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Portia’s brows jump and she loses her bearings, the shock overtaking her.

My scowl is immediate, my anger rushing me. Maurizio clamps a hand on my shoulder to keep me from storming into the frame and interrupting the live interview.

It ends no less than a minute later with Portia’s nervous laugh and sign off to the camera.

Iverson and his posse walk out to get ready for the match. Breathing through my temper that’s riled up, I stride toward Portia and rip the microphone from her hands.

“That’s the end of that,” I say. “Strong will do the post-match interview.”

Her brows knit close. “What? Why? I thought it went great?—”

“I don’t like his behavior.”

“Because of what he said at the end?”

“The match is about to start.” I motion with my head, signaling for the two of us and security to head to the other part of the stadium.

Portia’s irritation becomes a palpable energy in the air. She refuses to look at me once we do arrive at our seats, crossing her legs and avoiding my gaze at every opportunity. Any time I try to engage her in conversation, she pretends she can’t hear me. My hand damn sure gets smacked away when I go to palm her knee.

She’s pissed about Iverson.

The boxing match begins with heavyweights Quinard Iverson and Stephen Gatz going toe-to-toe. The two oiled up men throw vicious punches at each other, ducking and diving wherever they can.

Round after round the entire stadium erupts cheers. Some rooting for Gatz. Others supporting the favorite, returning champ Iverson.

From the VIP section, we get the best of both worlds. We’re in the thick of the crowds’ screams while being close enough for the commentators energetic input and the close up of the fighters duking it out.

Round eight, Iverson throws a punch that’s a knockout. His heavy fist collides with Gatz and sends him down to the mat. The referee hovers over him counting to ten but Gatz can’t get back up no matter how hard he tries, collapsing for the last time.

The entire stadium explodes. Iverson throws his arms into the air in victory. His entourage rushes the boxing ring to swallow him up with celebrations. His coaches lift him up on their shoulders and he throws fake jabs in the air and points at the crowd.

It’s a moment that will be replayed on every sports channel for days to come. Heavyweight champ Quinard Iverson has held onto his title yet again.

And then he picks Portia out from the crowd.

He notices her seated front row in the VIP section and his dark brown eyes gleam. He puckers his lips and makes kissy faces at her, winking as he does.

I’ve had enough. I rise from my seat, a stony expression on my face. My gaze is chilling and violent as it meets his from afar and the cameras catch the interaction between us.

“Rafael,” Portia groans, tugging at my arm.

Iverson holds his gloved hands up as if signaling he’ll back off. The audience laughs while the commentators crack jokes about how he’s realized he doesn’t want to piss off prominent billionaire Rafael Calderone.

It’s thought to be a funny moment among the public.

It’s a moment that will likely go viral online.

But I’m serious. If Quinard Iverson is going to be disrespectful to my woman, then he will pay the price. I will have him broken and bleeding in an alleyway by the end of the night. Professional heavyweight champ or not.

“Rafael!” Portia cries out in irritation. She pops to her feet and then strides off.

My blinding temper dissolves to catch the sight of her heels as she disappears among the crowd.

“Handle him,” I say to Maurizio simply.

Two words that are my parting command before I set off after Portia.

It’s not the first time she proves to be unbelievably quick in her heels. She makes it through the corridors in impressive time, striding through until she’s coming up on the exit. I jog after her, catching up as we make it outside.