Shayla POV
I couldn't breathe.
My dressing room felt like it was shrinking, the walls pressing closer with every second. I tried to count like Dr. Chen taught me—one, two, three—but the numbers jumbled in my head like alphabet soup.
"Shayla, you're going on in fifteen minutes!" Marcus banged on the door again. "Stop hiding and get your pathetic self together!"
My chest hurt. Really hurt. Like someone was sitting on it.
This morning, I'd been the champion. Shayla "The Savage" Morrison, undefeated, unstoppable, fierce. Now I was just a girl in a wrestling outfit who couldn't remember how to breathe properly.
Three days. That's how long it had been since Derek leaked the video of me in Little space. Three days of my entire world falling apart.
The video had four million views now. Four million people watching me sit on the floor in pigtails, coloring in a Princess Peach coloring book, talking in my Little voice about how "Daddy would be so proud when I stayed in the lines."
Except I didn't have a Daddy. I'd just been pretending during therapy, practicing what it would feel like to be safe. To be small. To not have to be strong every single second.
Now everyone knew. Every single person.
My phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Text after text after text:
Vanessa: "Can't believe my sister is such a freak. Mom's embarrassed."
Marcus: "Three sponsors dropped you. Fix this or you're done."
Unknown number: "Baby need her diaper changed?"
Unknown number: "Fake fighter. Weak. Pathetic."
I threw my phone across the room. It hit the wall and cracked. Good. I didn't want to see any more.
"Breathe," I whispered to myself. "Just breathe."
But I couldn't. My throat felt too tight. My vision was getting blurry and spotty around the edges. My hands were shaking so bad I couldn't even grip the water bottle next to me.
The panic attack was winning.
I needed to slip. Needed to be Little. Needed everything to stop being so loud and scary and overwhelming.
But I was at work. In a wrestling arena with thousands of people. Cameras everywhere. If someone caught me slipping into Little space here, another video would go viral. This time I'd lose everything—not just sponsors, but my championship, my career, my entire life.
"Stop it," I told myself firmly, trying to sound like the Savage everyone expected. "You're fine. You're strong. Champions don't have panic attacks."
Except I was having one. A bad one.
The room spun. My stomach twisted. I couldn't get enough air no matter how hard I tried.
Marcus pounded on the door again. "Shayla! The press is asking questions about the video! You need to get out here and tell them it was fake, that you were acting, that—"
"Leave me alone!" I screamed.
Silence. Then: "You ungrateful little brat. I made you. Without me, you're nothing. NOTHING. Now get dressed and stop being weak!"
His footsteps stomped away.
I pressed my hands against my ears, trying to block out everything. But I couldn't block out my own heartbeat, racing so fast I thought it might explode. Couldn't block out the fear crawling up my spine like spiders.
What if I couldn't fight tonight? What if I walked out there and froze? What if everyone booed me? What if they all laughed and called me baby and—
The door opened.
I didn't look up. "Marcus, I said leave me—"
"I'm not Marcus."
The voice was different. Deep. Calm. Strong but not mean-strong. Safe-strong.
I lifted my head.
A man stood in the doorway. Tall, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my car. Dark hair, dark eyes that seemed to see everything—including how badly I was breaking apart.
He should have scared me. Strange man, alone with me, door closing behind him. But something in his eyes wasn't dangerous. At least not dangerous to me.
"Who—" I tried to talk but couldn't get enough air. "Who are you?"
He walked closer, slow and careful, like I was a scared animal. Then he knelt down in front of me. Right there on the dirty dressing room floor in his expensive suit.
"Breathe with me," he said quietly. "In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?"
I stared at him. My brain was too fuzzy to understand what was happening.
"In," he said, breathing in slowly while looking right at me. "Two, three, four. Hold. Two, three, four. Out. Two, three, four."
I tried to copy him. Failed. Tried again.
"Good girl," he said, and something in his voice made my chest feel less tight. "Again. In for four."
