Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Anthony
“Push through it, man. Last two reps.”
The trainer’s voice was steady, but I could hear the underlying challenge in his tone. I gritted my teeth, adjusting my grip on the barbell before pushing the weight up again. My muscles burned, but the pain was familiar—controlled, measured, real.
“That’s it. One more.”
I exhaled sharply, powering through the final rep before locking the bar into place on the rack. My arms trembled slightly as I sat up, rolling my shoulders.
“Good set,” the trainer said, giving me a nod of approval. “You’ve got solid form. Let me know if you want to increase the weight next time.”
I took the towel he handed me and wiped the sweat from my forehead. “I’ll think about it.”
He grinned. “Just don’t burn yourself out too fast. A lot of guys come in here trying to prove something. You don’t strike me as the type.”
I didn’t respond to that because he wasn’t wrong.
As he walked off, I reached for my water bottle and took a slow drink, glancing around the club as I caught my breath. The place had a rhythm to it—a carefully orchestrated blend of effort and exhibition. Some people were here to train. Others were here to be seen.
The floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in natural light, offering a sweeping view of Biscayne Bay, where yachts drifted lazily in the distance. Each machine was more high-tech than the last. The equipment gleamed, complete with digital readouts and built-in trainers. A few men in expensive athletic gear took calls on the treadmills, discussing investment portfolios between sets.
This wasn’t just a gym. It was a networking hub, a status symbol, a place where billionaires came to break a sweat before heading to their next high-stakes deal.
It was a far cry from the gym I used back in New York—a gritty, no-nonsense space where the only soundtrack was the clang of weights and the occasional grunt of effort. There, no one cared who you were or how much money you had. Here, everything felt sleek and deliberate.
Performative.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I let my pulse settle. I had joined because I needed a place to train. However, the more time I spent here, the more I realized I was getting a front-row seat to Miami’s elite.
And whether I wanted to or not, I was part of it now.
I adjusted the weight on the dumbbell rack, rolling my shoulders as I moved toward the free weights section. The energy in the gym had shifted slightly—a few heads turned, nods exchanged, the subtle ripple effect of someone important walking into the room.
I glanced over, instinctively tracking the source. Damian Sinclair.
Even if I hadn’t recognized him from business circles, I would have known the type. The kind of man who moved through life with an effortless confidence, who didn’t need to announce his wealth because it was woven into every detail—the tailored fit of his performance gear, the custom wristwatch that probably cost more than my first apartment in New York.
Unlike some of the other men in this place—the ones posturing, desperate to flaunt their success—Damian didn’t seem like he had anything to prove. He simply existed in a way that commanded attention without asking for it.
I had just finished a set of incline presses when he stepped over, picking up a pair of heavy dumbbells like they were paperweights. He caught my eye in the mirror, smirking slightly.
“You’re new here.” It wasn’t a question.
I grabbed my water bottle, taking a slow sip before answering. “That obvious?”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug, adjusting his grip before starting his set. “Most of the guys here are either hedge fund sharks or retired athletes. You don’t look like either.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And what do I look like?”
“Like someone who’s here to train, not to network.” He finished his reps with ease, setting the weights down before turning to face me fully. “Which makes you interesting.”
I studied him for a moment. There was something about him that felt different from the usual Miami elite. He wasn’t just rich—he was strategic. The kind of man who always had a play in motion, even in casual conversation.
He wiped his hands on a towel before extending one toward me. “Damian Sinclair.”
I shook his hand. Firm grip, controlled strength. The kind of handshake that belonged to a man who never lost.
“Anthony Moreau.”
His smirk deepened. “I know.”
That caught my attention. “Do you?”
He slung the towel over his shoulder. “I follow the art world. Hard not to hear about the guy cleaning up the Devereux mess.”
I kept my expression neutral, but something tightened in my chest. “That’s one way to put it.”
He waved a hand. “Don’t get me wrong—I respect what you and The Monuments Men and Women Foundation do. Returning stolen masterpieces, righting historical wrongs, all very noble.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “But let’s not pretend this isn’t just another power game.”
I folded my arms. “And what are you involved in, Damian? Since you clearly have an opinion about power.”
His smirk sharpened, something calculating in his eyes. “Sinclair Acquisitions. We deal in rare and high-value art transactions—private auctions, investment consulting, and high-profile acquisitions.”
Of course. The man didn’t just follow the art world. He shaped it.
Damian led the way to the juice bar, moving through the space like he owned it. In a way, he did. Not literally, but the way people acknowledged him—the subtle nods from buff men, the lingering looks from women who clearly knew his reputation—it was obvious he was one of Miami’s elite.
I wasn’t interested in the social dynamics of this place, but I recognized them. Power had a way of revealing itself, even in something as simple as a post-workout juice bar.
The bar itself looked more like something out of a high-end hotel lounge than a gym. Dark wood counters, glass shelves lined with imported supplements, and a menu that read like a science experiment.
