Chapter 15 Alex
The leather gives under my fist with a satisfying thud. Again. Again. The rhythm settles into my bones—jab, cross, hook—while Ricky adjusts his grip on the heavy bag.
"You're dropping your left shoulder," he says.
I adjust my stance, keeping my shoulder level through the next combination.
Elemental is the kind of gym that doesn't advertise.
No website, no listed phone number, certainly no social media presence.
You need three member recommendations to get on the waiting list, and even then, money alone won't get you through the door.
The clientele values privacy above everything else: actors between films, politicians between scandals, billionaires between wives.
Or in my case, a billionaire a week after his omega husband walked out.
The boxing area is separated from the rest of the gym by soundproof glass and another layer of security.
Inside, the decor is exposed brick and industrial fixtures which is funny because I know that this was part of an ordinary office block a year ago.
They’re trying to fake something authentic while charging five thousand a month for membership.
The heavy bags are Italian leather, the ring ropes are some space-age polymer that's supposedly easier on the skin, and the water bottles are branded with nothing because brands are for people who need to advertise.
Yes, it’s hokey. It’s also private.
"How's your head?" I ask between combinations, noting the faint yellow-green bruising still visible above Ricky's left eye.
"Hard as ever. Though Diana suggested I might want to consider a helmet as part of my work uniform."
"Diana's got a point."
Ricky shifts the bag as I unleash a particularly vicious cross. "Speaking of which, she know you're here?"
"Diana doesn't track my every movement."
"Since when?"
Since Jonah left and I stopped answering her calls immediately. Since I woke up that first morning with the worst hangover I’ve ever had.
"You look different," Ricky observes. "Lost weight?"
"Haven't been drinking."
The bag swings wildly as Ricky nearly loses his grip. "Sorry, what?"
"You heard me."
"For how long?"
"Six days." Six days, fourteen hours, and approximately thirty-seven minutes. Not that I'm counting with the obsession of someone who used to mark time by when it was acceptable to have the first drink of the day.
"You sick?"
"No."
"Dying?"
"No."
"Did the church mouse put you on some kind of religious—"
"He left." The words come out flat. I focus on my form, on the wrap protecting my knuckles, on the burn in my shoulders. "Jonah left. A week ago."
The bag stills. Around us, I can hear the distant whir of treadmills behind soundproof glass and the muffled impact of other fighters at other bags. Someone's trainer is counting reps in Italian.
"Shit," Ricky says finally. "I'm sorry, man."
"Don't be. We both knew it wouldn't work."
"Still. How long were you married, ten days?"
"Six." Six days of marriage. Two of wondering what the fuck we were doing. Three of them lost to heat and two to fighting.
"You okay?"
I throw a hook that makes the bag jump despite Ricky's grip. "I'm boxing at ten in the morning on a Thursday. What do you think?"
"I think you're processing. How was Cabo, you ask? Thanks for wondering. The resort was gorgeous."
I can't help but smile slightly. "How was Cabo?"
"Absolute paradise. Diana set me up at Las Ventanas.
Private beach, swim-up bar that I couldn't use because apparently I'm 'recuperating from head trauma.
' The concierge kept trying to get me to do yoga.
" He shudders theatrically. "I played a lot of golf instead.
Met this developer from Texas who kept trying to ask me if I could get you to invest in his latest scheme. "
"Sounds thrilling."
"The massage therapist made up for it. This Brazilian woman with hands that could crack walnuts and a laugh like—" He stops, catching something in my expression. "You really haven't been drinking?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
"From you? Yes.”
I step back from the bag, pulling off my gloves. My hands are shaking slightly. Maybe it’s withdrawal but at least part is exhaustion. Pushing my body is easier than sitting still with my thoughts.
Before I can respond, one of the gym's discrete staff members appears at my elbow.
"Mr. Colborne? Mrs Norris has arrived. She's in the member's lounge."
I stare at him. "Diana's here? At the gym?"
"Yes, sir. She's quite insistent about seeing you immediately."
Diana doesn't come to gyms. Diana doesn't go anywhere that might involve sweat or effort or the possibility of seeing someone without their makeup done. In fifteen years, I've never seen her in anything less formal than business casual.
“I thought you said she wasn’t tracking you.”
“I guess I was wrong,” I say, handing Ricky my gloves.
"Want backup?"
"From you? She'd eat you alive just for practice."
"That's fair. I'll be at the speed bag if they need someone to identify your body."
Diana sits in one of the angular chairs in the member’s lounge looking deeply uncomfortable, like she might catch something from the furniture.
She's wearing a cream pantsuit, her silver hair pulled back in its signature chignon.
Her assistant hovers nearby, tablet in hand, looking equally out of place.
"You look terrible," she says by way of greeting.
"You look lost. The Four Seasons is three blocks east."
Her mouth tightens. "You haven't been answering my calls."
"I've been busy."
"Doing what?"
“I am supposed to be on my honeymoon you know.”
“I do know and I also know that your husband walked out on you so don’t bullshit me. I’m guessing you’ve spent it drinking.”
"Actually, no. Haven't had a drink in six days."
She blinks, genuinely surprised. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"Sit down, Alex. Please."
