, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. As I reached the door, I turned back. He was watching me, leaning against the wall, confident and commanding. 

"Hey, YN?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I meant what I said last night," he said, his voice serious. "This isn't a storyline. It's real." 

I nodded, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "I know." 

I slipped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me. I leaned against the wall for a moment, taking a deep breath. I checked my reflection in the mirror at the end of the hall. My hair was a bit messy, my lips slightly swollen, my eyes bright. 

I looked like a woman with a secret. 

I walked toward the elevator, heading down to meet my brother, to face the locker room, to enter the lion's den. But I wasn't afraid anymore. 

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, hearing the echo of Hunter’s voice in my head. Take what you want. 

Then, the atmosphere in the hallway shifted. It wasn’t a sound, exactly. It was a change in air pressure. The lower-card wrestlers loitering near the catering tables straightened up. The chatter died down. 

Hunter Hearst Helmsley was walking down the corridor. 

He was in his prime—a terrifying mixture of shredded muscle and cold, calculating arrogance. He wore a denim vest over a leather jacket, water bottle in hand, his long blond hair damp and pulled back. This was "The Game." The Cerebral Assassin. The man who currently held the industry in the palm of his taped hand. 

He didn’t walk; he stalked. And tonight, his eyes were locked directly on YN. 

"YLN," he rumbled as he stopped in front of her. His voice was a gravelly baritone that seemed to emanate from his chest. 

"Helmsley," she shot back, not looking up from her clipboard immediately. She knew better than to give him the satisfaction of immediate deference. "You’re not due in the ring for another hour. Why are you lurking in my production zone?" 

Hunter took a slow sip of water, his eyes narrowing with a smirk that didn't quite reach them. "Lurking? I don't lurk, YN. I survey my kingdom." 

"Right. Well, your kingdom has a lighting truss that’s acting up and a script that’s been rewritten four times in the last hour. So unless you’re here to fix a fuse, you’re in the way." 

She finally looked up, meeting his gaze. Most people withered under the intense stare of Triple H, especially in this era where his on-screen paranoia bled into his backstage intensity. But YN had been with the company for three years. She had seen him taped up, bleeding, exhausted, and furious. She knew the man behind the monster. 

He leaned in, resting a massive arm against the wall next to her head, effectively boxing her in. It was an intimidation tactic, one he used on interviewers and opponents alike. 

"I need five minutes," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Away from the Stooges. Away from Vince. Away from the boys." 

YN sighed, the professional veneer cracking just a fraction. She saw the tension in his jaw, the way the veins in his forearms were corded tight. It wasn't just the character; Hunter was wound tight enough to snap. The pressure of carrying the company, of being the top heel in the biggest boom period of the industry, was a heavy crown. 

"The roof," she said quietly. "Nobody goes up there in this weather. It’s freezing." 

"Perfect," he muttered. "Lead the way." 

The access door to the roof of Madison Square Garden was heavy, requiring both of them to shove it open against the wind. As they stepped out, the roar of New York City hit them—a cacophony of sirens, taxi horns, and the distant hum of millions of people. 

It was brutally cold. YN shivered immediately, wrapping her blazer tighter around herself. Before she could complain, a heavy weight settled over her shoulders. Hunter had stripped off his leather jacket and draped it over her. 

"I'm fine," she protested automatically. 

"You're freezing. Shut up and take it," he said, walking to the edge of the parapet. He stood there in just his denim vest and t-shirt, seemingly immune to the winter bite, looking out over the skyline. The Empire State Building glowed in the distance, cutting through the darkness. 

YN pulled the oversized jacket closer. It smelled of leather, baby oil, and expensive cologne—the signature scent of the main event. She joined him at the ledge, keeping a respectful distance. 

"They want me to go twenty minutes on the mic tonight," Hunter said, not looking at her. "Twenty minutes of running down the local sports teams, insulting the crowd, building heat for the Rumble." 

"You can do that in your sleep, Hunter. You're the best on the stick in the business right now." 

He turned his head, looking at her with an expression that was surprisingly vulnerable. The "Game" mask had slipped, revealing the exhausted man beneath. "I know I can do it. That's not the problem. The problem is that I'm starting to forget where the work ends." 

YN watched him carefully. This was rare. Hunter guarded his interior life with the same ferocity he guarded his spot on the card. "You're burning the candle at both ends. You're running creative meetings, you're working the main events, you're doing media at 6:00 AM. Even a machine breaks down." 

