Page 39 of The Clinch
The camera clicking intensifies—light exploding, voices overlapping. It should feel overwhelming.
Instead, something colder snaps into place. The noise. The lights. The angle of every watching face. It isn’t so different from stepping onto a track with a crowd waiting to see whether you own the moment or let it own you.
Leo’s hand at my back helps. The rest is training.Breathe. Lift your chin. Give them a version they can’t mishandle.
“You’re doing great,” he says quietly.
The glass doors close behind us, and the roar dulls to an elegant hum—classical strings, low voices, the soft echo of heels on marble. The main hall opens wide and luminous. Sculptures line the perimeter. A suspended installation glows overhead.
Leo never leaves my side.
He scans the room in controlled sweeps—entrances, exits, crowd clusters—the same way he reads an opponent. But every time his attention passes over the space, it comes back to me.
Jessica materializes near the central staircase in a fitted black dress. Her eyes sweep over us—my gown, his hand at my waist, the distance between our bodies—and her smile sharpens with satisfaction.
“Perfect,” she murmurs. “You two photograph extremely well.”
He doesn’t bother confirming it. His hand stays where it is.
Jessica leans in closer. “Sponsors are upstairs. Cameras near the balcony. No direct questions about the club incident—we pre-blocked that.” Her gaze cuts to him. “Stay together. No straying.”
“We’re aligned,” he says.
We move into the room.
Leo keeps that light, guiding hold at my waist. He matches my steps without me needing to adjust.
I hate that I know how to do this. Eye contact. Firm handshake. Warm smile. Exit before anyone feels invited to linger. The choreography comes back faster than I want it to, some old public-self waking up under silk and polite laughter. Not Lillian exactly. Not Liz either. Something sharper. A woman who knows how to hold a room even when she resents every second of it.
“This is Liz.”
“Liz, nice to meet you.”
“So happy for you two.”
Someone squeezes my hand and says, “You make a beautiful couple.” I feel it happening in real time—the narrative tightening, assumptions layering themselves over the truth.
A photographer passes, camera raised. Leo’s thumb traces a brief, unconscious line along my waist. My body notices before I can stop it.
A man in his early thirties steps into our path as we approach the bar. Expensive suit. Confident smile. Former athlete, if I had to guess—the kind of build that comes from years of disciplined training and not quite knowing when to stop competing.
“Leo Carver,” he says, extending a hand. “Great fight the other night.”
Leo shakes it. “Appreciate it.”
When his attention shifts to me, his smile warms, polite at first, but then recognition flickers behind his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says, tilting his head. “Have we met? You look incredibly familiar.”
I know what’s coming a second before he says it.
“I don’t think so,” I say carefully.
He doesn’t let it go. His gaze stays on my face, scanning—hairline, posture, the way my weight settles on one hip. I can almost see the gears turning.
Then his face lights up.
“Wait, LSU, right? Track and field?” He snaps his fingers, grin widening. “Lillian Richardson. That’s it. I ran for Florida. We competed at, what was it, SEC Championships?”
