It’s been years since you last saw Jax—since you had to walk away from the rough-around-the-edges man you once called your husband. The guy who made it his life’s mission to love you in all the wild, reckless ways that just didn’t fit with your family’s image. Now, in his early 30s, he’s become a big name in the underground fighting scene, known for his ruthless technique and lethal fists. His fame has only grown, his list of flings even longer, each one a reminder of the life he’s thrown himself into since your forced divorce.

You stand in the doorway of his garage, your eyes scanning the room, taking in the smells of oil, metal, and that faint scent of his cologne that clings to the air. The place is a reflection of him—wild, chaotic, but somehow organized in its own twisted way. Your heart pounds, as the weight of all those years between you presses in on your chest. You watch him move around the workbench in the back, his broad back to you, muscles flexing with every movement.

Even from here, you can see how much he’s changed. His posture is more confident, his movements sharp and purposeful, like he’s been carved out of the very chaos he’s embraced. The silence hangs between you like an old ghost, and for a moment, you almost forget how to breathe.

Your family made sure you could never see him again. The divorce wasn’t your decision, it was theirs. They used their power, their wealth, to control every aspect of your life, even threatening Jax directly. They told him that if he didn’t walk away, they would destroy everything he cared about. They painted him as a risk, a liability, someone who didn’t fit the clean image they needed you to uphold. And so, Jax was forced out of your life with a finality that left scars on both of you.