The Only One Who Sees EP. 17 - END
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 | EP. 16 | Now |
A/N: AHHH ITS THE ENDING 🥹🥹
I first want to say I'm so grateful for every single person who has read this series and supported me through it by sharing, liking and commenting. It is especially you guys who have given me the courage and actual want to keep going with this!
I am eternally grateful to every single loud and silent supporter!!
You’d been tucked away in catering for what felt like ages, long enough for the initial chaos of backstage to settle into a steady, familiar hum around you. Plates were half‑empty, drinks were nearly finished, and the three of you had fallen into that easy rhythm that only comes after an hour of teasing, laughing, and pretending you weren’t all quietly stressed about the night ahead.
Rhea was mid‑story — something about Dominik nearly tripping over a lighting cable — when Cody made another smug comment about your “glow.” You didn’t even think before reacting.
“I swear, Cody, if you say that word one more time, I’m throwing my drink at you.”
Rhea burst out laughing, nearly choking on her water. “Do it. I want to see him drenched.”
Cody placed a hand over his heart, feigning offence. “You two are menaces.”
“You deserve it,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at him.
He grinned — that soft, infuriatingly smug grin that made your stomach flip and your blood boil at the same time.
You were about to fire back with something even sharper when a stagehand hurried over, slightly out of breath, clutching a clipboard like it was a lifeline. “Cody? Sorry to interrupt,” he said, shifting his clipboard from one hand to the other. “Production needs you for a quick meeting. Something about camera cues for the main event.”
Cody let out a soft sigh, the kind that came from years of being pulled in a dozen directions on show days. He squeezed your thigh gently before standing. “Alright. I’ll be right there.”
You looked up at him, and he paused — just for a moment — letting his hand slide from your leg to your shoulder, thumb brushing your collarbone in a small, reassuring stroke. His eyes softened, the noise of the room fading around the two of you.
“I won’t be long,” he murmured.
You nodded, offering a small smile. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your temple — subtle, private, the kind of gesture that made your chest warm. Rhea rolled her eyes dramatically, but you could see the fondness behind it.
Cody straightened, grabbed his water bottle, and gave Rhea a pointed look. “Don’t bully her while I’m gone.”
Rhea smirked. “No promises.”
You scoffed at their antics, “You both bully me!”
Cody shook his head, amused, then turned and followed the stagehand out of catering. You watched him disappear through the doorway, the back of his suit jacket catching the overhead lights before he vanished into the corridor.
The moment he was gone, the atmosphere shifted — not in a dramatic way, but in a subtle, almost imperceptible one. The room suddenly felt a little bigger, a little louder, a little less anchored. You exhaled slowly, realising how much calmer you felt with him beside you.
Rhea leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You alright?”
You nodded, though your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your napkin. “Yeah. Just… big night.”
Rhea’s expression softened — still teasing, but gentler now. “He’ll be fine. And so will you. You two are annoyingly solid.”
You rolled your eyes, but the compliment warmed you. “We’re not that bad.”
“You’re worse,” she said, grinning. “But it’s cute. And honestly? I’m glad you’ve got him.”
You blinked, surprised by the sincerity in her tone.
Rhea shrugged. “He makes you laugh. He makes you blush. He makes you threaten him. That’s love, babe.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Rhea, stop.”
She laughed, reaching across the table to flick your wrist. “Never.”
You offered her a small smile, settling back into your chair. But the absence of Cody’s warmth beside you left a faint, unexpected hollowness in your chest — a reminder of how much tonight meant, and how much you were both carrying.
Without Cody beside you, the space felt a little too open, a little too loud, but Rhea’s presence kept you anchored.
You were just reaching for your drink when a familiar voice chimed in from behind you — bright, warm, unmistakably Jackie Redmond.
“Well, well, look who’s hiding in the corner.”
You turned, and Jackie was already smiling, her headset pushed up onto her hair, clipboard tucked under her arm. She had that effortless, camera‑ready glow even off‑screen, but her eyes softened when they landed on you.
“There she is,” Jackie said, stepping closer. “The woman of the hour.”
You groaned quietly. “Please don’t start.”
Rhea snorted. “Oh, start. She deserves it.”
Jackie laughed, sliding into the empty seat beside you without waiting for permission. “Relax, I’m not here to ambush you. I just wanted to say congratulations — last night was incredible. You absolutely owned that moment.”
Your cheeks warmed again, but this time with pride rather than embarrassment. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
Jackie nodded, then tilted her head slightly, studying you with that perceptive, almost journalistic curiosity she was known for. “And… you look good today. Really good. Happy. Calm. Like someone who’s exactly where she wants to be.”
Rhea raised an eyebrow. “Tell her she’s glowing.”
You shot her a murderous look. “Rhea—”
Jackie laughed. “I mean… she’s not wrong.”
You dropped your face into your hands. “I swear to God, I’m going to throw something at both of you.”
Jackie leaned back, amused. “Hey, I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking. You and Cody walked in holding hands like you were floating. People notice that stuff.”
You peeked at her through your fingers, mortified but unable to hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “We weren’t floating.”
“You were absolutely floating,” Rhea said, deadpan.
Jackie nudged your arm gently. “Look, everyone knows you two are together. It’s not a secret. And honestly? It’s nice seeing you this… settled. You’ve had a hell of a year. You deserve a little happiness.” Her tone softened on that last line — genuine, warm, almost protective.
You exhaled slowly, letting your hands fall from your face. “I’m trying not to think about tonight too much.”
Jackie nodded knowingly. “Big night for him. Big night for you too, in a different way.”
Rhea hummed. “She’s pretending she’s fine, but she’s been threatening us all morning.”
Jackie laughed again, standing from the chair. “Well, I’ll leave you to it before she throws something at me too. But seriously — you look great. And he’s lucky to have you in his corner tonight.”
You felt your chest tighten — not with embarrassment this time, but with something deeper. Something heavier. “Thanks, Jackie,” you said quietly.
She gave you a warm smile, squeezed your shoulder, and headed back toward the production area, leaving you and Rhea alone again.
Rhea watched you for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You okay?”
You nodded, though your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your napkin again. “Yeah. Just… everything feels real all of a sudden.”
Rhea leaned forward, voice softer than usual. “It’s supposed to.”
The catering room had settled into its usual backstage chaos — trays clattering, chairs scraping, the low hum of wrestlers and crew weaving in and out of conversations. But something in you had gone quiet.
You stared at the doorway Cody had disappeared through, your thumb brushing the rim of your cup in slow, absent circles. The warmth he’d left behind on your shoulder had faded, replaced by a faint, restless flutter beneath your ribs. You tried to shake it off, but the feeling lingered — a sense of something shifting, something approaching.
Rhea noticed. She always did. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “You’re thinking too much again.”
You exhaled, long and slow. “I know. I just… I hate when he gets pulled away like that.”
Rhea shrugged. “It’s WrestleMania. Everyone’s being dragged around. He’ll be back.”
You nodded, but the unease didn’t lift. It sat low in your stomach, heavy and stubborn.
Rhea opened her mouth to say something else — probably another teasing jab — but her expression changed mid‑breath. Her eyes sharpened. Her shoulders squared. Her entire posture shifted from relaxed to alert in a heartbeat.
You felt it before you saw anything.
A cold ripple through the air.
A subtle hush in the noise around you.
A presence that pressed against your spine like a shadow stretching across the floor.
You didn’t turn around.
You didn’t need to.
He stepped into your peripheral vision with that eerie, deliberate stillness he carried everywhere — hands clasped neatly in front of him, suit immaculate, expression soft in a way that felt wrong. His eyes were gentle, almost mournful, but there was something underneath. Something sharp. Something cold.
“Miss…” he said quietly, his voice smooth as silk.
Your stomach tightened instantly.
Rhea’s chair scraped against the floor as she shifted, planting her boots firmly, her body angled between you and Paul. “Keep walking.”
Paul didn’t acknowledge her. Not even a flicker of irritation. His gaze remained fixed on you, steady and unblinking, as if Rhea wasn’t even there.
“I won’t take much of her time,” he murmured. “I simply bring a message.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. “From who?”
Paul tilted his head slightly, as though the question amused him. “From your Tribal Chief.”
The words hit harder than you expected — not because of the title and name itself, but because of who it came from. Because of the history. Because of the bond. Because of the disappointment behind it.
Rhea’s voice dropped into something low and dangerous. “She’s not part of that anymore.”
Paul raised a hand, silencing her without looking in her direction. The gesture wasn’t rude. It wasn’t aggressive. It was worse — dismissive, like she was background noise.
His attention stayed on you.
“He is… disappointed,” Paul said softly, almost tenderly. “Deeply so.”
Your breath caught. “Paul—”
“He expected better from you,” he continued, voice dropping even lower. “Better judgement. Better loyalty. Better understanding of where you belong.”
The words slid under your skin like ice.
Rhea stood fully now, blocking more of your view, her jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitch. “Back. Up.”
Paul didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He simply leaned in a fraction — not enough to invade your space, but enough to make the world around you narrow to just his voice.
“He is angrier than I have seen him in years.”
Your pulse thudded in your ears.
Your throat tightened.
Your fingers trembled against the table.
Paul’s voice softened even further, almost a whisper. “And tonight… he intends to make a statement.”
Rhea stepped forward, her presence a wall of fury and muscle. “Message delivered. Leave.”
Paul finally looked at her — not with fear, not with annoyance, but with a kind of weary patience, as though she were a child interrupting a conversation between adults.
He bowed his head politely, then turned and walked away with that same ghost‑like quiet he’d arrived with. His footsteps barely made a sound. His shadow lingered long after he disappeared into the hallway.
The moment he was gone, the air rushed back into your lungs. You hadn’t realised you’d been holding your breath until your chest ached.
Rhea turned to you immediately, her expression fierce but softened by concern. “Hey. Look at me.”
You lifted your eyes, though everything inside you felt tight and unsettled.
“He’s trying to get in your head,” she said. “That’s all this is. Mind games. Manipulation. He wants you rattled before the match.”
You nodded, but the reassurance didn’t take hold.
Paul’s words lingered in the air like a cold draft, settling into the space between your ribs. It wasn’t just the message itself — it was the intent behind it, the quiet certainty that Roman’s anger wasn’t some distant, abstract thing. It had direction. It had purpose. And it was pointed straight at Cody… and, by extension, at you.
Rhea reached across the table, her fingers tapping lightly against the back of your hand. The gesture was small, but it grounded you more than her words. “Breathe,” she murmured. “You’re not dealing with this on your own.”
You drew in a slow breath, then another, trying to steady the tightness in your chest. The air went in easily enough, but the unease didn’t lift. It settled low and heavy, a quiet reminder that the night ahead was bigger than either of you had wanted to admit.
