I wait, giving him space to continue.
“At the gym. Emily.” He swallows hard. “We dated for a couple years. It ended... badly. She asked me to dinner, said she’d like to reconnect.” Victor’s voice is flat, emotionless, but I can see the conflict in his eyes.
I sit up straighter on his lap, suddenly feeling too exposed. “What did you tell her?”
Victor looks away, jaw tightening. “That I’d think about it.”
The words land like a punch. I slide off him and reach for my discarded underwear, needing some barrier between us. “You’d think about it?”
“I didn’t know what else to say. I couldn’t exactly tell her I’m seeing someone when?—”
“When what? When that someone’s a secret? When you can’t even acknowledge I exist?” My voice rises despite my attempt to stay calm.
Victor stands, reaching for his own clothes. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is eight months of this, Victor. Eight months of being good enough to fuck but not good enough to introduce to your friends. Not good enough to take to dinner. Not good enough to—” I cut myself off, emotion thick in my throat. The weight of all the unspoken words between us threatens to crush me.
I take a deep breath, pulling my t-shirt over my head. “I think you should leave.”
“Theo—” He steps toward me, hand outstretched.
“Leave. I need to think.” I cross my arms, creating another barrier between us.
Victor hesitates, but something in my expression must convince him. He finishes dressing in silence. At the door, he pauses, looking back at me with an expression I can’t read. Then he’s gone, the click of the door impossibly loud in the quiet apartment.
I sink onto the couch, staring at the space he just occupied. The revelation hits me with startling clarity—I’ve fallen in love with someone who doesn’t know how to love me back.
30
THEO
Seven days of silence. The longest we’ve gone without speaking since this thing between us began.
I stare at Julian’s text invitation to Victor’s underground fight night. The irony isn’t lost on me—invited to Victor’s domain by someone else entirely. Julian mentions he’s considering investing in Victor’s operation, expanding the fight club into something more legitimate. More profitable.
Victor had every opportunity to invite me himself. He didn’t.
I toss my phone onto the bed and pace my apartment. The sensible move would be to stay home, lick my wounds, and accept that Victor will never give me what I need. But I’ve never been particularly sensible when it comes to him.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, heading to my closet. If I’m going to crash Victor’s party, I’ll make damn sure he knows I’m there.
I select my newest Tom Ford—midnight blue, impeccably tailored to showcase my lean frame. The silk lining slides cool against my skin as I button a crisp white shirt. Gold cufflinks catch the light as I finish dressing—understated elegance that screams money. More than most of Victor’s fighters make in months.
The warehouse district pulses with energy when my driver drops me off. Men in various states of undress mill around outside, muscles gleaming with sweat despite the evening chill. They eye my car, then my suit with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
Inside, the air is thick with testosterone, sweat, and anticipation. The makeshift arena centers the warehouse, spotlights creating dramatic shadows across the fighting ring. Blood spatters mark the canvas—remnants of earlier matches.
I spot Julian in the VIP section, surrounded by men in expensive watches and women in revealing dresses. He raises his glass when he sees me, making room beside him on the leather couch.
“You came,” he says, handing me a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. “Victor will be thrilled.”
“Will he?” I take a deliberate sip, scanning the crowd for him.
“I wouldn’t miss his face when he sees you here for all the money in my portfolio.” Julian’s smile is all calculation. “How long are you planning to let him pretend you don’t exist?”
I settle back against the leather, positioning myself for maximum visibility. “I’m done being invisible.”
Victor’s eyes find me across the crowded warehouse, and I watch the emotions cycle across his face in rapid succession—shock, anger, and finally, unmistakable desire. His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble I know feels like sandpaper against my skin. For a moment, he freezes mid-conversation with a group of well-dressed men who look distinctly out of place among the fighters.
