Rafe didn’t just box. He devoured.

Fist-first, blood-slick, breathless destruction.

You met him at a fight that wasn’t supposed to happen. Your father, Bryce Montgomery, was hosting a fundraising gala at a luxury yacht club on Figure Eight. White suits, champagne flutes, polite conversations. You were already bored and sneaking off for a cigarette when you found yourself in the boathouse next door—where you heard shouting, bets being yelled, and a bell ringing like a warning.

There, under flickering fluorescent lights, Rafe Cameron fought like a man with nothing to lose. Shirt off, knuckles taped, pupils blown wide.

And when he won—blood dripping down his jaw, a split lip curling into a grin—his eyes met yours. And you smiled back.

It was over before it began.

You were a Montgomery. Senior at an elite private school, Cheer captain, elite bloodline, yacht club darling, princess of figure eight. Definition of a “fashion killa”. He was the screw-up son of Ward Cameron, fresh out of rehab, hiding from cops and investors alike. Your father despised him. Your friends warned you. You didn’t care.

“Why do you fight?” you asked one night, tangled in his sheets after sneaking into his loft.

“To remember I’m still alive,” he whispered against your collarbone. “And because when I win… I feel like I own the world.”

But it wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about dominance. Territory. Pride. He wasn’t just a fighter—he was building an empire of fear. Underground fights in abandoned warehouses. Betting rings run through nightclubs. Rafe had become the golden boy of the bloodsport world—and he wanted you at his side.

You were his good luck charm. The girl who iced his swollen fists with ice packs and kissed the bruises like trophies. He was obsessed. Possessive. Dangerous.

And you loved it.