"I can't break," he snapped, his hand gripping the cold concrete of the ledge. "If I break, I lose my spot. You know how this tank works. There's always a shark waiting in the water. Austin is coming back. Rock is everywhere. If I slip, I'm done." 

"You're not going to lose your spot," YN said firmly. She reached out, placing a hand on his forearm. His skin was cold, but the muscle beneath was rock hard. "You are the guy, Hunter. You built this era as much as anyone. But you dragged me up here to freeze to death for a reason. What is it?" 

He let out a long breath, a cloud of white vapor escaping his lips. He turned fully toward her, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. 

"I needed to see something real," he admitted. "Everything down there... the canvas, the lights, the scripts, the politics... it’s all smoke and mirrors. I spend my life manipulating it. I needed to look at you." 

YN’s breath hitched. "Me?" 

"You're the only thing in that building that doesn't want something from me," he said, stepping closer. The wind whipped his hair around his face, but his focus was absolute. "Vince wants a star. The boys want a rub. The rats want a story. You? You just want me to hit my mark and not go overtime." 

YN laughed, a small, genuine sound that seemed to cut through the tension. "Well, I also want you to stop parking in the loading zone, but I've given up on that." 

Hunter smirked, the genuine smile transforming his face from severe to devastatingly handsome. He reached out, his large hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing over her cold skin. The heat radiating from him was intense. 

"I'm serious, YNN. I feel like I'm drowning in the character sometimes. When I'm with you, even for five minutes... the water recedes." 

The dynamic between them had been simmering for months—stolen glances during production meetings, lingering touches after a match when she handed him a towel, the way he would body-block people to clear a path for her in crowded hallways. But neither had crossed the line. The business was messy, and inter-office romances were usually fatal. 

"Paul," she whispered, using his actual name this time, leaning slightly into his touch. "You know we can't do this. The office talk alone would kill us." 

"I run the office," he said with characteristic arrogance, though his tone was soft. "And I don't care about the talk. I care about sanity. You keep me sane." 

He stepped closer, eliminating the space between them. YN could feel the heat of his body through the denim vest. The sounds of the city seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. 

"You have to go back down there," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You have to go be The Game. You have to go tell twenty thousand people that they're pathetic and that you're the King of Kings." 

"I will," he murmured, his face inches from hers. " But right now, I'm just a guy standing on a roof with the most beautiful woman in New York." 

He kissed her then. It wasn't the tentative kiss of a first romance; it was hungry, possessive, and intense. It tasted of the winter air and the raw energy that seemed to follow him everywhere. YN responded instantly, her hands bunching in his vest, pulling him closer. For a moment, the cold didn't exist. There was only the friction of his stubble against her skin and the overwhelming presence of him. 

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless. Hunter rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. 

"I needed that," he whispered. 

"Me too," she admitted, her voice shaky. 

He pulled back, keeping his hands on her shoulders. The mask was starting to slide back into place—the jaw set, the eyes hardening. He was preparing to descend back into the arena, back into the role that made him millions and cost him his peace of mind. 

"Listen to me," he said, his voice regaining that authoritative edge. "After the show. The hotel bar. The Marriott. Room 4002 is booked for a private meeting. But it's just going to be us. No wrestling talk. No politics. Just... this." 

YN looked at him, searching his face. She knew the reputation of the wrestlers. She knew the stories of life on the road. "Are you promising me a date, Levesque? Or just a hookup?" 

He looked offended, a flash of genuine hurt crossing his features before he covered it. "I don't do 'dates' in public, YN. I can't. But I am promising you my time. My actual, undivided attention. No Triple H. Just Paul. I want to get to know you away from the madness. I want to see if this..." he gestured between them, "...is what I think it is." 

YN tightened the leather jacket around herself. She looked at the man who was arguably the most powerful force in sports entertainment, seeing the loneliness behind the ambition. 

"Okay," she said. "Room 4002. Midnight." 

"Midnight," he confirmed. He stepped back, the cold wind rushing into the space between them. He ran a hand through his hair, psyching himself up. "I have to go destroy the Rock on the microphone." 

"Go get 'em, Champ," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. 

He paused at the heavy metal door, looking back at her. The lights of the city framed his silhouette. "You have my jacket. That means you have to come back to me to return it." 

