NOVEL NEXT Chapter 536: Family
The media had its fun.
Talk shows, highlight reels, opinion panels, all running wild with the new headlines.
Chemasov was the new champion. Damon Cross was next in line. And somewhere in between, the revelation that Damon would soon be a father stirred up a whole different kind of interest.
But as fast as it blew up, it passed.
The next story took its place, as always.
Damon, meanwhile, stayed focused. He trained. Rested. Made sure Svetlana was alright. He kept the noise low, only sharing what needed to be shared.
Then Joey called.
Apparently, the podcast interview they'd pushed back before the fight was now being brought up again. The team behind it was reaching out, asking when they could reschedule.
Normally, Damon wouldn't care.
He wasn't the guy chasing media moments or trying to go viral.
He did interviews when he had to, and even then, he preferred the quiet ones.
But this one? This wasn't just another podcast.
The one leading it was a UFA flyweight legend.
Retired, respected, a fighter who had made history in his own right, and who didn't chase clout.
He asked real questions. Got real answers.
And Damon respected him.
So when Joey mentioned it, Damon didn't brush it off.
"Tell them I'm down," he said.
And just like that, the wheels started turning again.
Damon felt like everything was aligning.
His career was on fire.
His personal life was grounded.
He had love, a baby on the way, and an undefeated record backed by a global tournament win. The last performance only boosted his stock further.
Behind the scenes, things had gotten even better.
Victor had flown in to handle contract talks with UFA management right after the Desayen fight. They'd spent two days negotiating, hammering out the structure of Damon's new deal—and the numbers?
They reflected everything Damon had become.
Base fight purse: $750,000 per fight.
Win bonus: Additional $250,000.
PPV points: Starting at 300,000 buys, $3 per buy. Escalating to $5 at 600,000 buys and $7 at 1 million.
Sponsorship bumps: The UFA's new gear partner agreed to pay Damon a six-figure yearly deal just for wearing their kit, $500,000 flat.
Performance bonuses: Up to $150,000 for Knockout, Submission, or Fight of the Night.
For someone in Damon's spot, undefeated, World Tournament Champion, co-main eventing under cards that hit international numbers, this was the tier.
And he was climbing it fast.
Victor had even negotiated a championship clause:
If Damon won the belt, his per-fight purse would jump to $1.2 million, and he'd get an automatic minimum of $1 million in PPV revenue per event, regardless of how many buys came in.
All Damon had to do now was keep doing what he did best.
Show up, fight smart, and win.
And that title shot?
It wasn't a dream.
It was right there, almost in reach.
That thought weighed more than he expected.
Damon sat back one night in his apartment, the contract papers still open on the table in front of him, numbers and clauses bolded in thick print. Svetlana was already asleep in the room, hand resting on her growing belly. And for the first time, Damon really felt the gravity of everything, not as a fighter, not as an athlete, but as a man, about to be a father.
He was set. That part was clear.
The money he was earning now, and the potential earnings coming in the next few years, meant security. Not just for himself, but for his family. His children would grow up with a support system. With options.
And that's what he wanted most. Not luxury. Not to spoil them.
But options.
He wanted his kid to be able to explore passions. Music, science, sports, art, whatever they leaned toward, he wanted to be the type of father who said, "Yeah, go ahead, we got you," instead of "That's not realistic."
Because that's what he always felt, not that his mother told him that, not even his evil father, but it was something he felt, that due to their situation he would never be able to do somethings.
That's what he grew up with, limits.
He didn't want that for his children.
He wasn't trying to raise princes or princesses either. He didn't want soft hands and spoiled hearts. He'd make sure they understood value, of time, of money, of effort.
But he didn't want them going to bed wondering if the lights would still be on in the morning. He didn't want them hiding bruises behind silence like he had.
And more than anything, he didn't want them growing up feeling like survival was the only goal.
He wanted them to live.
He wanted them to chase.
To dream.
And he'd make sure they had every tool, every door, and every bit of support to do that.
Fighting made him who he was.
But he wanted his children to have the freedom to be whoever the hell they wanted to be.
And for a moment, Damon felt the responsibility of a family.
A responsibility of a partner and a parent.
Maybe he wasn't as scared as he thought he was.
He wanted to protect and provide for them, making sure they were happy. Making sure they were safe.
And this feeling made him want to fight for more.
Not just in the cage.
But in life.
He stood up from the couch, gathering the few dishes left on the table. He took them to the kitchen, cleaned up quietly, and moved toward the bedroom.
The lights were dim. The night outside was silent, save for the occasional hum of the city in the distance.
He undressed slowly, leaving his clothes folded on the chair by the wall. Then he climbed into bed.
Svetlana was already there, curled to one side. He slipped in beside her, careful not to wake her, and moved closer.
His arm went around her, pulling her in gently. His hand resting on her stomach.
She stirred a little but didn't fully wake, just nestled back into him, comforted.
Damon closed his eyes.
He didn't say anything.
But in his head, he repeated one thing over and over like a silent promise:
I got this.