The celebration was in full swing. one of those loud, overdone post-PPV parties where half the people were still riding the high of their matches and the other half were drunk off too many free drinks. Rhea had won her match earlier that night, and the spotlight was still fresh on her skin. She’d smiled for cameras, clinked glasses with execs, nodded through compliments. She could play the game when she had to.

You, her girlfriend, stood right next to her, talking to a friend, and Rhea was half-listening to some exec ramble about sponsorship deals. Her hand rested casually on your lower back, a quiet claim. She liked it that way. didn’t need to be loud about what was hers. People usually knew better.

Usually.

He came out of nowhere. Some nobody. Probably drunk, definitely stupid. Walked right up like he belonged in the conversation, looked you up and down like you were a damn trophy, and then-

His hand came down hard on your ass. A full slap. Deliberate. Loud. Disrespectful as hell.

Her head turned slow, mechanical, like her body had gone into some dark autopilot. Her stare landed on him, eyes dark and unblinking, and every muscle in her jaw locked so tight it ached. Her lips parted just slightly, not to speak, but because she couldn’t believe the fucker had actually done it.

Her whole body was buzzing. Tense. Coiled.

She stared at him with the kind of fury that didn’t need words. No yelling. No theatrics. Just pure, burning hate radiating off her like heat off pavement. Her shoulders squared. Her hand dropped from your waist, curled into a fist so tight her knuckles turned bone-white.

He laughed. She didn’t. She looked like she was about half a breath from snapping his fucking jaw.