Chapter 3 War at the Gym

Nessa POV

The double doors swung open, and cold air laced with chalk and sweat hit me.

Brennan was already under the high ceiling, finishing a heavy set of deadlifts. The bar slammed against the platform hard enough to make the floor vibrate. He didn’t look surprised to see me. He just racked the weight, grabbed a towel, and wiped his face.

“You’re on time,” he said. “Miracle.”

“I don’t need your approval.”

“Good. You’re not getting it.” He tossed the towel aside and walked toward me. “Boot stays on. Crutches against the wall. Today we find out how much your left side can actually carry.”

I set the crutches down carefully. My ankle still throbbed under the compression, but I kept my face blank.

I had trained through pain before, but never quite like this.

He didn’t touch me. He didn’t need to. He simply pointed at the mat.

“Single-leg work. Left side only. If you fall, you start over. If you complain, you start over. If you look at the clock, you start over.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m doing my job.” His gray eyes stayed flat. “Your father spent years making sure people like me stayed broken. I’m just returning the favor—professionally.”

Anger flared hot in my chest. “I’m not him.”

“Prove it.”

The next forty minutes felt like war.

He took every easy option away, forcing me through core holds with my injured leg elevated, heavy rope that made my shoulders scream, and controlled single-leg balances that set my left thigh on fire. Sweat ran down my neck and soaked my tank, while loose strands of hair stuck to my face. Every muscle burned, but I kept going. I would not let him see me quit.

Whenever I slowed, his voice cut through the gym.

“Faster, Calder. Your competition isn’t resting.”

“I’m not stopping.”

“Your arms are shaking. Want to quit? Just say the word, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“In your dreams.”

When the last set ended, I dropped onto my back, chest heaving, dark spots dancing behind my eyes. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Brennan stepped onto the mat and looked down at me.

“Not bad. You didn’t throw up.”

“That’s your compliment?”

“Just an observation.” He dropped to one knee beside my injured leg. “Now I need to check the ankle.”

My stomach tightened. “Don’t.”

“Hold still.”

He unstrapped the top of the boot, and cold air rushed over my swollen skin. I flinched, but he didn’t pull away. His rough, calloused hand slipped carefully beneath the edge of my sock, his fingers resting just above the joint as a sharp jolt shot up my leg, and not entirely from the pain.

He went still, his thumb resting lightly against the pulse point inside my ankle.

My heart was beating hard enough for him to feel it.

Neither of us spoke. The gym noise faded.

“Your pulse is racing,” he said, voice low.

“Because you’re touching an injured joint.”

His eyes lifted to mine. For a moment the anger was gone, replaced by something heavier and far more dangerous. His thumb brushed once, almost absent, over my skin.

I should have pulled away.

I didn’t.

The air between us tightened. I could feel the heat of his hand, the rough calluses, the controlled strength he wasn’t using. My breath caught.

Then he withdrew his hand and refastened the boot with clean, efficient movements, as if the last few seconds hadn’t happened.

“We’re done for today.”

My phone rang on the bench before I could answer.

Victor’s voice came through cold and precise.

“You have ten minutes to walk out of that gym. I already spoke to the board. If you stay, I pull every sponsorship by midnight. Do you understand me?”

I looked straight at Brennan while I answered.

“I’m not leaving.”

Silence on the other end. Then, quieter: “You’re making a mistake, Nessa.”

I ended the call.

Brennan watched me, expression unreadable.

“He’s escalating,” I said.

“Let him.” He handed me the crutches. “Same time tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

I left with my ankle throbbing and my mind louder than the pain. I had not quit. But the way his hand had felt on my skin stayed with me.

And so did the certainty in his voice from the day before: that Victor had paid for the report that ruined him.

That night I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the blue folder. Brennan’s cold gray eyes stared back.

Go look in your father’s private office, he had said. Ask him why page three of my case file is sitting in his personal safe.

I reached for the spare key I had taken from my father’s desk months ago and never returned.

If Brennan Kessler was lying, I would prove it.

If he wasn’t…

I slipped the key into my pocket and limped toward the door.

Someone had already started erasing the truth.

I was going to find whatever was left of it—before they finished the job.