"I could just leave it at lost and found," she teased. 

"You wouldn't dare." He grinned, a flash of the predator returning. "Bring it to the room." 

YN watched him disappear through the door, the heavy metal clanging shut behind him. She stood alone on the roof for a moment longer, looking out at the sprawling grid of Manhattan. Her heart was racing. She knew she was playing with fire. Getting involved with a top guy was dangerous; getting involved with the top guy was potentially career suicide. 

But as she buried her nose in the collar of his jacket, inhaling the scent of him, she knew she was already too far gone to turn back. 

The broadcast was a blur. YN operated on autopilot, barking orders into her headset, coordinating camera angles, and managing the chaotic flow of a live TV show. But every time Triple H was on screen, her breath caught. 

He was magnificent out there. He prowled the ring, mic in hand, verbally dismantling his opponents with a cruelty that worked the crowd into a frenzy of boos. He looked invincible. He looked like a monster. It was hard to reconcile that sneering face on the monitor with the man who had looked at her with such desperate need on the roof. 

During the commercial break, she saw him walk through the curtain. He was sweating, pumped up, veins bulging. Vince McMahon was immediately in his ear, discussing the segment. Hunter nodded, his face a mask of concentration. He didn't look for her. He was in the zone. 

For a moment, doubt crept in. Had the roof just been a way for him to blow off steam? A manipulation to get an ego boost before the show? 

The show ended at 11:05 PM. The breakdown began immediately. The crew swarmed the ring, taking down the set. YN spent forty-five minutes dealing with a union dispute regarding the load-out crew. By the time she grabbed her bag and headed for the exit, it was 11:55 PM. 

She still had his leather jacket. She had worn it backstage, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the other production staff. 

She crossed the street to the Marriott Marquis. The lobby was bustling with fans hoping to catch a glimpse of the wrestlers, but YN flashed her all-access laminate and bypassed the chaos, heading straight for the elevators. 

Her heart hammered against her ribs as the numbers climbed. 20... 30... 40. 

She stepped out onto the 40th floor. It was quiet here. The hallway was lined with plush carpet that dampened her footsteps. She found Room 4002. 

She hesitated. This was the moment of truth. 

She knocked. 

There was no answer. 

She knocked again, harder. "Paul?" 

Silence. 

A pit opened in her stomach. He hadn't meant it. It was just a game. He was probably at the hotel bar downstairs with the boys, laughing, or already on a plane to the next town. She felt foolish. She felt small. 

She pulled the key card from her pocket—production had master keys for emergencies, though she shouldn't use it. She just wanted to leave the jacket inside and leave. She didn't want to face him if he was in there asleep or with someone else. 

She swiped the card. The light turned green. She pushed the door open. 

The room was dark, illuminated only by the city lights drifting in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

"I was beginning to think you stood me up." 

The voice came from the armchair in the corner. YN jumped, her hand finding the light switch. 

"Don't," he said. 

She paused, letting her eyes adjust. Hunter was sitting in the chair, still wearing his jeans and boots, but he had changed into a fresh black t-shirt. He looked exhausted, slumped in the chair, his legs stretched out. 

"I got held up with the union steward," she said, stepping into the room and letting the door click shut behind her. "I thought... I thought you might have forgotten." 

"I don't forget the things that matter," he said softly. He set the glass of water that he had in his hand down and stood up. In the dim light, he seemed even larger than he did on TV. 

He walked over to her. He didn't touch her immediately. He just looked at her, his eyes scanning her face as if looking for cracks in her resolve. 

"You kept the jacket," he noted. 

"It's cold outside," she deflected. 

"Is it?" He smirked. He reached out and slowly unzipped the oversized leather jacket. He slid it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thud. 

Underneath, she was wearing her standard production blacks—a fitted turtleneck and cargo pants. Not exactly evening wear, but Hunter looked at her like she was wearing a ballgown. 

"You were amazing tonight," she said, breaking the silence. "The crowd hated you." 

"Good. That's the job." He dismissed the show with a wave of his hand. "I don't want to talk about the show. I want to talk about you. Tell me something I don't know, YN. Tell me where you're from. Tell me why you put up with this circus." 

He took her hand and led her to the small sofa near the window. They sat down, not touching, just facing each other. 

And they talked. 

