Chapter 33 The Kingdom （Eden）
THE KINGDOM (EDEN)
Ilook around my little kingdom and breathe in eucalyptus and fresh paint. The good kind of new. The kind that says, “You did this with your own two hands.”
The last month has been a sprint—permits, paint, deliveries, midnight edits to the website, intake forms written and rewritten, insurance calls, a fire inspection that ate my lunch break. Somehow, it all landed here.
Blue tape marks zones across the floor: intake, movement, treatment.
I peel each strip away, rolling them into a sticky ball, claiming my space.
Shelves line the wall with labeled bins that satisfy my need for order: cups, floss bands, tape, wipes.
The washer hums in the closet, swallowing the last load of linens.
The mini-fridge ticks once and settles. The diffuser hums softly.
I swipe my palm across the treatment table, checking for wobble.
It’s solid, set to my height, not a hypothetical body.
Another treatment room waits down the hall.
Carts are stocked, shelves labeled, calendars built.
Tomorrow the massage therapist starts, and this place stops being an idea and becomes real.
Liz breezes in from the hallway with her tote and a roll of painter’s tape she refuses to surrender. “Front table needs to move a quarter-inch to the left,” she declares, already nudging it. “Greeting flow matters.”
Lukas is behind her with the iPad and a portable card reader. “Your kingdom awaits, Your Majesty. Let’s make sure it takes tribute.”
He perches at the desk and blitzes through his checklist. “Bookings work, confirmations read clean, directions are crystal. Basically flawless—just like you, gorgeous.”
Liz rolls her eyes and fans the stack of consent forms so the corners align. “Pens where humans actually reach them.” She moves the cup three inches. “There.”
I straighten a frame on the wall—THE CARVER METHOD in crisp sans serif—and breathe. “Tell me we’re not missing anything.”
“Trash liners in place, QR code in plain sight, Wi-Fi password posted but not screaming from the rooftops,” Lukas rattles off, ticking his list. He shoots me a grin. “Cancellation policy reads firm but kind. Basically, you in legal form.”
Liz studies me over the stack of consent forms. “You slept?”
“Some.”
“Translation: not at all.” She squeezes my arm. “Tomorrow, you’ll be brilliant.”
My phone chimes on the desk, Nate’s name lighting up the screen.
Nate
Missed you on the bench tonight. You’re my good luck charm, Trouble.
Wheels up after the horn. Late at Teterboro, then practice in the morning.
I’ll swing by tomorrow afternoon. Wouldn’t miss your big night.
Have the best first day. You earned it.
Warmth rushes through me so fast, I have to sit down. I type back:
Eden
Win your game, Magic Man. I’ll save you more than a dance.
Liz’s gasp slices through the quiet clinic. “Jesus. You must be Eden’s brother.”
Leo fills the doorway, bruised knuckles, split lip, a rib-shot stare. His attention flicks to her, one brow ticking up, equal parts challenge and curiosity.
Liz steps in before she can stop herself, hand lifting. “Did anyone even check this?”
His gaze tracks her fingers, locked on the slow rise toward his face. He doesn’t move when she hovers just shy of his skin and skims the purple bruise.
Then his hand closes around her wrist, steady and controlled. A crooked smile cuts across his split lip. “What’s your verdict, Doc?”
Liz meets his eyes, unflinching. “That it hurts more than you’ll admit. And that you’re rocking the look.”
The smile deepens; heat sparks at the edges. “Smart girl.” He releases her slowly, thumb grazing once.
She leans closer, daring. “The photos do you justice.”
“They do?” His voice drops into a low rasp.
“Though you’re…” Her gaze skims his shoulders, his chest, the shadow of his jaw. A slow smile curves her mouth. “Bigger than I imagined.”
His eyes catch and hold. For a beat, the air tilts between them, thick and sparking. Only then does his attention shift, roughened but familiar. “Lukas.” They knock fists in a practiced bump. “Good to see you, man.”
And finally, his gaze cuts to me. “Place looks good, E.” He gives the room a slow once-over. “Didn’t think you’d pull it together this fast.”
I give him a quick tour, pointing down the hall. “Intake here, treatment rooms there. Gym here. Massage therapist starts tomorrow.”
Leo grunts, skeptical but impressed. “Looks…professional. Almost too professional for you.”