You let the breath settle, not forcing calm, just letting the tension sit where it wanted. It wasn’t overwhelming — more like a weight you were aware of, something you could carry without folding under it. Across from you, Rhea watched you with her arms folded, her expression still edged with the irritation Paul had stirred up.
She didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone was enough to keep you anchored.
You shifted slightly in your chair, adjusting your posture, trying to shake off the last traces of Paul’s voice. The catering room moved around you — people weaving between tables, trays clattering, someone laughing too loudly near the buffet line. Life went on, even with the threat hanging in the air.
A flicker of movement on the monitor mounted near the ceiling caught your eye. The screen shifted from a replay to a bold WrestleMania graphic, the colours bright enough to pull your attention whether you wanted it or not.
Then Cody’s voice cut through the background noise.
You looked up automatically.
The hype package had started — dramatic music, slow‑motion shots, the usual production polish. You’d seen dozens of these before, and you knew every beat of Cody’s story by heart. There was nothing here that surprised you.
But watching it now, after Paul’s message, gave it a different kind of clarity. Not emotional, not overwhelming — just… sharp. Focused. Like someone had wiped a layer of dust off the moment.
Rhea followed your gaze, leaning back in her chair. “They really went cinematic with this one,” she said, her tone somewhere between impressed and amused.
You hummed in agreement. Cody’s face filled the screen — determined, steady, jaw set in that way he got when he’d already made up his mind. You recognised that look instantly. It meant he wasn’t backing down. It meant he’d already decided exactly how tonight would end.
“He’s ready,” you said, your voice even.
Rhea nodded once. “Yeah. He is.”
You didn’t smile, but something in your shoulders loosened. The unease was still there, but it wasn’t running the show anymore. It was just part of the night — background noise, like the clatter of catering trays or the hum of the crowd outside.
The package ended with Cody standing in the centre of the ring, lights blazing behind him. The screen faded to black, then cut to a live shot of the arena, the crowd roaring loud enough to bleed through the walls.
Rhea tapped her fingers against the table. “Alright. Enough sitting around. Let’s move before you start overthinking again.”
You pushed your chair back, smoothing your hands down your sides. “Yeah. Good idea.”
The hallway leading to the locker rooms was cooler and dimmer than the rest of backstage, the noise fading with every step you took. Rhea walked beside you, hands shoved into her jacket pockets, her stride steady and protective without being overbearing. She didn’t talk much — she didn’t need to. The silence between you was comfortable, a shared understanding that the night was shifting into something heavier.
When you reached Cody’s door, Rhea paused. “Go on,” she said. “I'll come in a few minutes.”
You nodded, then pushed the door open.
The locker room was softly lit, the overhead lights dimmed to a warm glow. Cody stood near the mirror, adjusting the cuff of his jacket, his posture tight with that familiar pre‑match focus. He didn’t hear the door at first — not until it clicked shut behind you.
And everything in him changed.
His shoulders dropped. His expression softened. That tight, concentrated energy he carried melted into something warmer, something that belonged only to you.
“There you are,” he said, and the smile that followed was immediate, unguarded, almost relieved.
You stepped further into the room. “You look like you’re about to fight the mirror.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I was. It was winning.”
You shook your head, and Cody crossed the space between you without hesitation. His hand found your waist, thumb brushing lightly against your hip, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here.
“You okay?” he asked, searching your face.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just… needed to see you.”
His smile deepened, softer this time. “Good. Because I needed that too.”
He didn’t rush anything. He didn’t pull you into some dramatic embrace. He just stood close, forehead resting gently against yours, breathing you in like you were the first calm moment he’d had all day.
You let your hands settle on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. His heartbeat wasn’t frantic — just focused, ready, but not overwhelmed. He wasn’t about to walk out there yet. He wasn’t being pulled away. For once, you had time.
“How long until they need you?” you asked quietly.
Cody leaned back just enough to look at you properly. “A while. They’re still setting up for the match before mine. I’ve got time.”
You nodded, and something in your chest loosened. “Good.”
He guided you toward the small sofa against the wall, the one he always ended up sitting on when he needed to think. You sat beside him, your thigh brushing his, his arm draped loosely along the back of the sofa behind you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The quiet wasn’t heavy.
It wasn’t tense.
It was… peaceful.
Cody let his head fall back against the cushion, eyes closing briefly. “It’s always loud out there,” he murmured. “But in here… it’s different when you’re with me.”
You glanced at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “Different how?”
He opened his eyes, turning his head toward you. “Like I can breathe.”
You didn’t blush. You didn’t get flustered. You just let the words settle, warm and steady, because they weren’t meant to overwhelm you — they were meant to anchor him.
You shifted slightly, leaning into his side. Cody’s arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you closer in a way that felt natural, familiar. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns along your upper arm, not for comfort, but simply because he liked touching you.
The room felt still in a way backstage rarely did — warm, quiet, almost suspended. You let yourself settle into it, leaning into his side just enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
He glanced down at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You saw the hype package?”
You let the question hang for a moment, pretending to consider it. Cody watched you with that patient, slightly amused expression he always got when he knew you were about to wind him up.
Finally, you shrugged lightly. “I mean… you looked alright.”
Cody raised an eyebrow. “Alright?”
“Mm.” You kept your tone deliberately casual. “Decent. Passable. Like someone who maybe knows what he’s doing.”
He stared at you, unimpressed. “Passable.”
You bit back a smile. “I’m just saying, the editors did a lot of heavy lifting.”
Cody let out a dramatic sigh, leaning his head back against the sofa. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart into that package and you give me ‘passable.’”
You nudged his thigh with your knee. “Relax. I’m teasing.”
He turned his head toward you, eyes narrowing playfully. “You sure about that?”
You met his gaze, letting your expression soften just a little. “You looked really good, Cody.” The words landed differently — not flirty, not emotional, just honest. Steady. Warm. His shoulders loosened, the tension easing out of him in a slow exhale.
“Yeah?” he asked, quieter now.
You nodded. “Yeah. Confident. Focused. Like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
Cody’s smile returned, softer this time, the kind that reached his eyes. “That’s better.”
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest didn’t fade. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late,” he said, shifting closer until your legs brushed. “You said I looked good. That’s going straight to my head.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “I can tell.”
Cody was still smiling from your teasing, that soft, quiet kind of smile he only ever wore around you. He slipped his arm more securely around your shoulders, pulling you in until your head rested comfortably against him. His hand traced slow, absent circles along your upper arm — not nervous, not restless, just… content.
“You did look really good,” you said again, letting the words linger this time.
Cody’s smile deepened. “Yeah? You sure it wasn’t just the editors?”
You nudged him lightly. “No. That was you.”
He was about to reply when the door opened — not abruptly, just a quiet, deliberate push.
Rhea stepped inside. She took one look at the two of you — not tangled up, not dramatic, just comfortably close — and the corner of her mouth lifted.
“Well,” she said, voice low and dry, “looks like I walked in on the VIP section.”
Cody huffed a laugh under his breath. “You’re hilarious.”
Rhea shrugged, closing the door behind her. “I try.”
You sat up a little, not pulling away from Cody, just shifting so the moment made space for her. Cody adjusted with you, his hand sliding to rest against your back instead of around your shoulders.
Rhea crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite you both, settling in like she belonged there — because she did.
“You two good?” she asked, tone casual.
Cody nodded. “Yeah. Just taking a minute.”
Rhea leaned back in the chair, stretching her legs out. “Good. You should. It’s chaos out there.”
You nodded. “We figured.”
Rhea’s eyes flicked between you and Cody, and her smirk returned — softer this time, almost fond. “Didn’t expect to find you two looking this relaxed, though.”
Cody raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because you,” she said, pointing at him, “usually pace holes in the floor before a match.”
Then she pointed at you. “And you usually look like you’re trying to keep him from doing exactly that.”
You let out a quiet breath of amusement. “We’re evolving.”
“Clearly,” Rhea said, settling deeper into the chair. “I like this version better.”
The room had settled into a soft, steady quiet — the kind that only existed when the noise outside was too big to ignore, but the people inside refused to let it swallow them. Cody’s hand rested against your waist, warm and grounding, his thigh pressed lightly against yours. He wasn’t clinging. He was just… there. Close in the way he always was when he needed to breathe.
Rhea sat opposite you both, elbows on her knees, posture relaxed but alert. She wasn’t analysing him. She wasn’t giving advice. She was simply part of the moment — a steady presence, someone who understood the weight of nights like this.
You exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the floor for a moment before lifting back to Cody. “It’s finally happening,” you said quietly. “Everything you’ve worked for. Everything you’ve carried. You’re actually… finishing your story tonight.”
Cody’s eyes softened, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Finishing my story?”
He shook his head gently, leaning into you a little more, his shoulder brushing yours. “No. Not anymore.”
You blinked, surprised by the certainty in his voice. “What do you mean?”
Cody’s thumb brushed your waist, slow and deliberate. “It stopped being just my story the moment you walked into it.”
Rhea huffed a quiet breath — not mocking, not teasing, just acknowledging the truth of it. “He’s right,” she said. “You’re both in this now. Whether you like it or not.”
You let out a small, steady breath. “I know. I just… I’ve literally watched you fight for this for so long. It feels surreal that it’s finally here.”
Cody’s gaze held yours, warm and unwavering. “It feels less scary with you on my side, her.”
Rhea smirked faintly. “And with me here too, obviously.”
You rolled your eyes. “Obviously.”
The three of you shared a small, quiet laugh — not loud, not forced, just a soft release of tension.
Then Rhea shifted slightly, her expression tightening for a moment. “Especially with Paul running around—”
Her eyes flicked to you. A tiny, instinctive check. Too quick for anyone else — but Cody wasn’t anyone else. He noticed.
He straightened slightly. “Paul running around doing what?”
Rhea didn’t answer. She looked at you again, not pushing, just giving you the space to speak.
You inhaled slowly. “He talked to me earlier.”
Cody’s brows pulled together, not sharply — just a quiet, controlled confusion. “When?”
“In catering,” you said. “Before I came here.”
Cody’s hand stilled at your waist. “And you didn’t tell me.” It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t disappointment. It was that soft, familiar frustration — the kind that came from caring, not control.
You met his eyes, steady. “I didn’t want to pull you out of your headspace. You were focused. You needed to stay focused.”
Rhea nodded. “He didn’t say anything new. Just the usual cryptic crap.”
Cody looked between the two of you, processing. “What exactly did he say?”
You drew in a slow breath, steadying yourself before speaking. “He said Roman’s angry. That tonight is personal. That you’re not just fighting him — you’re fighting the family. My family.”