For the first time in her career, YN saw the barriers come down completely. Hunter asked her about her childhood in Georgia, about her dreams of directing films, about her frustrations with the glass ceiling in sports production. He listened—intently, actively. He didn't interrupt. He didn't check his phone. 

In turn, he told her about his insecurities. He spoke about the physical toll the style was taking on his knees. He spoke about the fear that he was only where he was because of who he was dating on-screen (a blurred line that caused him endless grief in the locker room). He spoke about his love for the history of the business, a nerdy, deep-seated passion that fueled his perfectionism. 

It was 2:00 AM before they realized the time. 

"I have to be at the gym in four hours," Hunter groaned, rubbing his face. "Then a flight to Boston." 

"You're insane," YN said, shaking her head. "You need sleep." 

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," he joked, the old catchphrase slipping out. But then his expression sobered. He reached across the space and took her hand again. "This... tonight. This was real. You know that, right?" 

YN looked down at their joined hands. His hand was rough, taped, and scarred. Hers looked small and fragile in comparison. 

"It felt real," she whispered. "But tomorrow, we go back to the arena. You go back to the Kliq, and I go back to the headset. What happens then?" 

Hunter moved, sliding closer to her on the sofa. He placed a hand on the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her hairline. 

"Then we steal moments," he said fiercely. "We find the roof. We find the quiet corners. I'm not letting this go, YN. I've spent too long climbing the mountain alone. I want you there." 

"It's risky." 

"I thrive on risk." He leaned in, his eyes searching hers. "But I need to know you're in. I need to know that when the cameras are off, I have you." 

YN felt a surge of emotion. It was terrifying, yes. But looking at him—stripped of the ego, stripped of the theatrics—she saw a man who was asking for connection. 

"I'm in," she said softly. "But I have conditions." 

"Name them." 

"No games," she said, her voice strengthening. "Not with me. You can manipulate the roster, you can work the marks, you can play politics with Vince. But with me? You have to be honest. Even when it's ugly. Especially when it's ugly." 

Hunter stared at her for a long moment. He seemed to be weighing the cost of that vulnerability. It was the antithesis of everything he had trained himself to be. 

"No games," he agreed finally. "Total transparency. Just us." 

"And one more thing," she added, a playful glint entering her eyes. 

"Yeah?" 

"You have to admit that I was right about the lighting truss. Jerry messed it up because you insisted on the green filter." 

Hunter threw his head back and laughed—a loud, booming laugh that filled the hotel room. It was the most beautiful sound she had heard all night. 

"Fine," he conceded, grinning at her. "You were right. You're always right. Happy?" 

"Ecstatic." 

He pulled her into him then, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her onto his lap. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a simmering heat. 

"I have three hours before I have to leave," he murmured against her neck, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there. "I don't want to spend them talking anymore." 

YN tilted her head back, her hands tangling in his long hair. "I think that can be arranged." 

He kissed her, deep and slow, a promise of everything that was to come. It was a kiss that sealed a pact between the producer and the performer, the woman and the monster. 

As he pulled back, his eyes dark with desire, he whispered against her lips, "I'm going to make you mine, YN. In every way that matters. I'm going to protect you, and I'm going to keep you close. No matter what the dirt sheets say." 

YN smiled, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. She looked him dead in the eye, matching his intensity with her own. 

"I'll hold you to that," she said. 

Hunter grinned, the wolfish, predatory grin of the King of Kings, but this time, there was warmth behind it. 

"Count on it." 

He grunted, a guttural sound that started in his diaphragm and tore through his throat. He was pushing himself too hard. I knew his limits—we’d grown up together in Nashua, fought over the remote, shared secrets, and I had watched him transform from a lanky kid into this physical juggernaut—and I knew when he was training and when he was punishing himself. 

Today, he was punishing himself. 

The stack of weights slammed down with a deafening metallic clang that echoed off the cinderblock walls. A few other guys in the gym—bodybuilders mostly, maybe a couple of aspiring wrestlers from the Power Plant—glanced over. You didn't stare at Paul when he was in this zone, though. He had an aura, a radiating field of leave me the hell alone. 

He stood up, shaking out his arms. His long hair was matted to his forehead and neck with sweat. He didn't look at me. He walked straight to the mirror, staring at his own reflection with a critical, almost hateful scrutiny. He adjusted his wrist wraps, tightening them until I was sure his circulation was cutting off. 

