Page 65 of Shattered Dreams
I nearly drop the phone.
What the actual fuck?
There’s a photo of her—new, taken just yesterday judging by the timestamp. She’s sitting in a studio, wearing a tight pink dress. She looks fucking stunning. Her smile isn’t big, but it’s confident. The headline scrolls below it.
Femme & Fierce: Ava Muller Talks Reclaiming Power, Motherhood, and Moving On.
My heart punches my ribs from the inside.
Moving on?
She did it—she’s talking, and she didn’t even consult me. She knows my career is in ruins, and she did this regardless.
Tough, you deserve it all.
No one hates me more than me.
I tap play on the clip embedded in the article.
"I think when your whole world falls apart, you have two choices: you let it crush you, or you build something new from the wreckage. I picked up my daughter’s toys one night and realized I hadn’t smiled in days. That’s when I knew I needed to change everything."
Her voice is soft. She sounds…relaxed, and free.
Like she’s already forgotten me.
The interviewer laughs. "And now you're going viral for empowering women who've been cheated on. How does that feel?"
Ava’s reply is laced with quiet strength. "It feels like I'm finally in control. That I can help someone else feel less alone. And if that makes me a problem for certain men..."—a pause—"then good."
Fuck.
I slam my phone face-down, heart thudding.
The world is watching this unfold in real time. They’re not watching Roman the Quarterback anymore. They’re watching the man who lost everything because he cheated on his wife. The man who attacked someone in public. The man whose wife became an icon while he spiralled.
And it gets worse.
I check my email.
Subject:ACTION REQUIRED – League Conduct Violation Suspension
I skim it. Two games, no pay. A warning lodged on my record.
Then the text from Mitch:
Are you seeing this influencer fallout? Your girl torpedoed that woman. Text leaks, brands dropping her like she’s radioactive. Ava’s not just getting even—she’s setting the world on fire.
My hands shake.
Itwasher.
The messages—those goddamn messages. They were on my phone. Ava must’ve pulled them, timed their release. She wrecked Annie like a fucking hurricane, and she didn’t even flinch.
I can’t breathe.
But a tiny part of me feels proud.
Because Ava Muller is a goddamn storm, and I used to be the one who got to love her.