We breathed together. Once. Twice. Three times. Slowly, slowly, the room stopped spinning quite so fast.
"Better?" he asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"My name is Dante Salvatore." He stayed kneeling, staying at my level. "And I just bought your wrestling contract from Marcus Holloway. As of twenty minutes ago, I own your career."
My brain short-circuited. "You... what?"
"I bought you out of your contract. Marcus Holloway no longer has any control over you. I do."
I should have been angry. Should have been scared. Should have asked a million questions.
Instead, tears poured down my face. "Why?"
Dante's expression softened in a way that made him look less like a dangerous stranger and more like... like...
No. I couldn't think like that. Couldn't let myself hope.
"Because you need help," he said simply. "And I know exactly what kind of help you need."
My breath caught. "You... you saw the video."
"I did."
Shame burned through me, hot and terrible. "Then you know I'm—"
"I know you're hurting," he interrupted gently. "I know you're overwhelmed. I know the world is too big and too loud right now. And I know—" He paused. "I know what you need to feel safe."
Something in his voice. Something that understood.
"I can't fight tonight," I whispered. "I can't. I'll pass out in the ring or worse, I'll slip into Little space in front of everyone and—"
"You're not fighting tonight."
"But the contract—"
"I own the contract now. And I'm canceling the match."
Hope and terror mixed together in my chest. "Marcus will sue. The arena will sue. Everyone will—"
"Let them try." Dante's eyes went hard and cold. "No one makes my girl do anything she can't handle."
His girl.
The words wrapped around me like a warm blanket.
"I don't understand," I said. "Why are you helping me? What do you want?"
Dante reached out slowly, giving me time to pull away. When I didn't, he brushed a tear off my cheek with his thumb. The touch was gentle. Careful. Like I was something precious.
"Two years ago," he said quietly, "you found a little girl outside a warehouse on Fifth and Hamilton. Six years old, scared, lost. You stayed with her. Bought her hot chocolate. Kept her safe until help came."
My mind spun back. That night. The crying child. "Sofia," I whispered. "Her name was Sofia."
"My niece," Dante said. "She'd been taken by very bad people who wanted to hurt my family. You saved her life, Shayla. And I never forget my debts."
The room tilted again, but differently this time. Not from panic. From shock.
"You've been watching me," I realized.
"Protecting you," he corrected. "For two years. Making sure you stayed safe. But now you need more than shadows." His hand moved to cup my face. "Now you need someone to take care of you properly. Someone who understands what you need and won't judge you for it."
My heart hammered. "You can't mean—"
"I know what Little space is, Shayla. I know what a Daddy Dom does. And I know—" His thumb stroked my cheek. "I know you need one desperately."
Tears flooded my eyes again. "Everyone thinks I'm broken."
"You're not broken. You're surviving the only way you know how." He stood, offering his hand. "Come with me. Let me take care of you tonight. No cameras. No crowds. No expectations. Just safety."
I looked at his hand. Strong. Steady. Offering something I'd dreamed about but never thought I'd find.
"What if it's a trick?" I whispered. "What if you're lying?"
"Then you'll walk away tomorrow. But tonight—" His eyes were so gentle. "Tonight, let someone else be strong for you."
I reached for his hand.
The door slammed open.
Marcus stood there, face red with fury. And behind him—my stomach dropped—stood three men in suits. Not friendly suits like Dante's. Dark suits. Mean faces.
"Step away from my client, Salvatore," Marcus snarled. "She's not going anywhere."
Dante moved in front of me so fast I barely saw it. Blocking me. Protecting me.
"She's not your client anymore," Dante said, his voice ice-cold.
One of the men behind Marcus pulled out a gun.
"Actually," the man said with a cruel smile, "she belongs to Giovanni Russo now. And he wants to have a conversation about stealing what's his."
My blood turned to ice.
Dante's hand tightened on mine.
And I realized the nightmare wasn't over.
It was just beginning.