"You're going to tear a pec if you keep going at that tempo," I said, keeping my voice level. I was the only person on earth allowed to critique him without getting immediately decapitated verbally. 

He ignored me. He grabbed a pair of eighty-pound dumbbells and sat on the flat bench. 

"Paul," I said, a little louder this time. 

"I’m fine, YNN," he snapped, the words clipped and sharp. 

He kicked the weights up to his shoulders and laid back. One. Two. Three. The movement was piston-like, perfect form, but the aggression behind it was terrifying. It wasn't about building muscle anymore; it was about exorcising demons. 

I watched him hit twelve reps. Usually, he’d stop at ten with this weight. He went for thirteen. His arms shook. Fourteen. His face turned a deep shade of crimson. He went for fifteen, and I stood up, ready to spot him because I could see his left tricep failing. 

He barely locked it out, let the weights drop to the floor with a heavy thud that shook the floorboards, and sat up, gasping for air. He ran his hands through his hair, gripping his head as if trying to keep it from exploding. 

I walked over and handed him the water bottle. He took it without looking at me, downed half of it in one go, and then hurled the plastic bottle into the corner of the room. It bounced off the wall with a hollow crack. 

The gym went silent. The guy on the leg press stopped mid-rep. 

I stared at the bottle, then back at him. I crossed my arms, blocking his view of the mirror. 

"What is with you today?" I asked. 

Paul looked up. His eyes were wild, the pupils blown wide. For a second, I saw the character he played on TV—the sneering, arrogant aristocrat. But then the mask slipped, and I just saw my brother. He looked exhausted. Not body-tired. Soul-tired. 

"I can't do it, YN," he muttered, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. 

"Can't do what? The set? You just did fifteen reps with eighties, Paul. You’re a machine." 

"Not the lifting," he hissed, standing up and towering over me. He grabbed his towel and wiped his face aggressively. "The gimmick. The creative. This whole… circus." 

I sighed, realizing what this was about. "The tapings at MGM?" 

"They want me to speak French," he said, the absurdity of the statement making his voice crack. "I’m from New Hampshire. I sound like I’m ordering chowder, not escargot. They have me going out there, bowing, acting like some blue-blood snob." 

"Jean-Paul Lévesque," I said the name of his current WCW persona. "It’s getting heat, isn't it? The crowd hates you." 

"They hate the gimmick, YNN. There’s a difference. They don’t hate me. They don’t believe in me enough to hate me. They just think I look stupid." He paced a tight circle around the bench. "Ric Flair is down there. Steve Austin is down there. I’m trying to learn, trying to show them I can go hold-for-hold with anyone, and they’re worried about whether my sash is velvet enough." 

I stepped in his path, forcing him to stop pacing. "Okay. Let’s get out of here. You’re done. You’re not doing any good here right now." 

"I have two more sets of—" 

"No," I said firmly. "You have a shower and a steak in your future. That’s it. Get your bag." 

The drive back to our shared apartment was quiet. Orlando in the mid-90s was a strange mix of swamps, neon tourist traps, and endless construction. We navigated the traffic in Paul’s beat-up sedan, the AC struggling to keep the cabin below ninety degrees. 

I drove. Paul sat in the passenger seat, knees pressed against the dashboard, staring out the window at the palm trees whipping by. 

I knew why he was spiraling. Paul was a student of the game. He didn't just want to be a wrestler; he wanted to be the best. He studied tapes of Harley Race and Nick Bockwinkel the way other guys studied playboy magazines. He treated the business with a reverence that was almost religious. To be stuck in a gimmick that felt like a cartoon character—it was insulting to the work he put in. 

We pulled into the complex, a stucco beige sprawling thing that looked identical to every other complex in Central Florida. We walked up the stairs to the second floor, the heat radiating off the concrete walkways. 

Inside, the apartment was cool, thank God. It was sparsely furnished. A couch we’d found at a thrift store, a TV that was too small for the room, and stacks of VHS tapes everywhere. Wrestling tapes. 

Paul dropped his gym bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him. 

I went to the kitchen—a generous term for the alcove with a stove and a fridge—and started pulling out ingredients for dinner. Steak and potatoes. The wrestler’s diet. 

"I got a call," Paul said from the other room. 

I paused, a potato peeler in my hand. "A call? From who?" 

"New York." 

I put the potato down and walked to the doorway. "New York? You mean… the Federation? Titan Towers?" 