Cody’s hand paused at your waist, the warmth of his palm still there but unmoving, like he was bracing for the next part.
You swallowed once, your voice quieter but not shaky. “And he said Roman’s… disappointed in me.”
The air in the room shifted — not dramatically, not with shock — just a subtle tightening, like the temperature had dropped a degree.
Cody’s head turned toward you, slow and deliberate. His brows pulled together, not sharply, but with a quiet, controlled confusion. “In you?”
You nodded. “Yeah, but he's been disappointed in me for a long time now.”
Rhea’s jaw flexed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Listen, he just made a point of saying it. Like he wanted it to land.”
You exhaled, the words coming out measured, honest. “He said Roman intends to make a statement tonight. That he wants to remind everyone what happens when people ‘forget their place.’”
Cody’s hand tightened at your waist — not painfully, but with a sudden, protective instinct he didn’t bother hiding.
You kept your gaze on him, steady. “I know Paul talks in circles. I know he exaggerates. But… it scared me a little. A bit for me, but mainly for you. Roman has so many tricks up his sleeve, you won't only be fighting him.”
Cody’s expression softened, but the confusion didn’t disappear. It settled into something warmer, something threaded with frustration — not at you, but at being left out of the loop.
“You shouldn't be scared, I've got you, and I’ve told you,” he said quietly, “I want to know everything. Especially when it involves you.”
You nodded. “I know. And I’m not trying to keep things from you. I just… didn’t want to pull you out of your headspace. You were focused. You needed to stay focused.”
Rhea leaned forward, voice low and even. “And for the record, he didn’t say anything she couldn’t handle. He was just being Paul — dramatic, cryptic, trying to get under her skin.”
Cody looked between the two of you, processing. His frustration softened into something gentler, something protective. “I just don’t like the idea of him talking to you like that. Or about you like that.”
You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing his. “I know. But I’m okay. I promise.”
Cody exhaled slowly, leaning into you again, his forehead brushing your temple for a brief, grounding moment. “Thank you for telling me.”
Rhea leaned back, satisfied the moment had settled. “Good. Now can we go back to pretending we’re not all stressed out of our minds?”
Cody smirked. “I’m not stressed.”
You nudged him. “You’re always stressed.”
Rhea pointed at him. “Exactly.”
Rhea lounged in the chair opposite, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp with that familiar mix of amusement and affection she reserved for the two of you.
She watched you for a moment, her gaze flicking between you and Cody, and then she let out a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You know,” she said, her voice low and dry, “I still can’t believe you’re with him and not the Bloodline.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rhea shrugged, her smirk widening. “I mean… they’re your actual family. You grew up around them. You know their world inside out. And yet here you are, sitting all cozy with the blondest man alive.”
Cody made a face. “Wow. Thank you.”
Rhea ignored him completely. “Seriously. If someone told me a year ago that you’d be sitting here with him instead of running around with your cousins, I’d have laughed in their face.”
You felt Cody’s hand tighten slightly at your waist — not possessive, just amused. “I’m right here,” he muttered.
“I know,” Rhea said, waving a hand. “That’s what makes it funny.”
You shook your head, but there was a smile tugging at your mouth. “I didn’t want to be part of that machine.”
Rhea raised an eyebrow. “And what are we? A travelling circus?”
“A family,” you said simply.
That landed. You could see it in the way Cody’s shoulders softened, in the way Rhea’s expression flickered — just for a second — into something warmer, something almost protective.
Cody leaned in a little more, his voice low. “Yeah. We are.”
Rhea cleared her throat, as if physically pushing away the sincerity before it could settle too deeply. “Alright, enough of that. Back to the important stuff.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Which is?”
Rhea replied, “if you two ever get married, how exactly is that going to work? Because I’m telling you now — The Bloodline attending will be chaos.”
You felt your entire body jolt, heat rushing to your cheeks before you could stop it. “Rhea,” you groaned, “we are not talking about marriage. It’s way too early for that.”
Cody made a small sound beside you — not a laugh, not a protest, just a quiet exhale that told you he was flustered too. His thumb paused at your waist, then resumed its slow circles, a little more deliberate now.
Rhea smirked, delighted. “Oh, look at you two. Blushing like teenagers.”
“I’m not blushing,” you muttered, absolutely blushing.
Cody cleared his throat, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “Rhea's just… getting ahead of herself.”
Rhea raised an eyebrow. “Am I? Because you two look like you’ve already picked out baby names.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Please stop.”
But she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t. “Fine,” Rhea said, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “Let’s talk logistics instead. Would you want a big wedding or a small one?”
“A small one would be nice,” you admitted quietly. “Something simple. Just people we actually care about.”
Cody’s head turned toward you, his expression softening in that way that always made your chest tighten. “Yeah,” he murmured, “that sounds perfect.”
“But,” you continued, rolling your eyes, “my mum would absolutely lose her mind. She’d want a massive wedding. Like… three hundred people, fireworks, a horse-drawn carriage, the whole thing.”
Rhea snorted. “Of course she would. Does she even like him?”
You blinked. “Like him? She’s obsessed with him.”
“Oh, completely,” you said, laughing now. “She watches all your matches. She sends me clips. She literally said — and I quote — ‘If you don’t marry that man, I will.’”
Cody’s mouth fell open. “She said that?”
Rhea burst out laughing. “Oh, this is incredible.”
You nodded, grinning. “She loves you. She thinks you’re charming and respectful and ‘a proper gentleman.’ She shuts Roman down every time he tries to complain about you.”
Cody looked like he didn’t know whether to smile or hide. “I… don’t know what to do with that information.”
Rhea leaned forward, pointing at him. “You'd better be on your best behaviour when you meet her. She sounds like she could take you in a fight.”
“She absolutely could,” you said.
Cody groaned into his hands. “This is too much.”
Rhea smirked. “Good. Now we’re all suffering.”
You were still smiling when a thought hit you — sudden, sharp, and completely derailing. Your breath caught. Your spine straightened. Your stomach dropped in that ridiculous, fluttery way you hated.
“Wait,” you said, the word slipping out before you could stop it. “Your mum is here tonight.”
“As in… here here,” you clarified, your voice a little higher than usual. “In the building. In the arena. Watching everything.”
Rhea’s smirk widened instantly. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
You stared at Cody, the panic rising in a slow, creeping wave. “Cody. I’m going to see her. Today. Like… actually see her. In person.”
He looked at you for a moment, confused at first — and then it clicked. His eyes softened, the corners of his mouth lifting in that small, amused way he got when he realised you were flustered.
“You’ve talked to her before,” he reminded you gently.
“On the phone,” you said, gesturing helplessly. “On FaceTime. Not in real life. Not when she’s here to watch you main event WrestleMania. That’s different.”
Rhea leaned forward, elbows on her knees, delighted. “Oh, she’s spiralling. This is fantastic.”
You shot her a look. “I’m not spiralling.”
“You absolutely are,” she said.
Cody nudged you lightly with his shoulder, his voice warm but not patronising. “She already likes you.”
“That’s not the point,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Meeting someone’s mum is… it’s a thing. And she’s not just anyone’s mum. She’s your mum. And she’s here. Today. And I’m not prepared.”
Rhea snorted. “What do you need to prepare for? She already thinks you’re perfect.”
“That makes it worse!” you said, exasperated. “What if I disappoint her? What if she realises I’m not—”
Cody cut you off with a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re not disappointing her. Trust me. She’s been asking if she’ll get to see you tonight after the match.”
“Every time she’s called this week,” he said. “Her first question hasn’t been about the match. It’s been, ‘Will she be there?’”
Rhea let out a low whistle. “Damn. She really does like you.”
You sank back against the sofa, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Oh god. I’m meeting your mum today.”
Cody leaned into you a little more, his voice low and steady. “Yeah. And she’s going to be happy to see you.”
The realisation that you were going to see Cody’s mum tonight was still settling in your chest when another thought blindsided you — sharper, faster, somehow even worse. It hit you so suddenly that you sat up straighter, your hand instinctively grabbing Cody’s forearm like you needed something solid to anchor yourself.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, eyes widening. “What happens if I go out there during your match?”
“I mean—” you gestured wildly, already spiralling, “you came out during mine. You helped me. What if something happens and I have to go out there for you? What if she sees me fighting? What if she thinks I’m— I don’t know— unhinged or violent or—”
Rhea didn’t even try to hide her grin. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, absolutely delighted. “Oh, this is fantastic. She’s fully losing it.”
“I’m not losing it,” you insisted, absolutely losing it. “I’m just saying, what if she gets scared of me? What if she thinks I’m some kind of—”
“Warrior?” Rhea offered. “Athlete? Competent adult who can throw someone twice her size?”
You glared at her. “You’re not helping.”
“Oh, I’m helping,” she said, smirking. “I’m helping myself.”
Cody was trying so hard not to laugh that his shoulders were shaking. He covered his mouth with his hand, but it didn’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of his eyes. “Sweetheart,” he said gently, “she’s watched your matches.”
“She’s watched all your matches,” Cody said, amusement colouring his voice. “She knows exactly what you can do. She’s seen you fight. She’s seen you win. She’s seen you throw people around like they owe you money.”
Rhea nodded sagely. “Honestly, she’s probably more scared of you not fighting.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is a nightmare.”
“It’s really not,” Cody said, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “She likes you. She respects you. And she knows what this job is. If you come out during my match, she’s not going to clutch her pearls and faint.”
Rhea snorted. “She’ll probably cheer.”
You peeked at them through your fingers. “You’re both ridiculous.”
Cody shook his head. “No. You’re being ridiculous. In a cute way.”
Rhea pointed at him. “You’re enabling her.”
“I’m comforting her,” Cody corrected.
“You’re enabling her,” Rhea repeated.
You groaned again, but there was laughter threaded through it now — the panic easing, the warmth settling back in. “I just… I don’t want her to think I’m some kind of loose cannon.”
Rhea rolled her eyes. “You literally wrestle for a living. She knows you can fight. She’s not going to be shocked if you throw a punch.”
Cody leaned in a little closer, his voice low and steady. “She’s going to like you. She already does. And if you come out during my match, she’ll understand why.”
Rhea smirked. “And if she doesn’t, I’ll fight her.”
You groaned. “Please don’t fight Cody’s mum.”
“No promises,” Rhea said.
The three of you were still laughing — that soft, breathy kind of laughter that came after panic had finally loosened its grip — when the crowd on the TV erupted. None of you had been paying attention, but the sudden roar pulled your eyes to the screen just in time to see the referee’s hand hit the mat for the third time.