The please catches me off guard. Diana doesn't say please. She commands, she mandates, she strongly suggests. She doesn't ask.
I sit, still in my sweaty workout clothes. "The press knows," she says. "About your separation."
"That was fast."
"Someone at the Fellowship talked. Apparently, Jonah returning home alone after a week of marriage was noteworthy enough that someone put it in a family newsletter and it went out from there."
"Is he okay?"
"I don't know. I don't have sources inside religious compounds in the middle of nowhere." She pauses. "I came to warn you. They'll be looking for you soon. You need to be prepared with a statement."
I sigh. “Fine. I assume you have something pre-prepared for me.”
“I do.” She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a piece of paper which she hands to me. I scan it. Apparently, we’re not separated. Jonah has simply gone home to see his family after a short honeymoon.
“I’m not reading this. He’s left. He’s not coming back.”
“It’s in your own best interests, Alexander. The press is going to go mad. Just put them on hold while I work out how to get him back.”
“I’ll make my own statement. You don’t need to manage me.”
She looks at me like I'm particularly slow. "Yes, I do. Because despite what you might think, I actually give a damn about your wellbeing. I've been managing your life for fifteen years—"
"Exactly. Managing it. Controlling it."
"Because you need it." Her voice isn't harsh, just matter-of-fact. "You’re the living definition of the phrase ‘more money than sense’."
"It’s not your job to save me."
"Yes, it is. I owe it to your mother. I've been trying to keep you functional.
With mixed results, admittedly." She sighs, and for the first time, I notice how tired she looks.
"The drinking, the partying, the complete lack of direction—did you think I enjoy constantly pulling you back from the edge? "
"I thought you enjoyed controlling me."
"I enjoyed knowing you were alive at the end of each day."
We sit in silence for a moment.
"I insisted on the registration because I thought it might give you stability," she continues. “Perhaps I miscalculated."
"You think?"
"Don't be sarcastic. It doesn't suit you." She straightens her jacket.
"I’ve already lost my husband and my whiskey. Don’t take sarcasm away from me.”
She laughs. “Fine. Tell you what. As long as you stay off the booze, I’ll loosen my grip. You think you’re ready for that?”
"No. But I'm thirty-four years old. If I'm not ready now, when will I be?"
She studies me for a long moment. "You're serious about the sobriety?"
"Yes."
“Good.” She stands abruptly. "The press will probably ambush you within the next few hours.
Have a statement ready. Something dignified.
Don't mention the religious differences.
It'll make you look intolerant. Don't mention children. It’ll make you look callous.
Keep it simple. Irreconcilable differences, mutual respect, request for privacy. "
"Diana—"
"And for God's sake, shower first. You smell like a boxing ring."
She starts to leave, then pauses. "Your mother would be proud."
After she leaves, I sit in the too-expensive chair for a moment, processing, then I return to the gym floor, where Ricky's still at the speed bag. His rhythm is perfect, the sound like a metronome.
"Survived?" he asks without breaking pace.
"Surprisingly, yes. No threats of disinheritance or ruin."
"Damn. I had money on her making you cry. "You okay?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Eventually."
We work out for another hour, moving through stations. The physical pain is clean, straightforward. Nothing like the mess in my head.
"You should call him," Ricky says as we're cooling down, stretching against the mirrors.
"Who?"
"Don't play dumb. Jonah. The man you married."
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Jonah may some weird ideas about alpha omega relationships but he’s a good kid. He deserves to escape from me.
He’s also sharp. I know he said he doesn’t believe in divorce but maybe he just needs time to accept the idea.
The thought of him with another alpha makes me want to go back to the punching bag, but that is what he needs. Some nice traditional alpha who is going to give him the nice happy family that he wants.
I shower slowly, the water hot enough to hurt.
When I exit through the main entrance instead of the private garage, the reporters are already waiting. Five of them, maybe six. They surge forward, voices overlapping.
"Alex! Is it true you've separated already?"
"Where is Jonah?"
"Are you getting divorced?"
I stop, let them settle. The old Alex would have ducked into a car, let Diana handle it later. But I'm trying to be different. I’m trying to be someone who faces things.
"Jonah and I have separated," I say clearly. "We're taking time apart to evaluate our relationship and what's best for both of us."
"Who left who?"
"He left me. My lifestyle is not compatible with his values and I understand that.”
"Does that mean you’re seeing someone else?"
"No."
"Is he?"
"I wouldn't know, but I doubt it. Jonah takes marriage very seriously."
"More seriously than you?"
"Definitely more seriously than me."
"Do you think you'll reconcile?"
I think about lying, but what would be the point? "It’s unlikely. We’re very different people, but I wish him well. He’s a good man with a strong moral compass. He deserves a lot of happiness."
I push through them after that, ignoring follow-up questions. My car is waiting. I've been driving myself lately, another small change. The reporters snap photos as I pull away.
My phone buzzes with a text from Diana: Nicely done.
Another from Ricky: Proud of you, asshole.
Six days sober. One week since he left. Thirty-four years old and finally, maybe, starting to grow up. All I can do now is keep off the alcohol one day at a time and maybe I’ll get a life that’s more than going viral because I’ve done something stupid yet again.