The gym was old, grimy, and loud.
Just like Becky Blaze liked it.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead like they were surviving on spite. The walls were faded brick, coated in the kind of sweat and stories you couldn't wash off. Punching bags lined one wall like a row of soldiers—stitched, taped, and scarred from years of use. The air smelled of effort: rubber soles, worn-out leather, sour sweat, and determination.
Becky cracked her neck as she stepped into the ring, the ropes creaking under her weight. She threw three sharp jabs into the air, fast and focused. Her sneakers squeaked on the mat, her breath steady.
It had been nearly twenty-four hours since the storm.
But her brain hadn't stopped storming since.
She hadn't even told anyone about the car incident. Not because it didn't matter. Because it did.
The image was seared into her mind—him, sitting there, all posture and power, staring at her like he was untouchable.
Becky wiped sweat from her brow and threw another series of punches at the air, this time harder, angrier. Her muscles ached with the kind of tension that didn't come from working out. It came from being ignored. From being stepped on. From being dismissed by someone who didn't even blink.
She hated that she remembered his face so clearly.
That damn jawline.
That tailored suit.
That empty expression, like her rage had been background noise to his day.
Her fist slammed into the air with a grunt.
He hadn't even flinched.
The man had looked through her like she wasn't real. And yet here she was, still seething. Still stewing in something she didn't want to name.
The gym door creaked.
"Becky!"
She turned, pulling her glove off with her teeth.
Jamie, one of the regulars, waved from the ropes. He was young—maybe nineteen—and cocky as hell. His hoodie was soaked through with sweat, and his knuckles were already starting to split.
"Wrap up and get in here," she barked. "You're late."
"You love me!" he called, grinning.
"Not if you keep your guard that sloppy."
He laughed, bounding into the ring like a golden retriever in sneakers.
Becky didn't laugh.
She tied her gloves tighter.
And then she gave Jamie hell.
Not out of cruelty—out of discipline. Becky believed in pressure. In forging people the way she'd forged herself: through fire. Every punch she threw was clean, efficient, brutal. Jamie tried to keep up, but the moment he dropped his guard, she swept his legs out from under him and sent him sprawling.
"Again," she ordered.
He groaned but obeyed.
By the time she was done with him, his breathing was ragged and his arms hung limp like noodles. She tossed him a protein bar without comment and stepped out of the ring.
The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of noise and movement. She trained two kids from the after-school program, cleaned up a busted locker, argued with the owner about replacing the broken showerhead, and even helped patch a ripped punching bag with duct tape.
She liked days like this. Days where everything made sense. Where her hands did the talking and her fists were the answer.
Where people respected her not because of her name, but because she'd earned it.
Becky Blaze wasn't anyone's charity case.
She didn't need help.
She didn't need saving.
She didn't need… him.
But no matter how many times she told herself that, he still haunted her thoughts.
That stupid car.
That soaked hoodie clinging to her ribs.
The way he just sat there like nothing mattered.
She slammed her locker shut harder than she meant to.
The clang echoed through the hallway like a gunshot.
Becky leaned her head against the cold metal and exhaled.
Maybe she was overreacting.
Maybe it was just a moment, just a flash of disrespect from some rich asshole who'd already forgotten her name.
But something about it…
Something about him…
It lingered.
Across Town – Dante Marcono's Office
The Marcono building towered above the rest of the block like it knew it didn't belong here. All black glass, steel accents, and quiet security guards in sharp suits. Inside, the hallways were silent and sleek—too polished, too controlled.
Just the way Dante liked it.
He stood behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, watching the rain through the floor-to-ceiling window. It was drizzling again—light this time, like the storm had tired itself out.
But he hadn't.
He hadn't stopped thinking about her.
Not once.
"Her name is Becky Blaze," his assistant said behind him, setting a thin manila folder on the desk.
He didn't turn around.
"I know."
The moment she'd walked away from his car, soaked and fuming, he'd memorized her. Traffic cams had helped confirm the details. Her gym, her name, her job.
He hadn't needed the file. He'd already done the work.
Still, his fingers twitched slightly when he finally picked it up.
The file was slim. She had no criminal record. Worked six days a week. Ran boxing classes for kids. Lived in a shitty apartment on 48th. Paid rent on time. No close family listed.
Independent.
Resilient.
Angry.
He flipped the folder shut.
"Book me a training slot with her."
His assistant blinked. "Sir, with respect—she doesn't offer… premium services. She teaches kids. Local amateurs. You wouldn't fit the—"
"Offer her triple."
The assistant hesitated. "And if she says no?"
Dante finally turned.
His eyes were sharp, unreadable.
"She won't."
There was something in the way she'd grabbed his collar—no hesitation, no filter. Like she hadn't even considered what he could do to her.
That wasn't stupidity.
That was control.
Fire.
Becky Blaze had a name that sounded like legend. But it wasn't her name that intrigued him.
It was the fact that she didn't care who he was.
She'd looked him dead in the face and yanked him down to her level.
And something about that…
He didn't know if he wanted to punish it.
Or relive it.
That Evening – Becky's Gym
She was mopping the mat when the door opened.
It was late—most of the regulars had cleared out. Only a few diehards lingered, taping their wrists or chatting by the vending machine.
Becky didn't look up at first.
"Sorry, we're about to close," she called out, dunking the mop back into the bucket.
"I'm here to train," a voice said.
She froze.
That voice.
Low, smooth, too careful.
She turned.
And there he was.
Dante Marcono stood in the doorway like the storm had followed him in. Black coat, black gloves, black stare. His hair was still perfect. His suit even sharper than the last one.
Her stomach twisted, but she kept her face stone still.
"You lost, billboard?" she asked, leaning on the mop.
He stepped inside. "I'd like a training session."
She blinked. "You serious?"
"I don't joke."
She looked him up and down. "You look like you bench contract clauses, not dumbbells."
He smiled slightly. "Then you'll make me work."
Becky crossed her arms. "We don't do private sessions here. Especially not for… whatever rich playboys drop in from Mars."
He stepped forward. "I'm offering triple your rate."
"Still no."
"Why?"
She tilted her head. "Because you don't want to train. You want to test me. And I'm not a goddamn lab rat."
There was a pause.
He stared at her. She stared right back.
"I liked your punch," he said finally.
She raised an eyebrow.
He continued. "Not the force. The fact that you didn't hesitate."
"I wasn't trying to impress you."
"That's why it impressed me."
Something flickered in his eyes—curiosity, heat, challenge.
She hated that she noticed.
Becky tossed the mop into the bucket and stepped closer, voice low.
"You don't get to walk into my world like it's a game. You don't get to offer money like it's a solution."
"I wasn't offering a solution. I was offering time."
She squinted. "What's your angle?"
He took one more step.
"No angle. Just balance."
That word.
It struck something deep.
She hated that it made sense.
He turned, just as calm as he came in.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "Six AM."
"Don't bother," she called.
But he was already gone.
Outside, the rain had stopped. But Becky's storm hadn't.
She stared at the door for a long moment.
Then whispered to herself—
"…what the hell is wrong with him?"
She didn't have an answer.
But she had a feeling she was going to find out.
The hard way.