The victor’s music hit, pyro flared, and the camera cut to the commentary desk. You barely had time to register it before the screen faded to black for a moment… and then the opening notes of the hype package kicked in.
Rhea’s smirk faded.
Cody’s hand at your waist went still.
Your breath caught.
The screen lit up with the first clip — grainy footage from over a year ago, the beginning of the rivalry. Commentary echoed through the room, low and dramatic.
“This story didn’t start tonight… it started long before.”
The next clip hit hard:
Roman standing tall, the Bloodline behind him — and you among them, arms folded, expression cold, loyal to the family.
You felt your stomach twist.
Rhea glanced at you, not judging, just acknowledging the weight of it.
Cody didn’t look away from the screen.
The package kept rolling — the betrayals, the confrontations, the moments where you stood across from Cody, not beside him. The crowd reactions, the promos, the tension that had built and built until it felt like the whole company was holding its breath.
The countdown.
The pop.
Cody entering at 30.
The final elimination.
The moment he pointed to the WrestleMania sign with tears in his eyes.
The music softened.
The lighting in the clips changed.
And suddenly there you were — not with the Bloodline, but with him.
Backstage moments.
The first time you stood up for him.
The night everything changed.
The night you chose him.
Cody’s jaw tightened, but not with anger — with something deeper, something that lived in the space between gratitude and disbelief.
The room felt smaller suddenly, like the air had thickened around the three of you.
Rhea let out a slow breath. “Damn. They really went all out.”
Cody didn’t answer.
He was still watching the screen, shoulders rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
The package ended with a final shot — Cody staring down the camera, determined, bruised, ready.
Rhea checked the clock on the wall. “Ten minutes.”
Cody exhaled, long and controlled, grounding himself. He didn’t stand yet. He stayed close, his hand still warm at your waist, his shoulder brushing yours like he needed one more second before stepping into the storm.
You turned toward him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You ready?”
He looked at you — really looked — and something in his expression softened, warmed, settled. “I am now,” he said quietly.
His breathing had changed — not panicked, not shaky, just deeper, more deliberate, like he was pulling himself into the moment piece by piece.
Not with nerves.
Not with fear.
With that quiet, steady focus he only ever gave to the things that mattered.
“Cody…” you started, but the words dissolved before they formed.
He stepped closer — not grabbing, not rushing, just closing the space like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand slid from your waist to your jaw, warm and sure, his thumb brushing your cheek in a slow, grounding stroke.
“You’re with me,” he murmured. “That’s all I need.”
Not hard.
Not desperate.
Just a slow, steady press of his mouth against yours — warm, certain, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t demand anything, didn’t demand anything, just anchored you both in the same breath.
His forehead rested against yours when he pulled back, his breath mingling with yours, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Now I’m ready.”
Rhea made a noise behind you — something between a scoff and a sigh — but even she didn’t break the moment. She just muttered, “Finally,” under her breath and grabbed her jacket.
Cody pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing you in for one last steadying moment. Then he straightened, rolling his shoulders back, the shift in him immediate — from soft to focused, from grounded to ready.
Rhea grabbed her jacket, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go. They’ll want him in gorilla.”
The hallway outside was buzzing — crew members rushing past, radios crackling, the distant roar of the crowd pulsing like a heartbeat through the concrete. The three of you stepped into it together, moving as a unit without even thinking about it.
Cody walked in the middle, shoulders squared, jaw set, the shift in him unmistakable. He wasn’t the man teasing you on the couch anymore. He wasn’t the man panicking about your mum. He wasn’t even the man who’d just kissed you.
Rhea walked on his left, her expression sharpening into something fierce and protective, the kind of presence that made people step out of the way without her saying a word.
You walked on his right, close enough that your arm brushed his every few steps, the warmth of the kiss still lingering on your lips, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.
Gorilla was already humming with that strange, electric stillness that only ever settled before a main event. The lights were low, the monitors glowing in sharp blues and whites, casting long shadows across the equipment cases and cables that lined the walls. Crew members moved with quiet purpose, headsets pressed to their ears, voices low but urgent. The roar of the crowd seeped through the curtain in waves — distant, muffled, but unmistakably alive.
Cody stepped into the space with you and Rhea flanking him, the three of you slipping into the controlled chaos like you belonged there. The energy shifted the moment he crossed the threshold — not because anyone announced him, but because everyone felt it. Heads turned. Conversations paused. A few crew members straightened instinctively, as if acknowledging the gravity of what he was about to do.
And then Triple H stepped forward.
He wasn’t smiling in the big, performative way he sometimes did on camera. This was quieter, more grounded — the kind of expression that came from someone who had seen every version of this business, every rise and fall, and understood exactly what this night meant.
He reached out and clasped Cody’s forearm, pulling him into a brief, firm embrace — not long, not dramatic, just enough to say everything words couldn’t.
When he stepped back, his voice was low, steady, threaded with something unmistakably sincere.
“You’ve earned this,” he said, looking Cody directly in the eye. “Every bit of it. I’m proud of you, man.”
Cody’s breath hitched — not visibly, not theatrically, but you felt the subtle shift in him, the way his shoulders squared a little more, the way his jaw tightened with quiet emotion. He nodded once, a small, grounded gesture that carried more weight than any speech.
Triple H continued, his tone softening even further. “No matter what happens out there… you’ve already made history. Tonight is yours. Go take it.”
Rhea stood slightly behind Cody, arms folded, watching the exchange with a rare flicker of respect in her eyes. You stood on his other side, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to sense the way those words settled into him like armour.
Cody exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that came from deep in his chest — steadying, cantering. He adjusted his weight belt, rolled his shoulders back, and for a moment, he looked less like a man about to wrestle and more like someone stepping into the culmination of a lifetime.
Triple H gave him one last nod, then stepped aside, clearing the path to the curtain.
The music cue was seconds away.
The crowd was rumbling like a storm.
The monitors flickered with the final graphic of the night.
And Cody Rhodes stood there — ready, grounded, held by the people who mattered most — on the edge of the moment that would define everything.
The final seconds of the hype package flickered across the screen, ending on a shot of Cody staring down the camera, eyes full of fire and resolve. The graphic flashed: MAIN EVENT — UP NEXT, and the room seemed to tighten around the three of you.
Cody turned toward you, and the shift in his expression was immediate. The tension in his shoulders eased, the focus softened, and something warmer flickered behind his eyes. He stepped closer without hesitation, his hand lifting to cradle your jaw with a quiet certainty. His thumb brushed your cheek in a slow, grounding stroke, and the noise of the arena faded into a distant blur. When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or dramatic. It was steady, warm, deliberate — the kind of kiss that anchored rather than ignited, that said everything he didn’t have time to put into words. His forehead rested against yours for a breath, his voice low and certain as he whispered, “I’ll see you after.”
The opening note cracked through gorilla like a lightning strike. Cody didn’t hesitate. He squeezed your hand once — a silent promise — and turned toward the curtain. Rhea clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, and then he stepped through the drape into the blinding arena lights. The curtain fell back into place behind him, swallowing him into the roar of the crowd.
The moment he disappeared, the atmosphere shifted.
Roman stepped into gorilla with the championship strapped around his waist, the gold catching the monitor light in sharp, unforgiving flashes. His presence filled the space instantly, commanding without a word.
Solo moved in behind him, silent and unreadable, his expression carved from stone. Jimmy followed, jaw tight, eyes flicking briefly toward the curtain Cody had disappeared through. And then Jey stepped in last, his posture tense, his gaze sweeping the room before landing — reluctantly, almost painfully — on you.
None of them spoke at first.
They didn’t need to.
The tension settled like smoke.
Roman’s eyes locked onto you with that cold, assessing calm that said he’d seen everything — the kiss, the closeness, the shift he’d never approved of. His jaw tightened by a fraction, the only crack in his otherwise unshakeable composure.
But it was your brothers who made the moment ache.
Jimmy looked at you first, but only for a second. His eyes flicked up, caught yours, and then dropped away as if the contact burned. There was something like hurt there — not anger, not betrayal, just the quiet sting of someone who didn’t understand why he'd walked away from you, from the promise, from his sister, whom he promised to protect always.
Solo didn’t look at you at all.
He stood rigid, arms folded, gaze fixed on the curtain as if refusing to acknowledge the shift in the room. But the tension in his shoulders gave him away — a tightness that hadn’t been there before, a silent question he wasn’t ready to voice.
He didn’t look away.
He didn’t hide.
He just stared at you — long, steady, conflicted — like he was trying to reconcile the sister he’d grown up with and the woman standing in front of him now.
There was no hatred in his eyes. No disgust. Just a deep, quiet ache.
He opened his mouth once, as if he wanted to say something — your name, maybe, or a question he’d been carrying for months — but the words never came. His jaw tightened, his throat worked, and he looked down, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t trust himself to speak.
Heyman hovered behind them all, eyes wide and darting, clutching the ula fala like a shield. He looked at you the way a man looks at a storm he can’t predict — wary, fascinated, terrified.
Rhea stepped closer to you, her posture shifting into something protective, her presence a quiet warning. She didn’t touch you, didn’t speak, but the message was clear: you’re not alone anymore.
Roman finally broke the silence — not with words, but with a slow, deliberate inhale. His gaze swept over his cousins, then returned to you, sharp and unreadable.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
The weight of everything unsaid hung between all of you — the choices made, the loyalties broken, the love that still lingered beneath the fractures.
And somewhere beyond the curtain, Cody’s entrance theme thundered through the stadium, the crowd roaring as he walked toward the moment that would define everything.
The bright lights on the screen threw shifting reflections across the gorilla's position, catching on the gold plates strapped around Roman’s waist as he took a single, deliberate step toward you.
The movement was small, almost unremarkable, but it changed the air instantly. Rhea shifted beside you, her stance tightening, her weight settling forward in a way that made her look ready to break someone’s jaw if she had to. Triple H, who had been reviewing cues with production a few feet away, turned at the shift in atmosphere. His expression sharpened, the easy professionalism dropping into something more alert, more watchful.
Roman didn’t acknowledge any of them.
His attention stayed fixed on you.
He stopped close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw, the controlled rise and fall of his chest, the cold calculation in his eyes. The belt gleamed between you, a reminder of everything he believed he still owned — including you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, the kind of calm that cut deeper than shouting ever could.
“When I destroy him out there,” he said, “and you can’t even recognise your little boyfriend… you’ll come back to your actual family.”
The words landed like a blow — not loud, not dramatic, but heavy with the kind of certainty only Roman ever carried. Behind him, Jimmy’s head snapped up, his eyes widening before he looked away again, jaw clenched. Solo’s posture stiffened, a silent agreement or a silent warning — it was impossible to tell. Jey’s expression flickered, something like pain tightening his features before he dropped his gaze to the floor.
