The final bell rang across Bridge Academy like a signal flare.
Students flooded the halls in waves of sound and movement, conversations overlapping, lockers slamming, the rhythm of privilege and youth in motion.
Adrian Vale walked through it untouched.
He didn't rush. Didn't slow. His presence carved a path without effort. Word had already spread about practice. About the coming tournament. About the way he had dismantled the team in drills that morning.
Captain.
Heir.
Untouchable.
He reached the front courtyard just as a sleek silver Rolls-Royce Phantom rolled to a stop near the entrance.
Heads turned again.
But this time, not because of him.
The rear door opened.
And she stepped out.
Red hair like controlled fire. Not loud — refined. Her posture was straight, elegant, almost regal. Sharp features softened by a calm, unreadable smile.
Siara Ashford.
Heir to the Ashford Consortium.
Real estate. Biotech. Philanthropy. International commerce. Banking.
Second only to the Vale empire — and sometimes whispered to be catching up.
If the Vales ruled New York's legacy, the Ashfords ruled its future.
Students parted instinctively.
Not out of fear.
But respect.
Divine was the word people often used for Siara. Not because she was loud, but because she never seemed hurried. Never flustered. Never beneath her status.
Her eyes scanned the courtyard.
And found him immediately.
Adrian did not change expression.
She approached without hesitation.
"Adrian."
Her voice was smooth. Familiar.
He stopped walking.
For a moment, the world around them blurred into background noise.
"Siara."
No warmth. No hostility.
Just acknowledgment.
They had known each other since childhood.
Shared events. Galas. Private academies. Tutors flown in from Europe. Fencing lessons. Etiquette training.
And middle school.
Where she had once been his girlfriend.
A controlled, politically convenient relationship that somehow felt real at the time.
Until his mother died.
Until he changed.
"You look thinner," she said lightly.
"You look the same," he replied.
A faint smile touched her lips. "That wasn't a compliment."
"It wasn't meant to be."
She studied him carefully.
There it was.
The difference.
Before, Adrian's eyes had held calculation — but also light.
Now they were emerald glass.
Cold.
Her chauffeur stepped closer. "Miss Ashford, we should depart."
She waved him off without looking.
"I'm not taking the Phantom," she said calmly. "Adrian's driving me."
The courtyard grew quieter.
Her driver blinked. "Miss, your father—"
"Will not object," she said smoothly. "Go ahead."
The chauffeur hesitated, then stepped back. Two discreet bodyguards positioned themselves at a distance.
Siara turned back to Adrian.
"Well?"
Adrian stared at her for a moment.
He didn't want to do this.
But the Vale-Ashford relationship was not something he could casually disrespect.
Business between their families ran deeper than schoolyard discomfort.
"Get in," he said finally.
Her lips curved faintly — not victory, but satisfaction.
The Lamborghini roared to life moments later.
Students watched as the two heirs of New York's most powerful dynasties sped out of Bridge Academy together.
Speculation would last for weeks.
The city blurred past in streaks of steel and sunlight.
Siara crossed her legs elegantly in the passenger seat, one hand resting lightly against the door.
"You've been avoiding me," she said.
"I've been busy."
"With what?"
"Living."
She glanced at him.
He didn't look at her once.
The engine's hum filled the silence between them.
"You changed," she said after a moment. "After your mother."
His grip on the wheel tightened imperceptibly.
"People do."
"You erased yourself," she corrected gently.
No response.
She studied his profile. The sharp jawline. The controlled breathing. The way even at 6'2", he seemed coiled rather than relaxed.
"I tried calling," she continued. "You stopped answering."
"I had nothing to say."
"That's a lie."
He switched lanes smoothly.
"Take me to your warehouse," she said suddenly.
The car screeched.
Adrian slammed the brakes instinctively. Tires shrieked against asphalt. A truck behind them honked violently.
Both seatbelts locked tight across their chests.
For the first time, Adrian turned to fully look at her.
The air in the car felt charged.
"How do you know about that?" he asked quietly.
Siara didn't flinch. "You think you're the only one with security cameras and quiet investments?"
He held her gaze for a long moment.
Then—
Without another word—
He shifted into reverse, spun the wheel, and accelerated toward the port district.
The city's polished towers gave way to steel containers and cranes towering over the docks.
The Lamborghini's roar echoed against industrial walls as Adrian navigated through rows of massive warehouses.
He stopped in front of one near the edge of the water.
It looked abandoned.
Ordinary.
Unremarkable.
He stepped out without explanation.
Siara followed.
At the metal door, Adrian leaned forward.
A soft beam scanned his retina.
Click.
The heavy doors slid open.
Lights flickered on.
Siara stepped inside —
—and paused.
This was no warehouse.
A boxing ring stood in the center like a throne.
Gym equipment lined one corner — weights organized with surgical precision.
A snack and drink station near the wall.
A bed in the far corner.
Massive 100-inch screens mounted across different sections, each connected to high-performance CPUs humming quietly — the kind used by elite cybersecurity firms.
Surveillance feeds of the city flickered across one display.
This wasn't a hideout.
It was command.
His space.
His domain.
"The Warehouse," she said softly.
"Sit," Adrian told her.
She didn't move.
She had pride too.
He ignored her refusal.
He removed his suit jacket, draped it over a rack, loosened his tie, then changed into training clothes with efficient movements.
Within minutes, he stood before the heavy punching bag.
Gloves on.
Tape tight.
He began striking.
Precise.
Measured.
Each punch deliberate.
The sound echoed through the vast interior.
Siara stepped closer.
"Can we talk, Adrian?" she asked. "I didn't come to watch you train."
Punch.
Punch.
Punch.
No response.
She tried again.
"You don't have to isolate yourself like this."
Punch.
"You think you're protecting yourself."
Punch.
"You're not."
The bag swung.
Harder.
"Adrian—"
He struck with more force.
"You think shutting everyone out makes you strong?"
Silence.
She exhaled sharply.
"She's gone," Siara snapped suddenly. "She won't come back."
The room seemed to tighten.
"She must be sick just looking at how depressed and cold you've become."
The punch stopped mid-motion.
The bag swayed gently.
Adrian turned his head slowly.
His eyes were not angry.
Not explosive.
They were clinical.
"Get the fuck out," he said quietly.
The air shifted.
"Now."
No shouting.
No raised voice.
Just command.
"Before I forget my manners."
Siara's jaw tightened.
For a second, pride warred with something softer in her expression.
"I was trying to help you," she said.
"You weren't," he replied.
Silence stretched between them.
She turned toward the exit.
The warehouse door opened before she reached it.
Outside, her chauffeur and bodyguards were already waiting.
As if they had known.
As if they had never expected Adrian Vale to return their princess personally.
She paused at the threshold.
"Grief doesn't disappear just because you bury it," she said without looking back.
Then she left.
The door shut.
The echo lingered.
Adrian didn't watch her go.
He faced the punching bag again.
And struck.
Harder.
Faster.
More precise.
Each blow reverberated through the space.
Sweat formed along his jawline.
His breathing remained controlled.
He had long destroyed his emotions.
No one would make him feel anything again.
Punch.
Punch.
Punch—
The bag jerked violently.
Then—
It hung.
Mid-air.
Not swaying.
Not falling.
Just suspended.
For one second too long.
The chain above it did not move.
The air around him felt dense.
Watching.
That sensation again.
Stronger now.
Not imagination.
Not coincidence.
Adrian stepped back slowly.
The bag dropped.
Swinging naturally.
As if nothing had happened.
His pulse remained steady.
But something in the warehouse felt… aware.
And for the briefest moment—
He was certain.
Someone, somewhere—
Was looking back.