Chapter 7
SEVEN
RILEY
The heavy bag absorbed each strike with a dull thud that echoed through the empty gym, the sound mixing with Riley's ragged breathing and the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Night had settled thick against the windows, transforming the glass into dark mirrors that reflected her solitary figure moving with lethal precision across the training mats.
This hour belonged to her alone. No students to encourage, no equipment to fix, no bills to worry about—just the pure, honest conversation between fist and leather that had anchored her since childhood.
The time when she could strip away everything else and remember who she was beneath the mounting pressure.
But tonight, like every night for the past four torturous days, peace eluded her.
Riley threw a devastating right cross followed by a sharp left hook, her muscles coiling and releasing with practiced efficiency. Sweat beaded along her hairline, dampening the loose strands that had escaped her messy bun, but the familiar rhythm that usually cleared her mind felt fractured.
Because Adrian Kael haunted every corner of her thoughts.
She pivoted into a knee strike, driving her leg upward with enough force to drop a grown man, then immediately flowed into a spinning back fist that would have shattered ribs.
The combination should have satisfied the restless energy clawing at her chest. Instead, it only reminded her of how close she'd come to complete humiliation five nights ago.
"God, I'm such an idiot," she muttered, throwing another series of punches that landed with increasing violence.
The memory crashed over her with devastating clarity.
Standing outside her apartment building in that blue sundress she'd spent thirty ridiculous minutes selecting.
The streetlight casting everything in soft gold while her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
And then—like some lovesick teenager instead of a thirty-two-year-old professional fighter—she'd looked into those devastating blue eyes and asked the question that still made her want to disappear into the floor.
Do you want to come up?
Riley's fists connected with the bag in a rapid-fire combination that would have impressed her toughest critics. Left jab, right cross, left uppercut, right hook—each strike carrying the weight of her mortification.
She'd never done anything that impulsive in her life.
Never invited a man she'd just met upstairs for what would have been—let's be honest—a night that would have left her tangled in sheets and complications she couldn't afford.
The kind of mistake that turned professional relationships into emotional minefields.
But something about Adrian had demolished every wall she'd spent years building.
The way he'd listened without trying to fix her.
How he'd understood her fears about changing herself without making her feel weak for having them.
That intoxicating scent that seemed to wrap around her senses and short-circuit her brain.
For one perfect, terrifying moment, she'd wanted to be the kind of woman who took what she wanted without calculating the consequences.
Then he'd stepped back like she'd slapped him.
"I really shouldn't. It's complicated."
Riley threw a vicious elbow strike that sent the heavy bag swinging. "Complicated," she repeated, her voice dripping with bitter amusement. "What the hell does that even mean?"
The first few days after that spectacular rejection, fury had sustained her.
She'd drafted and deleted a dozen texts telling him exactly what she thought of men who led women on then disappeared like cowards.
She'd imagined calling him and delivering a verbal beatdown that would leave his ego as bruised as her pride.
But anger was exhausting. And as the days passed, something else had taken its place—a grudging, confusing gratitude that she didn't entirely understand.
Riley paused her assault on the bag, breathing hard as she pressed her gloved hands against the worn leather. Because the truth was, Adrian had saved her from herself. From making the kind of mistake that would have compromised everything she'd worked to build.
She didn't rush into things. Especially in the romance department.
Never had. The few relationships she'd attempted had been carefully considered, slowly developed, with men who understood that her independence wasn't negotiable.
Jumping into bed with a financial analyst she'd met hours earlier?
That wasn't her. That was desperation and attraction and six months of celibacy making decisions her rational mind would have regretted.
"So thank you, Adrian Kael," she said aloud, her voice echoing in the empty space. "For being the adult in the room."
But gratitude didn't solve her other problem. The one that made her stomach twist with anxiety every time she looked at the stack of unpaid invoices on her desk.
She still needed his help.
Riley resumed her training with mechanical precision, working through combinations that had won her three national titles and more regional championships than she could count.
But her mind kept circling back to the financial assessment he'd barely started.
The short-term fixes he'd mentioned could buy her six months of breathing room.
Without his expertise, she might not keep the gym open past autumn.
The equipment was failing faster than she could afford to replace it.
The second treadmill had finally given up entirely yesterday, leaving her with one functioning machine for cardio classes.
The heavy bag she was currently punishing needed replacing—the duct tape holding the seam together wouldn't last another week of serious training.
And the membership numbers weren't climbing fast enough to offset the mounting expenses. She'd gained three new students this month but lost two when their schedules changed. The math was brutal and unforgiving.
Riley threw a devastating combination that would have ended any fight, but the physical exertion did nothing to quiet the panic building in her chest. Because there was another competition this weekend—a regional championship that offered prize money she desperately needed to make next month's rent.
Her sponsors expected her to compete regularly to maintain their contracts, and missing events meant losing the few reliable income streams she had left.
But she was already running on fumes. Six months of managing everything alone had pushed her past exhaustion into something that felt dangerously close to burnout.
Teaching every class, handling all the administrative work, maintaining her own training schedule, competing to keep sponsors happy—it was too much for one person.
Even her.
Riley's next punch landed wrong, sending a sharp pain up her wrist that made her curse under her breath. She was losing focus, letting emotion compromise her technique. Exactly the kind of mistake that ended careers.
She stepped back from the bag, chest heaving as she struggled to regain control.
The gym felt smaller tonight, the walls pressing in with the weight of everything she stood to lose.
This place represented more than just her livelihood—it was proof that she could build something meaningful entirely on her own terms.
Losing it would mean admitting that independence had its limits. That maybe, sometimes, needing help wasn't weakness—it was survival.
"Damn it all," she whispered, pulling off her gloves with sharp, frustrated movements.
Because no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, she couldn't get Adrian Kael out of her head.
Not his piercing blue eyes or the way he'd made her feel understood.
Not the broad shoulders that had filled out his shirt like an invitation, or the controlled strength in every movement that had made her want to see what happened when that control finally snapped.
And definitely not the fact that he might be the only person who could save everything she'd worked to build.
The question was whether her pride could survive asking for his help after the way their last encounter had ended.
The sudden sharp pounding against the front door yanked her from her spiraling thoughts.
"Seriously?" she muttered to the empty gym.
This happened at least twice a week—someone spotting the lights through the windows and assuming she was open for business instead of stealing precious moments for her own training.
The kind of interruption that fractured her focus and reminded her why she preferred the solitude of late-night sessions.
Riley stalked toward the front entrance, acutely aware of how she must look—her hair escaping its messy bun in damp tendrils, sports bra and leggings clinging to her sweat-slicked skin, and the flush of exertion painting her cheeks.
Not exactly the professional image she projected during business hours.
But when she peered through the glass door, her breath caught in her throat.
Adrian Kael stood under the pale glow of the streetlight, and he looked nothing like the polished financial analyst who'd walked out of her life five days ago.
Gone was the crisp button-down and tailored slacks.
Instead, he wore athletic shorts that showcased his powerful legs and a fitted t-shirt that clung to the broad expanse of his chest. His dark auburn hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his hands through it, and those piercing blue eyes held an intensity that made something low in her belly clench with unwanted heat.
The absolute nerve of this man.