Heyman swallowed hard, clutching the ula fala tighter, his eyes darting between Roman and you like he was watching a fuse burn toward a bomb.
Rhea stepped forward then, just enough that her shoulder brushed yours, her presence a quiet, unmistakable threat. She didn’t speak — she didn’t need to — but the message was clear in every line of her body.
Not this time.
Not her.
Not anymore.
Roman’s gaze flicked briefly to Rhea, then back to you, as if weighing something only he understood. The crowd roared again on the monitors, Cody climbing the turnbuckle, bathed in light and noise and momentum.
Roman’s voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper.
“We’ll see how long this lasts.”
Then he stepped back, the tension in the room snapping like a pulled wire released — but the damage, the message, the fracture he’d carved into the moment lingered long after.
The shift in the air was immediate. Rhea didn’t hesitate; she moved fully in front of you, her body angled just enough to shield you without making a scene, her stance coiled and ready. The quiet threat in her posture was unmistakable — a line drawn, a warning delivered without a single word. She wasn’t posturing. She wasn’t bluffing. She was simply done letting anyone, even Roman, get close enough to hurt you again.
Triple H stepped in at almost the same moment, the change in his demeanour subtle but decisive. The easy professionalism he’d worn seconds earlier was gone, replaced by the calm authority of someone who had broken up more backstage confrontations than he could count. He positioned himself between the two sides with a quiet, controlled confidence that didn’t need volume to be felt. His eyes flicked from Roman to Rhea, then to you, reading the tension with the precision of a man who knew exactly how volatile this moment could become.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low but firm — not a threat, not a plea, just a boundary. “Not here. Not now.”
Roman didn’t look at him at first. His gaze stayed fixed on the space where Rhea stood shielding you, the unspoken challenge still hanging in the air like smoke. Only after a long, heavy moment did he shift his attention to Triple H, his expression unreadable, his breathing steady and controlled.
Behind him, the Bloodline held their positions.
Jimmy’s jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Solo stood rigid, arms folded, a silent wall of muscle and loyalty.
Jey lingered at the back, his expression fractured — hurt, conflicted, something like regret flickering across his face before he looked away.
Heyman hovered anxiously, clutching the ula fala like a lifeline.
Triple H didn’t flinch. “You’ve got an entrance to make.”
For a heartbeat, it seemed like Roman might ignore him.
Then, slowly, he exhaled — a controlled, measured breath — and stepped back half a pace. It wasn’t surrender. It wasn’t agreement. It was simply Roman choosing not to escalate. Not here. Not now.
He turned his head slightly, giving a small nod to his cousins. Solo moved first, stepping into position behind him. Jimmy followed, still avoiding your eyes. Jey hesitated for a moment longer, his gaze flicking to you with that same quiet ache, as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t trust himself to. Then he looked away and fell into line.
Heyman scurried after them, eyes wide, shoulders hunched.
Roman adjusted the championship around his waist, the plates catching the monitor light one last time. He didn’t look at you again. He didn’t need to. The message had already been delivered.
The opening beat of his entrance theme hit the speakers — deep, resonant, commanding. Roman stepped through the curtain with the Bloodline at his back, the arena erupting as the Tribal Chief emerged into the light.
And you were left standing in the shadows of gorilla, Rhea still in front of you, Triple H beside you, the echo of Roman’s words lingering like a bruise beneath your ribs.
The bell rang with a sharp crack that seemed to slice through the roar of the stadium. On the monitors in gorilla, Cody and Roman circled each other with the kind of tension that made the air feel heavier, thicker, as if the entire arena was holding its breath. Cody moved with quick, coiled energy — shoulders loose, footwork light, eyes locked on Roman with a fire that hadn’t dimmed once since the Rumble. Roman, by contrast, was all slow, deliberate power, every step measured, every breath controlled, the championship gleaming around his waist like a warning.
The first lock‑up was brutal.
Roman shoved Cody back with the force of a man who had dominated this company for years, and Cody hit the mat hard enough that you felt the impact through the floor beneath your boots. But he was up again in an instant, shaking out his arm, jaw set, refusing to give Roman the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.
The crowd roared.
The pace quickened.
Cody ducked a clothesline, hit the ropes, and came back with a sharp dropkick that caught Roman clean in the chest. The stadium erupted. Roman staggered, more surprised than hurt, and Cody pressed the advantage — quick strikes, fast footwork, a burst of momentum that had the crowd on its feet.
But the Bloodline were already shifting.
He didn’t climb into the ring — not yet — but he stepped closer to the apron, his expression carved from stone, his eyes locked on Cody with a cold, predatory focus. The referee barked at him to back up, but Solo didn’t move. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to pull Cody’s attention for a fraction of a second.
And that was all Roman needed.
A clothesline like a guillotine.
Cody hit the mat hard.
The crowd groaned.
Roman dragged him up by the hair, slow and methodical, his expression unreadable as he drove a knee into Cody’s ribs. The sound echoed through the stadium — sharp, sickening, precise.
Jimmy made his move next.
He hopped onto the apron, shouting at the referee, drawing his attention away just long enough for Roman to choke Cody against the ropes with his forearm. The crowd booed, furious, but the referee was too busy yelling at Jimmy to see it.
Cody gasped for air, his face reddening, his fingers clawing at Roman’s arm.
Rhea muttered under her breath beside you, “They’re going to tear him apart.”
The referee finally turned back, and Roman released the choke just in time, stepping back with that infuriatingly calm expression he always wore when he knew he’d gotten away with something.
Cody staggered, coughing, clutching his throat.
And that’s when Solo struck.
It happened in a blink — the referee distracted again by Jimmy, Roman arguing loudly to keep the official’s eyes on him. Solo slid a hand under the bottom rope, grabbed Cody’s wrist, yanked him forward, and—
A sharp, vicious thrust to the throat.
Cody collapsed instantly, clutching his neck, gasping for air.
The crowd erupted in fury.
The referee spun around too late.
Roman smirked — just barely — as he stalked toward Cody’s fallen body.
He stood at the far side of the ring, arms folded, jaw tight, eyes flicking between Cody and you on the monitor. There was conflict in every line of his posture — the instinct to help, the loyalty to Roman, the ache of watching his sister’s world collide with his own.
He didn’t interfere.
He didn’t help.
He just watched.
Roman dragged Cody upright again, slow and merciless, lining him up for the Superman Punch. Cody swayed on his feet, dazed, breathless, barely able to lift his arms.
Rhea’s voice was low, tense. “If they hit him again, we’re going.”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t blink.
You just watched the monitor, your pulse thundering in your ears.
Roman cocked his fist.
The crowd screamed.
Cody staggered, helpless.
The second Solo’s arm snapped forward for another Samoan Spike, something inside you broke loose — a sharp, hot surge of panic and fury that made your vision tighten. Cody was on his knees, one hand clutching his throat, the other braced against the canvas as he tried to stay upright. Roman was stalking behind him with that slow, predatory calm that made the entire arena buzz with dread. Jimmy was screaming at the referee, keeping him blind. Jey hovered on the apron, frozen, torn, unable to move.
Rhea didn’t wait for permission.
She grabbed your wrist with a grip that was all instinct and urgency. “Now,” she hissed, her voice low and fierce.
You didn’t think.
You didn’t breathe.
You just ran.
The two of you burst out of gorilla like you’d been fired from a cannon, boots pounding the concrete, the tunnel lights streaking past in a blur. The moment you hit the mouth of the ramp, the stadium lights slammed into you — hot, blinding, white — and the entire arena erupted in a sound so violent it felt like the air itself shook.
It wasn’t cheering.
It wasn’t screaming.
It was a detonation.
A wall of noise crashed over you — raw, feral, electric — the kind of sound that made your ribs vibrate and the ring ropes tremble. Thousands of people surged to their feet at once, hands in the air, faces twisted in disbelief and adrenaline.
Michael Cole’s voice cracked through commentary, barely audible over the chaos, “OH MY GOD— THAT’S— THAT’S THE WOMEN CHAMP! SHE’S HERE! SHE’S RUNNING TO THE RING!”
Pat McAfee practically lost his mind beside him, “THE BLOODLINE IS DONE FOR! LOOK AT RHEA RIPLEY! LOOK AT HER! THEY’RE ABOUT TO TEAR THIS PLACE APART!”
The camera cut to Roman in the ring — his head snapping toward the ramp, eyes narrowing, the spear forgotten. His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did — a subtle tightening, a shift of weight, the calm before a storm.
Solo froze mid‑movement, his arm still half‑raised from the attempted Spike.
Jimmy’s jaw dropped, his mouth hanging open in shock.
Jey jolted like he’d been hit with a live wire, his eyes wide, his chest rising fast.
You and Rhea didn’t slow down.
Rhea hit the bottom of the ramp first, her boots skidding slightly on the polished floor before she launched herself forward. She slid under the ropes with the kind of violent grace that made the crowd roar even louder, her hair whipping behind her like a black comet. She went straight for Solo, shoulder‑checking him so hard he stumbled back into the corner, shock flashing across his face.
You reached the apron a heartbeat later, grabbing the middle rope, your chest heaving, adrenaline burning through your veins like fire. The crowd was chanting your name now — a rolling, thunderous wave that shook the rafters.
You stepped onto the apron.
The camera zoomed in, catching the sweat on your brow, the fury in your eyes, the tremble in your hands.
Roman turned fully toward you, his expression unreadable, his breathing slow and controlled. Cody was still on the mat behind him, dazed, struggling to breathe, his fingers twitching against the canvas.
Your brothers were scattered around the ring — Jimmy on the apron, Solo in the corner with Rhea in his face, Jey frozen halfway between stepping in and stepping back.
The entire arena leaned forward as one, breath held, waiting to see what you would do.
You stepped through the ropes.
The canvas felt different the moment your boots touched it — not just under your feet, but in the air itself. The ring tightened around you, the ropes seeming closer, the lights harsher, the noise sharper. It was as if the entire arena had shrunk to this one square of canvas, trapping you inside with the men who had once been your world.
Roman was the first to react.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t speak.
He simply turned his body fully toward you, shoulders squared, chin lifted. His eyes were cold, unreadable, but there was something else beneath the surface — a flicker of recognition, of calculation, of something almost territorial. He watched you the way a king watches someone trespass on his throne.
Solo’s reaction was sharper.
He pushed himself out of the corner where Rhea had slammed him, his chest rising fast, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched. His eyes locked onto you with a heat that wasn’t anger so much as disbelief — like he couldn’t understand how you’d decided to step into their ring, where you could get hurt.
Jimmy froze on the apron.
