Page 58 of Shattered Dreams
But I see red. I slam him back against the wall again, fist cocked—when a pair of arms yanks me backward.
“Whoa, man, that’s enough!” someone shouts.
Another guy grabs my other arm. Two of them. One in a suit, the other with rolled-up sleeves and a panicked look. They haul me back as Adam coughs, slumped on the sidewalk, his shirt collar ripped.
“Let me go!” I thrash, my arms swinging wide as I lunge toward him again. “You think you can touch my wife and walk away?”
“Roman!” Ava’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and guttural. “You’re going to get arrested!”
A third guy steps in front of Adam now, shielding him. “Back off! You’re out of control!”
I’m breathing hard, chest heaving, body thrumming with violence as the two men hold me back. Ava is seething, a glare of disbelief directed my way while she kneels beside him, cupping his face, her soft hands on his cheeks.
MyAva. Touchinghim.
I will fucking kill him.
“Are you done?” one of the men snarls in my ear. “Do you want the cops here? Huh? Do you want your daughter seeing this shit on the news?”
My head snaps around at the mention of Poppy. I shove the men back, and they hold up their hands.
Adam gets to his feet slowly, his lip split and his cheek already swelling. He wipes blood from his mouth and glares at me.
“You need help,” he spits. “Serious fucking help.”
Ava stands too, between us now, her chest rising and falling fast, her eyes blazing with something worse than hate—disappointment.
“You're not the man I married,” she whispers.
I swallow hard, broken and breathless.
Ava turns to me, shaking her head in disbelief before crossing her arms over her chest. “This is going to be all over the news tomorrow. I hope you’re happy. I’m going to our lawyer first thing.”
Then she strides past me.
I’m not just losing her.
I’ve already lost her.
21
ROMAN
There’s no amount of cold showers, deep breaths, or long runs that can undo what I did last night.
I wake up on the sofa with a crick in my neck, the sour taste of whiskey in my mouth, and a rage that hasn’t dulled a single fucking inch. The living room is dark, except for the glow from my phone screen. I can’t even count how many notifications there are.
Fucking hell.
There’s a video of me kicking the shit out of the man who kissed my wife.
Obviously, it’s going viral.
There’s a still from it—me, snarling like a madman, fist cocked mid-air, blood on my shirt. Adam’s face half-turned, Ava’s red dress in the background as she tries to pull me off him.
That damn dress.
My phone is a minefield. Texts from my agent, team management, PR reps, teammates.
