I’ve seen enough.
Without another word, I turn and walk toward the door. Each step feels heavier than the last as the reality sinks in.
The bell above the door jingles as I push through it, sunlight hitting my face. My vision blurs, tears building at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back furiously, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not where anyone might see.
God, the irony. Even now, I’m hiding my emotions in public—just like him.
I make it halfway down the block before I have to stop, pressing my hand against a brick wall to steady myself. The weight in my chest is crushing.
I believed in us—in him. The way his body responded to mine, how desperately he wanted me. The night he let me inside him, watching our reflection in those mirrors as he came completely undone. The way he surrendered everything to me. I thought it meant something profound. I thought it meant I was winning him over.
What a fucking joke.
All those nights, all those whispered confessions in the dark, all those moments when his guard came down completely—none of it was enough. I gave him every part of myself, and he can’t even acknowledge me in daylight.
I straighten my shoulders and keep walking. The tears recede, replaced by something colder. I was naive to think physical surrender would translate to emotional courage. That’s not how this works. That’s not how Victor works.
Eight months of being someone’s secret. Eight months of being good enough for his bed but not for his life.
No more.
33
VICTOR
The timer rings, and I barely register it. I’ve been watching Micah throw the same sloppy combination for five minutes without correcting him.
“Time,” I call belatedly, voice rougher than usual from lack of sleep.
Three weeks. Three weeks without Theo, and my gym is starting to notice something’s wrong. The numbers in front of me blur as I review last month’s revenue reports. We’re down eight percent, but I can’t focus long enough to figure out why.
“Boss?” Jonah stands in the doorway of my office, towel around his neck. “You coming? Rivera’s working those counters you wanted to see.” He’s holding the small notebook he carries everywhere, the one with two columns of his careful handwriting on every page. Jonah’s the only fighter I’ve ever trained who takes notes on his own training. His old coach used to laugh at him for it. The old coach was wrong.
I nod, dropping the papers on my desk. “Yeah.”
The training floor buzzes with activity—fighters at heavy bags, pairs sparring in the rings, the rhythmic slap of jump ropes hitting the floor. The sounds that used to center me now wash over me like white noise.
“Micah! Keep that right hand up!” I snap, harder than necessary. The kid flinches, adjusts his stance.
“Damn, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Cruz mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Again,” I order Micah, ignoring the comment.
He throws the combination, but I’m seeing Theo’s face as he walked out of that coffee shop. The disappointment in his eyes. The resignation.
“Boss, you even watching?” Micah asks.
I blink. “Do it again. Tighter this time.”
Later, I’m wrapping my hands to work the heavy bag—hoping physical exhaustion might grant me a few hours of sleep tonight—when Jonah approaches.
“Your left cross is dropping,” I tell him automatically.
He ignores this. “Boss, you’ve been somewhere else for weeks now.” He lowers his voice. “Missed that investor call yesterday. Forgot about the equipment order. Nearly bit Rivera’s head off for nothing.”
I grunt, focusing on the wrap between my fingers.
Jonah hesitates, then: “Boss, whoever she is, maybe you should just call her.”