His hands gripped the top rope, knuckles white, his chest heaving. He looked at you like he’d been punched in the gut — eyes wide, mouth parted, a flash of guilt cutting through his expression before he looked away, unable to hold your gaze. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for something he knew he deserved.
Jey was the one who broke your heart.
He had slid into the ring a moment earlier, but now he stood completely still, halfway between Roman and Jimmy, his face open in a way you hadn’t seen in years. His eyes found yours instantly — not with anger, not with hostility, but with a raw, aching mixture of regret and longing. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and for a moment, he looked like he might say your name.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
He just stared.
The crowd felt it.
The camera caught it.
The tension sharpened.
Cody was still on the mat, one hand pressed to his throat, his breathing ragged. But the moment he heard the crowd shift — that sudden, deafening roar — he forced his head up.
His eyes found you instantly.
Even through the pain, even through the haze, his expression changed. The panic softened. The fear eased. Something steadier, warmer, more grounded flickered across his face. His fingers curled against the canvas, as if your presence alone gave him something to hold onto.
He tried to push himself up, his muscles trembling, his breath catching. His gaze flicked from you to the Bloodline surrounding you, and a flash of alarm crossed his face — not for himself, but for you.
He rasped your name, barely audible over the crowd.
He didn’t look away from you.
Not once.
Roman’s presence filled the ring long before he reached you. He moved with that slow, deliberate confidence that made the canvas feel smaller with every step he took, as though the ropes were tightening around you, drawing you into his gravity. The lights above him caught the sharp planes of his face, the sweat on his shoulders, the cold calculation in his eyes. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t posture, didn’t need to. His silence alone was enough to make the crowd fall into a tense, uneasy rumble.
You felt your breath catch as he closed the distance. It wasn’t fear — not exactly — but something older, deeper, a reflex born from years of knowing exactly what Roman Reigns could do when he decided someone needed to be put back in their place. Your heel slid back across the canvas, an instinctive retreat you didn’t even register until you saw the faint curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.
She moved without hesitation, stepping back toward you with a protective sharpness that cut through the noise of the arena. Her arm lifted slightly, her body angling in front of yours, not blocking you but anchoring you, grounding you, making it clear to everyone — especially Roman — that you were not standing alone. Her eyes were locked on him, jaw tight, shoulders squared, every muscle ready to spring if he so much as twitched in your direction.
Roman’s gaze flicked to her for the briefest moment, a cold, amused acknowledgement, before returning to you. He took another step, slow and heavy, and the crowd gasped as though the air had been punched out of the stadium.
That was when Paul Heyman struck.
He had been lurking at ringside, clutching the apron with trembling fingers, his eyes darting between Roman and the chaos unfolding around him. And then, with a sudden burst of cowardly desperation, he lunged forward and grabbed your ankle. His hand clamped around you with surprising force, and before you could even process the touch, he yanked.
Your balance vanished in an instant. Your knee buckled, your weight pitched forward, and you stumbled into Rhea, who instinctively reached for you, trying to pull you upright. But the sudden shift in momentum dragged her off‑balance as well. Paul, seeing her lean forward, grabbed at her wrist in a frantic attempt to stop her from interfering.
The two of you toppled together, sliding through the ropes in a tangle of limbs and momentum. Your hip struck the middle rope, your shoulder scraped across the bottom one, and then gravity took you both. You hit the mats at ringside with a jarring thud that knocked the breath from your lungs, the world tilting for a moment as the roar of the crowd surged into a furious crescendo. Rhea landed beside you, her elbow slamming against the floor, her breath leaving her in a sharp hiss as she tried to push herself upright.
The reaction from your brothers was immediate — and devastating.
Solo’s entire body jolted as he saw you fall. His eyes widened, a flash of something almost like panic crossing his face before he caught himself. He took a half‑step toward the ropes, instinct pulling him toward you, but Roman’s voice cut through the ring like a blade, sharp and commanding, freezing him in place.
Jimmy’s reaction was even more visceral. His face dropped the moment you hit the floor, his mouth opening in shock, his hand lifting as though he might reach for you. He looked genuinely shaken, his expression twisting with something close to guilt. He took a step toward the ropes — just one — before Roman snapped his name with a tone that left no room for disobedience. Jimmy flinched, shoulders tightening, and turned away from you with visible reluctance.
But it was Jey who broke the audience’s heart.
He saw you fall and his entire expression shattered. His eyes went wide, his jaw clenched, and for a moment he looked like he might leap out of the ring entirely. His hand reached for the ropes, fingers curling around the top strand, his body leaning forward as though pulled by instinct alone. But Roman’s voice hit him next — low, sharp, absolute — and Jey froze. His hand slipped from the rope. His shoulders sagged. And he turned away, his face twisted with a pain he couldn’t hide.
Cody saw you fall, and everything inside him snapped.
He pushed himself up with a wild, desperate energy, ignoring the pain in his ribs, the burning in his throat, the weight of the match pressing down on him. He lunged toward the ropes, reaching for you, calling your name with a rawness that cut through the noise of the arena. But he didn’t make it far. Solo intercepted him with a brutal shove, sending him stumbling backward. Jimmy grabbed his arm, dragging him away from the ropes, while Jey — torn, trembling — stepped in to help restrain him, his face twisted with conflict.
Together, they dragged Cody across the ring and forced him through the ropes on the opposite side, dumping him onto the floor with a thud that echoed across the stadium. He rolled onto his side, coughing, reaching for you across the distance, his fingers trembling with helpless fury.
And then the ring belonged to Roman.
He stood in the centre, chest rising slowly, the lights bathing him in a harsh, golden glow. He looked down at you and Rhea on the floor, then at Cody on the opposite side, then at the crowd — and he smiled. A slow, cruel, satisfied smile that made the entire arena erupt in a storm of hatred.
He lifted his arms, palms open, soaking in the noise.
“This,” he said, his voice rolling through the stadium with the weight of a sermon, “is what happens when you try to fight destiny.”
The boos were deafening, but Roman didn’t flinch.
He pointed at Cody. “You can’t save her. You can’t save yourself. You can’t even stand without my permission.”
He pointed at you. “And you… you think you can run back here and change the story? You think you can rewrite the ending? You can’t.”
He paced slowly, deliberately, every step a claim of ownership, every word dripping with arrogance.
“This is my ring.
This is my family.
This is my story.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting the crowd seethe.
“And you,” he said, his voice dropping into something colder, darker, “don’t get to walk away from us.”
You were still on your hands and knees at ringside, breath coming in shallow bursts, the mats cold beneath your palms. The world felt tilted, the roar of the crowd a distant, distorted thunder in your ears. Rhea was beside you, one knee pressed into the floor, her hand braced against the barricade as she tried to steady herself. Her hair hung in her face, her chest rising sharply, but her eyes were already lifting toward the ring, tracking Roman’s movements with a predator’s focus.
He paced the ring with the slow, deliberate swagger of a man who believed the world bent to his will. His voice rolled over the arena like smoke, thick and suffocating, every word dripping with arrogance. He pointed at you, sprawled on the floor, breathless and hurting. He pointed at the crowd, mocking their fury, feeding off their hatred.
The crowd booed so loudly the barricades rattled. Roman soaked it in, head tilted back, arms spread wide, the picture of a man who believed himself untouchable.
And that was when your fingers brushed against something cold beneath the apron.
At first you didn’t register it — just the shock of metal against your skin, the weight of it, the way it seemed to hum with potential. But then your hand closed around the steel, and the moment you felt the familiar shape of the chair, something inside you snapped into place. The haze cleared. The noise sharpened. The world came back into focus.
Rhea saw the change in your expression before she saw the chair. Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat as she followed the line of your arm and realised what you were holding. She didn’t speak — she didn’t need to. She simply nodded once, a small, fierce gesture of solidarity, and pushed herself upright beside you.
A ripple of recognition surged through the arena, a wave of sound that started as a gasp and swelled into a roar so violent it shook the floor beneath you. People leapt to their feet. Hands flew into the air. The camera zoomed in, catching the moment the steel glinted under the lights.
He was still talking, still pacing, still basking in his own voice.
You rose slowly, the chair hanging at your side, your body trembling with adrenaline and fury. Rhea rose with you, her stance wide, her eyes locked on the ring, ready to move the second you did. The two of you stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder, battered, breathless, but unbroken.
He didn’t even finish his sentence.
His eyes landed on you — on the chair — and for the first time all night, his expression faltered. Just a flicker. A crack in the armour. A moment of realisation that he had miscalculated.
You didn’t give him time to recover.
You slid under the bottom rope with a burst of raw, desperate momentum, the chair gripped tight in both hands. The crowd erupted into a deafening, feral scream, the kind of sound that made the cameras shake and the commentary table rattle. Rhea followed you in, her boots hitting the canvas with a thud that echoed across the stadium.
Roman straightened, trying to regain control, trying to summon that cold, commanding presence—
But you were already moving.
You swung the chair with every ounce of strength left in your body, the steel cutting through the air with a sharp, vicious whistle. It connected with Roman’s back in a brutal, echoing crack that reverberated through the entire arena.
Roman dropped to one knee, his face contorting in shock and pain.
Not cheering — screaming.
A tidal wave of sound so wild, so unrestrained, it felt like the roof might tear off the stadium. People were jumping, shaking the barricades, grabbing each other, losing their minds in pure, unfiltered catharsis.
Rhea stepped in front of you, ready for the brothers, ready for the chaos that was about to break loose.
But for one perfect, suspended moment, it was just you, standing tall in the centre of the ring, the chair still trembling in your hands, Roman Reigns on one knee before you, and the entire world roaring your name.
Roman was still on one knee, one hand braced against the canvas, the other reaching instinctively for his back as the shock of the chair shot rippled through him. The sound of steel meeting flesh still echoed in the rafters, a sharp, brutal crack that seemed to hang in the air long after the impact. The crowd hadn’t stopped screaming — if anything, the noise had only grown wilder, a tidal wave of disbelief and catharsis crashing over the arena.
You stood behind him, chest heaving, the chair trembling in your grip. Your arms ached, your ribs burned, your breath came in ragged bursts, but none of it mattered. For the first time since you’d stepped into the ring, Roman Reigns wasn’t in control. For the first time, he looked human.
Solo with fury written across every line of his face, didn’t hesitate, didn’t think — he lunged straight for you, his arm outstretched, fingers curled like he meant to rip the chair from your hands. But Rhea moved with a speed that made the crowd gasp, stepping into his path and slamming her shoulder into his chest with enough force to knock him off balance. Solo stumbled backwards, shock flashing across his features as he collided with the ropes.