Damian barely glanced at the list before ordering. “Dragon fruit, maca root, raw cacao, bee pollen, and oat milk.”
The woman behind the counter nodded, as if this was a completely reasonable request. I skimmed the menu, unimpressed, and chose something simple: “Black coffee. Iced.”
Damian smirked as we stepped aside to wait for our drinks. “You’re not even gonna try the superfood concoction? It might boost your longevity.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m not trying to live forever.”
“Ah,” he mused, “a man with limits. Rare in Miami.”
Our drinks arrived—his in a sleek glass tumbler, mine in a standard to-go cup. Damian took a sip of his overpriced potion, exhaling with exaggerated satisfaction. “Tastes like money.”
I took a slow drink of my coffee. “Tastes like caffeine.”
We moved to a small corner booth, the low hum of conversation filling the space around us. Damian stretched out, completely at ease, while I kept my posture more measured. He was the type of man who could relax anywhere. I wasn’t.
“So,” he said, tapping a finger against his glass, “what’s your deal, Moreau? You come to Miami to work but not to play?”
I shrugged. “I’m here to oversee the Devereux case. My focus is on work.”
Damian tilted his head, studying me. “That’s a shame. Miami isn’t the kind of city that lets a man stay single for long.”
I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head. “I’m not interested.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Not interested in Miami women?”
“Not interested in dating. Period.”
Damian’s smirk barely wavered, but I could see the wheels turning in his mind. “A man with your name, your background—there has to be a story behind that.”
I tapped a finger against my coffee cup, debating how much to say. I wasn’t in the habit of explaining myself, especially to someone I’d just met. But I also knew men like Damian. They respected directness.
“My wife passed away,” I said simply.
Damian didn’t blink. If the information caught him off guard, he didn’t show it. He just leaned back, swirling the last few swallows of his drink. “I see.”
I took another sip of coffee, keeping my tone neutral. “I’m not looking to replace her.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “You know, people act like love is an asset, but in reality? It depreciates.”
I gave him a flat look. “That’s a cynical take.”
“It’s a practical one.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Look at art. It’s one of the few things in the world that only gains value over time. A Picasso today is worth more than it was twenty years ago. But relationships? They have an expiration date. No matter how good it seems, eventually, someone loses interest. Someone leaves. Or worse, someone dies.”
There was nothing in his voice that suggested he was trying to be cruel. If anything, he was speaking from experience—though I wasn’t about to ask what.
I shook my head. “That’s a hell of a way to live.”
“It’s a hell of a way to survive.”
The words sat between us, heavy and unmoving.
I started to reply, but before I could, an image flashed in my mind. Gabrielle.
The way she carried herself—poised, graceful, as if she belonged in every room she entered. The way she studied me when she thought I wasn’t looking, her eyes sharp with curiosity. The way she seemed to already know my secrets, even when I hadn’t spoken them aloud.
I pushed the thought away. She was my employee. My responsibility. That was all.
Damian’s voice pulled me back. “You’ll see, Moreau. Give it time.” He smirked, tipping his glass toward me. “Miami has a way of messing with a man’s plans.”
I stared down at my coffee, my fingers tightening around the cup.
He had no idea.
Damian stood, stretching like a man who had nothing but time and endless possibilities ahead of him. He tossed a casual nod in my direction.
“Good talk, Moreau. You ever decide to actually enjoy Miami, let me know.” His smirk was sharp, knowing. “Try not to work yourself into an early grave.”
With that, he strolled out, already reaching for his phone—probably texting whatever model was warming his bed tonight.
I stayed put, rolling my coffee cup between my hands as the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses filled the space around me. The gym had its own social hierarchy and its own ecosystem of power and privilege. But outside these glass walls, Miami pulsed with an entirely different kind of energy—one I wasn’t sure I belonged to anymore.
Beyond the club’s outdoor terrace, the city stretched toward the water, neon reflections shimmering against the bay. Yachts were moored at the marina, music spilling from luxury rooftops and waterfront clubs, where people indulged without second thought.
Damian thrived in this world. I was just passing through.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
I leaned back in my seat, letting out a slow breath, but my mind betrayed me—drifting, unbidden, to Gabrielle.
Her voice was cool and professional but carried something just beneath the surface. The way her sharp gaze assessed me, always seeming to know more than I said.
The memory of her moved like a slow brushstroke in my mind—the curve of her mouth when she fought a smile, the way she carried herself with an effortless kind of elegance. She was a contradiction—poised yet untamed, polished yet burning with something deeper.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
She worked for me. I had no business letting my mind wander there.
And yet…
Her lips parted slightly in thought, the flicker of amusement in her eyes… the way she made even silence feel charged… I want to taste her…
I exhaled, shaking my head. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t some reckless guy chasing a woman just because she intrigued me.
But the thought of her had already settled in my mind.
And I knew it was there to stay.