He turned his head to look at me, a mixture of fear and excitement in his eyes. "JJ Dillon called me. They’ve been watching the tapes. Not the TV tapings, but the house shows. The matches where I actually get to work." 

"Paul! That’s huge!" I smiled, leaning against the doorframe. "That’s what you wanted, isn't it? The big leagues. Madison Square Garden." 

"It’s a risk," he said, sitting up. He rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. "I’m under contract here for another few months. They offered me a renewal, YNN. A guaranteed renewal with a pay bump." 

"But you’re miserable," I pointed out. 

"I’m stable," he corrected. "I’m making money. If I go to the WWF… I’m starting over. Bottom of the card. And Vince… he’s eccentric. What if I go there and it’s the same thing? What if I trade a French aristocrat for a… I don’t know, a garbage man or a hockey player?" 

I walked over and sat on the coffee table in front of him, forcing him to look me in the eye. 

"Look at me," I said. 

He met my gaze. He had the kind of eyes that could look stone-cold in the ring, but right now, they were full of uncertainty. 

"Do you remember when we were kids?" I asked. "When you first saw Chief Jay Strongbow on TV? You didn't say, 'I want a stable job with a 401k.' You said, 'I want to be the champion.'" 

He cracked a small, reluctant smile. "I was eight." 

"You were right," I said. "Paul, look at you. You study harder than anyone. You train harder than anyone. You have a mind for this business that scares me sometimes. You know why you hate the French guy gimmick? Because you know it has a ceiling. You know it’s a mid-card joke." 

He nodded slowly. "It’s a dead end." 

"Exactly. And you don’t do dead ends. You do the work." I reached out and put a hand on his knee. "If you stay here, you’ll be comfortable. You’ll make rent. And in twenty years, you’ll be a bitter old guy running a wrestling school telling everyone how you could have been a contender." 

He flinched. I knew that stung, but he needed to hear it. 

"But if you go to New York," I continued, "you’re betting on yourself. And if I was a betting woman, I’d put every dime I have on Paul Levesque." 

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The tension in his shoulders seemed to drop an inch. "I met with Bischoff yesterday," he admitted. "Asked for a push. Asked to be taken seriously." 

"And?" 

"He laughed. Said I didn't have the 'it' factor. Said I was a good hand, but I wasn't a star." 

My blood boiled. Eric Bischoff was a suit. He didn't know grit. "Screw him." 

Paul laughed, a genuine sound this time. "Yeah. Screw him." 

"So," I stood up, dusting off my hands. "You’re going to call Dillon back." 

"Yeah," Paul said, a new light entering his eyes. "Yeah, I am. But first… is that steak going to cook itself?" 

I rolled my eyes and headed back to the kitchen. "You’re lucky I love you, or you’d be eating raw eggs like Rocky." 

Later that night, after dinner, the mood had shifted. The apartment felt less like a cage and more like a war room. Paul had the VCR running. He was watching a tape of a match between Bret Hart and Mr. Perfect. 

I sat on the floor, stretching. I wasn't a wrestler, but living with Paul meant I trained like one by osmosis. 

"See that?" Paul pointed at the screen with his fork. "Look at the pacing. They aren't rushing. They’re letting the crowd breathe." 

"It’s like a dance," I observed. 

"It’s psychology," he corrected. "It’s manipulation. You make them feel exactly what you want them to feel, exactly when you want them to feel it." He paused, chewing thoughtfully. "That’s what I want to do. I want to control the crowd. I don't want to just be a guy doing moves. I want to be the… the general." 

"The General?" I teased. "Sounds a bit militaristic." 

"Maybe," he shrugged. "But look at the top guys. Hogan, Savage, Flair. They control the chaos. I need a character that lets me do that. Someone smart. Someone who outthinks the other guy, not just outmuscles him." 

"Well," I said, "You’re definitely smart. And you’re definitely manipulative when you want the last slice of pizza." 

He threw a throw pillow at me. I swatted it away effortlessly. 

"Hey," he said, his tone turning serious again. "Thanks." 

"For what? The steak?" 

"For talking me off the ledge at the gym. And for… you know. Moving down here. Putting up with the moods." 

I looked at him. It wasn't easy. Paul was intense, driven, and sometimes incredibly selfish because his goal consumed everything else. But he was also my brother. He was the guy who beat up a bully who pulled my pigtails in third grade. He was the guy who drove three hours in a snowstorm to pick me up when my car broke down in college. 