He slid under the bottom rope with a frantic urgency, his eyes darting between you, Roman, and the chair. There was no cruelty in his expression — only panic, confusion, and the desperate instinct to regain control of a situation spiralling far beyond anything he’d expected. He reached for the chair, not to hurt you, but to stop you, to stop this, to stop everything from collapsing.
Not wildly — not recklessly — but with a sharp, precise snap of your wrists that sent the steel crashing against the top rope inches from his hand. The sound cracked through the arena like lightning, and Jimmy jerked back, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.
Jey didn’t move at first.
He stood frozen on the apron, one hand gripping the top rope so tightly his knuckles went white. His eyes were locked on you — not the chair, not Roman, not the chaos — you. There was something raw in his expression, something torn and aching, as though he was watching a version of you he didn’t recognise and yet had always feared would emerge if they pushed you too far.
And that hesitation — that single, fractured moment — was enough.
Rhea shoved Solo into the corner with a vicious forearm. You swung the chair again, this time catching Jimmy across the shoulder, sending him sprawling to the mat. The crowd erupted, the noise shaking the ring, the barricades, the very air.
You saw it in your peripheral vision — the shift of weight, the tightening of his jaw, the slow, furious push of his palm against the canvas. He was trying to stand, trying to reclaim the centre of the ring, trying to pull the story back into his hands.
You stepped forward, the chair raised again, your breath sharp and uneven, your vision tunnelling around the man who had once been your anchor and had become your cage. Rhea moved with you, her body angled protectively, her eyes scanning for the next threat.
Solo was down.
Jimmy was down.
Jey was frozen.
Cody was on the floor outside the ring, watching you with a mixture of awe and terror.
Paul Heyman was cowering near the timekeeper’s area, hands over his mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.
And Roman — the Tribal Chief, the Head of the Table, the man who had controlled every beat of this story — was on his knees, staring up at you with something between fury and disbelief.
The arena fell into a strange, electric hush.
Not silence — never silence — but a suspended breath, a collective tightening of thousands of bodies waiting to see what you would do next.
Your hands trembled around the chair.
Your chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts.
Your vision blurred at the edges.
Your throat tightened.
Something inside you cracked.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
But deeply.
You straightened slowly, the chair still clutched in your hands, its weight grounding you, steadying you. The trembling in your fingers didn’t come from fear anymore. It came from rage — a deep, simmering fury that had been building for months, years, maybe your whole life.
Roman lifted his head, still on one knee, his breath uneven. He looked up at you as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing — you towering over him, the chair raised, the crowd behind you like a living storm.
Rhea stepped in closer, not touching you, but aligning herself with you, her stance wide and ready. She didn’t need to speak. Her presence alone told the entire arena that if anyone tried to get near you, they’d have to go through her first.
Solo groaned in the corner, trying to push himself upright but failing, his body slumping back against the turnbuckles. Jimmy rolled onto his side, clutching his ribs, his face twisted with pain and something far more fragile — guilt. Cody, still on the floor outside the ring, stared at you with a mixture of awe, fear, and something like heartbreak.
He slid under the bottom rope slowly, almost cautiously, as though approaching a wild animal he wasn’t sure would recognise him anymore. His eyes were locked on you — not the chair, not Roman, not the chaos — you. His expression was raw, open, devastated.
He took a step toward you, hands raised slightly, palms open. “Hey… hey, look at me,” he said softly, voice trembling. “It’s me. I’m right here.”
You didn’t lower the chair. You didn’t soften. You turned your head just enough to look at him — and the fury in your eyes made him stop dead.
The words came out low, steady, and sharp enough to cut through the entire arena.
Jey swallowed hard. “We were trying to—”
“No.” Your voice rose, not into a scream, but into something stronger, steadier, more controlled. “You watched him drag me down. You watched him pull me out of the ring like I was nothing. You watched me hit the floor.”
You took a step toward him, the chair still raised, your posture tall and unshaken.
Jimmy’s head dropped.
Solo looked away.
Even Roman’s jaw tightened.
Jey’s voice cracked. “I didn’t want—”
“You DID.” The word hit him like a blow. “You all did. You chose him. Every single time.”
Jey took another step, desperate now. “Please… just let me explain—”
“Don’t.” Your voice cut through him like a blade. “Don’t you dare come near me.”
He froze, his breath catching.
You stepped closer, standing over him now, the power dynamic reversed for the first time in years. The chair glinted under the lights, your grip steady, your stance unshakeable.
“You don’t get to console me,” you said, your voice low and trembling with fury. “You don’t get to pretend you care now.”
Jey’s face crumpled, his eyes shining, his chest rising in quick, uneven breaths. He reached out — just barely — fingertips brushing the air between you.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just let me—”
Not violently.
Not recklessly.
But firmly — a clear, deliberate rejection.
Jey stumbled backward, landing on his hands, staring up at you with a look that shattered something in him.
You stood over him, over all of them — Roman on one knee, Solo slumped in the corner, Jimmy struggling to rise — the chair still in your hands, your breath sharp, your eyes blazing.
For the first time, the entire Bloodline looked small.
And you looked like the one with the power.
The lights above you felt hotter, harsher, as though the entire arena had shifted its focus onto you alone. Roman was still on one knee, breath ragged, eyes narrowed in disbelief. Solo was slumped in the corner, chest heaving. Jimmy lay on his side, one arm wrapped around his ribs. And Jey — torn, trembling — had just pushed himself upright after you shoved him away, his eyes locked on you with a mixture of heartbreak and fear.
The arena had fallen into a tight, breath‑held silence.
Not quiet — never quiet — but a charged stillness, as though every single person in the stadium knew they were witnessing something real.
You lifted your chin, your breath sharp, your eyes burning with a fury that had been building for years.
The words hit the air like a slap.
Jimmy’s head snapped up.
Solo’s eyes widened.
Jey froze completely.
“You’re my blood,” you said, stepping forward, the chair hanging at your side like an extension of your anger. “We grew up together. We fought together. We survived together. And you promised me — all of you — that you’d never leave me.”
Your gaze locked on Solo first.
“You were the first one who knew,” you said, your voice trembling with rage. “You looked me in the eyes and told me you’d stay by my side. You said you’d protect me. You said you’d never let anyone hurt me.”
Solo’s jaw clenched. He looked away, shame flickering across his face.
“But the second he—” you jerked your chin toward Roman “—told you to move, you forgot every word.”
The crowd reacted — a low, rumbling wave of gasps and boos.
You turned to Jimmy next.
“And you,” you said, your voice tightening. “You’re my big brother. You’re supposed to be the one who steps in first. The one who pulls me out of danger. The one who checks if I’m breathing.”
Jimmy swallowed hard, his eyes shining, his chest rising in uneven breaths.
“But when I hit that floor? When Paul dragged me out of the ring like I was nothing? You didn’t even look at me.”
The crowd erupted — a mix of anger and heartbreak, people shouting in support of you.
And the arena went dead quiet.
“You…”
Your voice cracked — not with weakness, but with the weight of everything you’d held back.
“You were supposed to be different.”
Jey’s breath hitched. He took a small step forward, hands raised, eyes pleading.
“You don’t get to say you tried,” you said, stepping closer, towering over him. “You don’t get to pretend you cared. You don’t get to act like you’re my brother now.”
Jey’s voice broke. “I didn’t want to hurt you—”
“You DID hurt me.”
Your voice rose — not into a scream, but into something fierce, steady, commanding.
“You all did. Every single one of you.”
You turned in a slow circle, looking at each of them — Roman, Solo, Jimmy, Jey — all of them down, all of them staring up at you.
“You’re my family,” you said, the words heavy, trembling.
“And you left me.”
The crowd exploded — a roar of agreement, of catharsis, of pure emotional release.
You lifted the chair slightly, not to swing it, but to show them — to show the world — that you weren’t afraid anymore.
“You don’t get to claim me.
You don’t get to control me.
You don’t get to break me.”
Your voice dropped into something cold, steady, final.
“I’m done letting you decide who I am.”
Jey’s face collapsed.
Jimmy looked like he might cry.
Solo stared at the mat, jaw tight.
Roman’s expression hardened into something dark and unreadable.
And you stood over them — tall, furious, unbroken — the chair still in your hands, the arena roaring your name. Your breath was sharp and uneven when you felt movement behind you. Not a threat — something softer, slower, almost hesitant.
He had finally dragged himself under the bottom rope with a stubborn, painful determination that made the crowd erupt the moment they realised he was moving toward you. His ribs were bruised, his throat raw, his body battered, but none of it mattered. His eyes were locked on you — not the chair, not the Bloodline, you.
He reached you slowly, almost cautiously, as though afraid you might shatter if he touched you too quickly.
Cody’s fingers brushed your elbow — gentle, grounding — and for the first time since the chaos began, your shoulders loosened. The chair lowered slightly, your grip easing. Rhea stepped back a pace, giving the two of you space, her eyes still locked on the Bloodline like a guard dog daring anyone to try something.
Cody leaned in, his voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got you.”
The crowd roared — a wave of sound that felt like it lifted the entire stadium.
Roman pushed himself upright slowly, each movement stiff and deliberate. He wasn’t the towering, untouchable Tribal Chief anymore. He wasn’t the centre of the ring. He wasn’t the one dictating the story.
He was staring at you — at the chair in your hand, at Cody beside you, at his cousins scattered around the ring — with an expression that flickered between fury, disbelief, and something dangerously close to fear.
He took one step toward you.
Cody stepped forward instantly, blocking his path.
The crowd lost their minds.
For the first time in years, Roman Reigns looked like a man who had lost control of the narrative. He looked at you again — really looked — and something in his expression hardened. A cold, simmering rage. A promise. A threat.
But he didn’t get to act on it.
Because Cody stepped in front of you.
Solo tried to intervene, but Rhea cut him off with a brutal clothesline that sent him rolling out of the ring, then she followed to make sure he couldn't interfere. Jimmy staggered forward, reaching for Cody, but you stepped between them and super kicked him, something he taught you personally, out of the ring. You followed him out. Jey didn’t move — he couldn’t — he just watched, torn apart, unable to choose a side. Then you grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the ring, throwing him down on the mat.
Paul Heyman scrambled away from you both, like a man fleeing a burning building.
And suddenly, the ring was empty except for two men:
Cody Rhodes
and
Roman Reigns.
You stood at ringside with Rhea, the chair still in your hands, watching the two men who had shaped your life in opposite directions finally collide.
Roman swung first — a heavy, desperate clothesline meant to take Cody’s head off. Cody ducked under it, hitting the ropes and coming back with a sharp, explosive dropkick that sent Roman stumbling into the corner. The crowd erupted, chanting Cody’s name, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch.