“I’ll keep the chaos alive,” I say. “Calendar’s already full. If you want a slot, I might give you the big-brother rate. Be nice.”
He laughs, muttering about little sisters who forget their place, affection threading through the bite. A beat later, he’s herding Lukas toward the door and throws Liz one last look. “Come on, I’ll drive you downtown before I head back to Brooklyn.”
Lukas waves, all mock sorrow. “Another night I go home unloved.”
The door closes behind them.
Liz slips her tote over her shoulder, then pivots back, eyes blazing. “Two things. One—congrats, boss, the place slaps. Two—your brother is next-level hot.”
I kill the front lights and fix her with a look. “Yep, he’s…a lot.”
Her grin goes feral. “A lot is exactly my dosage.”
“I’m serious.” I hook an arm through hers and steer us toward the exit. “He’s a player. Hall-of-Fame. He’ll put your body in a good mood and keep moving.”
“Duly noted,” she says, warm and wicked. “I’m not shopping for forever. If I ever go there, it’ll be for sport—eyes open.”
“Good.” I squeeze her arm. “Good time. Eyes open.”
She tips her chin. “Copy that. Now give me grand-opening details. I’m drafting your launch post, and I want it thirsty.”
“Deal,” I say, locking up. “And we’re not discussing my brother’s jawline again. Or any other parts of his…anatomy. Clear?”
“Fine,” she says, smug. “We’ll call it his bone structure if it comes to that.”
I roll my eyes and groan; she smirks. We head up York Avenue, our building only a few blocks away. Winter air bites at my cheeks, but for the first time in weeks, I let myself exhale. The clinic is ready. The calendar is booked. Tomorrow, it’s real.
My phone chimes again. I expect Nate. It’s a DM from a fan account I don’t follow.
The preview freezes on a candlelit table. Montreal. Me. Him. I tap.
The video rolls from a few tables back, phone zoom fighting the light.
Nate scrapes his chair closer, spoon lifted to my mouth.
The audio is tinny but clear enough to catch his voice: “Open up.” My lips part.
He feeds me a slow bite and watches me swallow.
A drip of espresso trails at the corner of my mouth.
His thumb wipes it away. He leans in and kisses the spot he just cleaned.
The clip cuts to a second angle from the bar. My wrists are out of frame, but you can see the shape of his other hand—steady, holding me still. The account slaps text across the screen: RUSSO’S PT…OR HIS GIRLFRIEND? Hashtags stack: #Montreal #Defenders #Russo #PT.
Comments scroll under it in a rush:
That’s not “hip mobility,” besties.
Tell me again how this is professional.
She’s stunning but…boundaries?
They’re together. Case closed.
I stop dead on the sidewalk. That’s me. My face open, my body leaning into him, every line broadcasting anything but distance. Every worst fear I’ve had about lines and optics is right there in HD.
Liz glances over, but I can’t move, can’t breathe.
The foundation I’ve built is cracking. The high of the day vanishes, replaced by ice in my veins that has nothing to do with the wind.
Another notification pings, then another—likes, reposts, comments piling in.
A new email flashes across the top of my screen.
Subject: Appointment Cancellation.
The text stares back at me. My first official client, gone before I’ve even opened my doors.
More notifications stack so fast I can’t keep up. Screenshots, reposts, captions with my name in them. Conflict of interest? Russo’s secret weapon? Unethical much?
I scroll too fast, catch one that makes my stomach lurch:
She’s not a PT, she’s a perk.
My phone rings, vibrating hot in my hand. Nate. His name fills the screen. For a second, I almost answer, craving his voice, his steadiness. Then I see the video thumbnail glowing behind the call banner, comments still climbing, and shame spikes hotter than the cold air on my cheeks.
I let it ring.
The call cuts off. Silence. Then my phone lights again.
Nate
Pick up, Trouble.
It rings once more. I don’t move. Another text follows.
Nate
We’re flying home after the game. I’ll be there tomorrow.
My throat closes. A new email pings. Another cancellation. My first week, unraveling before it starts.
Every instinct screams to let him fix it, to let him hold me steady. But this time, I might be the problem he can’t solve.
I shove the phone deep into my bag, muffling the vibration, silencing him, silencing the world.
Tomorrow is opening day. And it feels like walking into a storm.