"We’re a team," I said simply. "You handle the headlocks; I handle the headspace." 

"I’m going to make it, YNN," he said, staring at the TV screen where Bret Hart was holding up the winged eagle belt. "I promise you. I’m going to run this business one day." 

It sounded arrogant. It sounded impossible. A kid from Nashua running the global wrestling empire? But looking at the set of his jaw, the absolute conviction in his eyes, I believed him. 

"I know you will," I said. "But you’re going to have to change your name. Terra Ryzing isn't going to look good on a corporate letterhead." 

He chuckled. "I’m working on it. I need something… distinguished. Something that sounds like money, but dangerous money. Old money." 

"Like a Greenwich snob?" I suggested. 

He paused, tilting his head. "Greenwich. Connecticut. That’s Titan’s backyard. It’s heat right out of the gate." 

"Hunter," I said randomly. "sounds like a rich kid name. Hunter… something." 

"Hunter… Hearst," he mused. "Like the newspaper guy." 

"Hunter Hearst Helmsley," I improvised, combining names I’d seen in society pages. 

Paul froze. He looked at me, then back at the TV, then back at me. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. 

"Hunter Hearst Helmsley," he repeated, testing the syllables. "HHH. It’s got a rhythm." 

He stood up and walked to the mirror in the hallway—the same way he had in the gym, but the energy was different now. He wasn't looking at a failure. He was looking at a prospect. He straightened his posture, tilted his chin up, and gave a look of pure, unadulterated disdain to his own reflection. 

"It needs work," he said, turning back to me. "But it’s better than the French guy." 

"Everything is better than the French guy," I laughed. 

He sat back down, the tension from the gym completely gone, replaced by a buzzing, kinetic energy. He was already planning. He was already in New York in his mind. 

"I’m calling Dillon tomorrow morning," he announced. "I’m telling WCW I’m not renewing." 

"Good," I said. "Does this mean we have to move to Connecticut?" 

"Probably. You hate the snow." 

"I hate the humidity more," I countered. "Besides, if you’re going to be the King of Kings or whatever, you’ll need someone to drive the getaway car." 

He laughed, grabbing the remote and rewinding the tape to study the finish one more time. 

I watched him for a moment longer. The world saw a muscle-bound guy in tights. They saw a mid-carder struggling to find his voice. But I saw what was coming. I saw the discipline, the intelligence, and the ruthlessness that lay just beneath the surface. 

The "What is with you today?" had been answered. Today was the day Paul Levesque decided to stop playing a character and start building a legacy. Today was the day the game actually started. 

"Hey, YNN?" 

"Yeah?" 

"If I make it… if I really make it… you’re never paying for a ticket. Front row. Every WrestleMania." 

I smiled, leaning my head back against the couch. "Deal. But you better win." 

He looked at me, the blue light of the TV reflecting in his eyes. 

"I’m not playing to play," he said softly. "I’m playing to win." 

Outside, the Orlando thunder rumbled, shaking the cheap window panes. But inside, the storm had passed, and something much more dangerous was beginning to form. 

I closed my eyes, listening to the commentary from the TV, and felt a strange sense of peace. He was going to be fine. In fact, God help anyone who stood in his way. 

"Rewind that part again," I said. "I want to see how he set up the suplex." 

Paul grinned and hit the button. "That’s my girl." 

We sat there in the flickering light, a brother and sister on the edge of the rest of our lives, watching giants wrestle, knowing that one day, he would be the biggest giant of them all. 

Two Years Later  

I stood in the backstage area of Madison Square Garden. The air here was different than Orlando. It smelled of popcorn, stale beer, and history. 

Paul walked past me, his hair long and wet, wearing a velvet robe that cost more than our old car. He held a cane in one hand and carried himself with an air of superiority that made people step out of his way instinctively. 

He stopped in front of me just before he walked through the curtain. The crowd noise was a dull roar, vibrating through the floor. 

He winked. A tiny, imperceptible break in the character. 

"What is with you today?" I whispered, the old joke between us. 

He smirked, adjusting his cuffs. "Just another day at the office, dear sister." 

Then the music hit. The refined, classical notes of his entrance theme. He swept through the curtain, the boos raining down on him like manna from heaven. He soaked it in. He loved it.