Roman charged again, fury twisting his features, but Cody caught him with a snap powerslam that rattled the ring. Roman rolled towards the ropes, clutching his ribs, trying to regroup — but Cody didn’t let him breathe.
He followed him to the ropes, grabbed him by the hair, and dragged him back inside.
Roman swung wildly, catching Cody across the jaw. Cody staggered, but didn’t fall. He fired back with a flurry of punches — left, right, left, right — each one landing with the force of months of pain and frustration.
Roman dropped to one knee.
And without a word, you slid it into the ring.
Cody grabbed the chair, lifted it high, and brought it crashing down across Roman’s back with a crack that echoed through the stadium. Roman collapsed, his body folding under the impact.
Cody threw the chair aside, grabbed Roman by the head, and pulled him into position. Cross Rhodes.
The referee — who had slid back into the ring at the perfect moment — dropped to the mat.
The crowd counted with him.
The roof nearly blew off the stadium.
The bell rang.
The music hit.
The crowd erupted into a deafening, cathartic roar.
The bell had barely finished ringing when the reality of it hit you — Cody had done it. Roman was down and rolled out the ring. The Bloodline was scattered. The arena was shaking under the weight of thousands of people screaming, crying, losing their minds.
You didn’t think.
You didn’t hesitate.
You just moved.
You jumped into the ring and ran straight into Cody’s arms.
He caught you instantly, lifting you clean off the mat with a strength that surprised even him. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms around his shoulders, your face buried against his neck as the two of you spun in a messy, breathless circle in the middle of the ring. He was laughing — a broken, disbelieving, joy‑soaked laugh — and you were shaking, not from fear anymore, but from the sheer relief of finally being safe.
The crowd erupted even louder, a tidal wave of sound that rolled through the stadium like thunder.
Cody held you tight, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist as though he never wanted to let go. You could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest, wild and uneven, matching your own.
The announcer’s voice cracked through the noise, barely audible over the roar of the crowd:
“HERE IS YOUR WINNER… AND NEW… UNDISPUTED WWE CHAMPION…
COOOOODYYYYY RHOOOOODES!”
Cody’s knees buckled for a moment — not from pain, but from emotion — and he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes shining, breath shaking.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”
You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, but your smile was bright, fierce, alive.
The referee approached, holding the championship belt with both hands — the gold gleaming under the lights, the leather heavy with history. He looked at Cody, then at you, then back at Cody, and for a moment even he seemed overwhelmed.
Then he placed the belt into Cody’s hands.
Cody stared at it, stunned, his breath catching in his throat. You slid down from his arms, but he kept one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as he lifted the title high above his head.
Fireworks exploded from the stage, shooting into the air in brilliant bursts of gold and red. Pyro cascaded down from the rafters like falling stars. The entire arena was bathed in light and sound, a celebration so loud it felt like the earth itself was shaking.
Cody turned to you, eyes shining with tears he didn’t bother to hide.
You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing his cheeks, and he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing grounding him.
He kissed your lips — soft, grateful, reverent — and the crowd screamed even louder.
Behind you, the Bloodline watched from the floor and the ramp — broken, stunned, silent — as the two of you stood in the centre of the ring, bathed in fireworks and victory.
Cody was still holding you when the first wave of wrestlers hit the stage.
It started with a few — people who had fought beside him, people who had fought against him, people who simply respected the hell out of what he’d just done. Then more came. And more. And suddenly the entire entrance ramp was flooded with talent from every corner of the company, all pouring toward the ring in a tidal wave of applause, cheers, and disbelief.
The crowd roared as they climbed inside — faces you recognised, faces you didn’t expect, faces that had no reason to be there except that they wanted to witness this moment up close. They surrounded Cody, clapping him on the back, hugging him, lifting his arm, shouting congratulations over the noise.
You stepped back a little, letting the wave of bodies swallow him, letting him have the spotlight he’d earned. Rhea stayed beside you, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder, her eyes soft with pride as she watched the chaos unfold.
Cody kept looking for you through the crowd — even as people hugged him, even as they lifted him onto their shoulders for a moment, even as the referee raised his arm again. His eyes kept flicking toward you, checking you were still there, still safe, still standing.
Then Triple H walked down the ramp.
He walked down with that proud, emotional half‑smile he only wore on nights that meant something. Stephanie followed beside him, clapping, her eyes shining. They stepped into the ring, and the wrestlers parted instinctively, giving them space.
Triple H shook Cody’s hand, then pulled him into a hug that lasted longer than anyone expected. Stephanie hugged him too, whispering something in his ear that made his breath catch.
You watched from a few steps back, your chest warm, your eyes stinging. This was his moment. His story. His triumph.
And then the crowd shifted.
A ripple of noise rolled through the arena — softer, more emotional, more intimate. You felt it before you saw it. A change in the air. A tightening in your chest.
You turned toward the commentator's table.
Cody’s mum was walking from the best seats in the audience to the ring.
Not rushing.
Not overwhelmed.
Just… steady.
Focused.
Her eyes locked not on Cody — but on you.
The wrestlers parted for her without being asked. Triple H stepped aside. Stephanie touched her arm gently as she passed. Cody turned, breath catching in his throat when he saw her.
But she didn’t go to him first.
She walked straight to you.
The crowd reacted instantly — a wave of soft, emotional noise, the kind that comes from thousands of people realising they’re witnessing something deeply personal.
You froze for a moment, the world narrowing to the sound of her footsteps on the canvas. Cody watched with wide, shining eyes, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
And she smiled — a small, warm, knowing smile that hit you harder than any chair shot ever could. She cupped your face gently in both hands, her thumbs brushing your cheeks, her eyes soft and full of gratitude.
“Thank you,” she mouthed.
Not for the chair.
Not for the fight.
Not for the victory.
For being there.
For standing with him.
For helping him finish the story.
You felt your breath catch, your throat tighten, your eyes burn.
She pulled you into a hug — tight, warm, motherly — and the entire arena melted into a soft, emotional roar. Cody watched, his face breaking into the kind of smile that only happens once in a lifetime.
Cody’s mum still had her hands on your face, her thumbs brushing gently along your cheekbones as though she were memorising you. The fireworks were still going off above the ring, the crowd still roaring, wrestlers still celebrating around you — but somehow, in that tiny circle of space between the two of you, everything felt quiet.
Her eyes were shining, not with spectacle, but with something deeply personal.
“You're the only one who saw. And I’m so Grateful,” she said softly, her voice trembling with emotion. “You saved my boy.”
Your breath caught.
You felt Cody’s presence behind you — not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the way his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths.
You shook your head, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “He saved me too.”
She smiled — a small, knowing smile that held years of understanding. “That’s what love looks like.”
The words hit you harder than any chair shot.
Your throat tightened.
Your eyes blurred.
Cody’s mum pulled you into another hug — tighter this time, full‑bodied, protective, grateful. You clung to her for a moment, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself breathe.
When she pulled back, she cupped your cheek again and whispered, “Thank you for standing with him. Thank you for standing for yourself.”
You nodded, unable to speak, your chest aching with emotion.
And then she turned — finally — to her son.
Not sobbing — just those quiet, unstoppable tears that come from a place too deep to hide. His face crumpled the moment his mum reached him, and he folded into her arms like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment.
She held his face between her hands, just as she had held yours, her forehead pressed to his, her voice shaking.
“You did it,” she whispered. “You finished it.”
Cody let out a breath that broke in the middle, his hands gripping her wrists as though anchoring himself. “I wish Dad could see this.”
“He can,” she said, her voice steady, certain. “He’s here. He’s with you. He’s with both of you.”
Cody closed his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek.
You stood a few steps back, watching them, your own tears falling freely now — not from pain, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of witnessing something so raw and real.
Cody’s mum pulled him into a tight embrace, her hand cradling the back of his head, her eyes closed as she held him. He reached out blindly with one hand — searching for you — and you stepped into his side without hesitation. The crowd softened into a warm, emotional cheer — not wild, not chaotic, but heartfelt, like they understood the significance of what they were seeing.
When Cody finally pulled back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, he turned to you.
And the look on his face…
Relief.
Love.
Awe.
Gratitude.
And something deeper — something that said we survived this together.
He wrapped his arms completely around you, pulling you against his chest, his chin resting on your hair as he breathed you in.
You felt his heartbeat against your cheek — fast, uneven, alive.
The fireworks continued.
The crowd roared.
The ring was full of people celebrating.
The wrestlers around you were cheering, clapping, celebrating — but it all felt distant, muffled, like the world had dipped underwater.
Cody turned toward you, eyes still wet, cheeks flushed from emotion and adrenaline. He tried to wipe his tears with the back of his hand, but you reached up first, cupping his face gently, your thumbs brushing the dampness from beneath his eyes.
His breath hitched at the touch.
You smiled — soft, trembling, full of pride. “Look at you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You did it. You actually did it. I’m so proud of you, Cody.”
His eyes closed for a moment, like the words physically hit him. When he opened them again, they were shining — not with the wild adrenaline of victory, but with something deeper, something raw and unguarded.
He leaned into your touch, his forehead almost touching yours. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmured. “You were there. You fought for me. You fought with me.”
You shook your head gently. “You earned this. You finished your story.”
He let out a shaky breath — half laugh, half sob — and his hands came up to hold your wrists, keeping your palms against his cheeks as though he needed the grounding.
Then his voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear it.
Not because you didn’t want to hear it — but because you’d been waiting for it, hoping for it, terrified of it, and now it was here, real and warm and trembling in his voice.
He swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours. “I love you so much.”
Your breath caught.
A soft gasp escaped you — not shock, but relief, joy, something that cracked you open in the best way. More tears welled in your eyes, spilling over as you let out a shaky laugh.
“I love you so much too, dummy.”
He laughed — a real, bright, disbelieving laugh — and before either of you could think, he pulled you in. His hands slid to your waist, yours to his shoulders, and the two of you met in a kiss that was messy and breathless and absolutely perfect.
The crowd erupted — a roar that shook the ring, fireworks exploding again above you, wrestlers cheering louder, Cody’s mum covering her mouth with her hands as tears streamed down her face.
Not the noise.
Not the lights.
Not the chaos.
Just him.
Just you.
Just the kiss that had been waiting to happen for far too long.
When you finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathless and smiling through tears, Cody whispered:
“We get to start a new story now.”
I just want to say I love every single person who has supported me through this series!! You guys gave me the encouragement to continue and finish the series.
This series was only meant to be 10 parts originally but, it got to 17 parts somehow, BUT HONESTLY IT WAS MEANT TO BE!!
I did some maths and the whole series is 200k + WORDS, I don’t know how I did that 😭😭
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