Dawn had only just begun to break over New York when Sloane Quinn's eyes flew open. The alarm was still hours away, but her mind refused to drift back into the peaceful embrace of sleep. The unfamiliar bed pressed against her back with foreign weight, and her thoughts were already racing: the first day, the first training, Lennox Graves, Marcus, the tour.
She carefully slipped out from under the blanket and glided silently across the wooden floor, barefoot. For a moment, she stopped in front of the window. The lights above the graying horizon shimmered faintly, like a held breath. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the cool city morning. Then she turned and rolled out the yoga mat she had prepared the night before beside the mattress.
Her body knew exactly what to do. She began stretching with slow, focused movements. Her ankle, thighs, hips, and back all followed a practiced sequence. It wasn't flashy or particularly strenuous—but it was vital. If she didn't loosen herself every morning, the pain living in her body would eventually betray her again. And she couldn't let Lennox Graves see that. Not him. Not anyone.
The movements were slow, precise. The muscle above her left ankle always stretched a bit more tightly than the right—an invisible scar from the past. Sloane's face gave nothing away, but she felt the pain in every pull. She knew it well. It didn't scare her anymore. She had learned to live with it—quietly, stubbornly, without anyone noticing. After fifteen minutes, she stood, shook out her arms, rubbed her thighs, and headed to the bathroom. The next part of her morning routine: the shower.
The bathroom was sleek and modern—metallic edges, marble tiles, scented air. She adjusted the water temperature and slipped off her pajama top. Her reflection met her in the mirror: sculpted, toned lines, strong abs, and a barely visible scar near her ankle. She had once been thinner. Now every muscle spoke of control—and of battles fought and won. She stepped into the shower, and the hot water immediately began to wash away the tension. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the steam fill her lungs, allowing her muscles to soften. Her skin flushed pink in the warmth, and life returned to her features.
A flash of Lennox came to mind. Those ice-blue eyes. His voice, dripping with contempt: "Ballerina." The steam didn't wash away the sting of his words. They had sunk deeper than she wanted to admit. Sloane shut her eyes tighter, letting the thoughts slip away.
"Your body isn't what it used to be—but it's still yours. Every morning, you reclaim it."
That's what one of her old instructors told her after surgery, when she had to learn to walk again over the course of months. Since then, every morning had been a new chance. A new fight. Not against pain—but against the shame that came with loss.
The water ran quietly over her. Time passed slowly, but she didn't rush. This was her time—before Lennox Graves. Before she had to raise her defenses again against his words and gaze.
Finally, she turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and reached for a towel. With a single motion, she wrapped herself up, then glanced at her foggy reflection in the mirror.
Today wouldn't be easy. But Sloane Quinn never chose the easy path.
And if Lennox Graves thought he could tear her down with words—he'd misjudged his opponent. The battle started today.
The red digits of the digital clock had just turned to six when Lennox opened his eyes. Not surprising—he'd been awake for half an hour already, unmoving. Lying in bed, he listened to the silence, broken only by his own breathing. The night still pulsed in his body. He'd hit the bag until his skin split. The bandage on his left hand throbbed slightly, but he ignored it. He wasn't here to be coddled.
Ten minutes later, he was pacing the gym floor, gloves strapped on. He didn't wait for anyone. He never did. His rule: if you want something, show up on time. If not... best stay out of his way. 6:58 a.m. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. He didn't turn. He stepped up to the punching bag and landed two quick hits with casual precision, followed by a three-punch combo. His strikes were controlled, accurate—and simmering with fury.
Then a voice came from behind. Calm. Firm.
"Stop."
Lennox slowly turned. Dr. Sloane Quinn stood there in a black sports top, a medical bag on one arm, tablet in the other.
"What did you say?" he asked quietly, but his voice already carried that mocking threat.
"I said stop. You're not training yet."
"I already started," Lennox muttered, clenching his gloves. "And if you don't mind, I control my body—not you."
Sloane stepped forward calmly and answered:
"Your body is currently sleep-deprived, your glucose levels are too low, there's inflammation under your bandage, and if you keep pounding the bag for twenty more minutes, you'll either pass out or injure yourself. So no. No ring. Breakfast first. Then exertion. This isn't a debate."
Lennox stared at her for a long moment. His ice-blue eyes practically burned, but he didn't move. She didn't back down. Didn't yield. And the worst part was... she was right.
"What the hell are you, my mother?"
"Your mother probably didn't know how to stabilize your blood sugar or manage your morning cortisol spike," she replied dryly. "But I do. So go shower. I'll be in the kitchen in twenty minutes. Oats, banana, eggs, protein. Then you can take another swing at the day."
Lennox grinned—but not the friendly kind. More like an animal baring its teeth before deciding whether to pounce.
"And if I don't show?"
Sloane stood still for a moment, then slowly closed her tablet.
"Then I log in my report that the athlete violated medical instructions, endangered his own health, and is unfit to participate in the tour. Your contract is clear: you only get in the ring with medical clearance. Your choice."
The silence was sharp as a blade. Lennox looked back at the bag, still swaying gently from his punches. His hand clenched again. Then, slowly, he unstrapped his gloves, tossed them onto a bench, and headed for the showers.
"And don't microwave the damn banana," he growled over his shoulder.
Sloane gave the faintest nod. And as he disappeared down the hall, she scribbled a new line into her notes:
"First victory: no punches, no curses, no blackout. Just... walked away. That's something."
After Lennox disappeared down the hallway, Sloane stood motionless in the center of the gym. The gloves lay on the bench where he had tossed them—carelessly, yet with perfect aim. Every move he made was a battle. Even surrender.
She closed the tablet's case with a sigh and made her way to the kitchen. At the end of the hallway, a narrow door opened into a modern, minimal space: stainless steel, black countertops, glass shelves, and a large fridge stocked with ingredients arranged in near-military order. Marcus had done a thorough job—this kitchen wasn't meant for grilled cheese. This was a fuel lab.
Sloane tied her hair back to keep it from falling in her face and got to work without hesitation. Her movements showed this wasn't the first time she'd cooked for a professional athlete.
She pulled out three eggs, a handful of fresh baby spinach, half an avocado, and a pinch of sea salt. For the oatmeal, she chose almond milk, added a little cinnamon and finely chopped dates, then stirred in half a banana, a spoonful of peanut butter, and chia seeds. All in exact proportions—she knew exactly what Lennox's body would need to survive the morning's strain.
For the smoothie, she used a handful of blueberries, a serving of peas, Greek yogurt, and a scoop of collagen powder, all blended with protein. As the blender hummed softly, she glanced at the clock. He'd be on time. He was probably tracking it in his head even during training. Ten minutes—max.
Two slices of rye bread browned in the toaster. One got avocado mash, the other a smear of protein-rich cottage cheese with a sprinkle of chili flakes. She plated everything precisely—not too much, not too little. Functional, but still appealing.
As she placed the last item, she heard the distinct sound of the shower shutting off.
Sloane stepped back and added a glass of lemon water and a turmeric anti-inflammatory shot to the table. This wasn't breakfast. This was a battle plan. Calibrated, targeted, a nutrient-dense bomb designed to boost energy levels.
Exactly three minutes later, Lennox Graves stepped into the kitchen. His hair still damp, wearing a dark T-shirt thrown on carelessly—yet he still looked like a predator who'd accidentally wandered into civilization.
He stopped in the doorway, scanned the table, then glanced at Sloane.
"What the hell is this?"
"Breakfast," she replied dryly.
Lennox walked over, looked down at the plate, then the smoothie, then back at her.
"This is more food than I eat in a week."
"Maybe that's the problem," she said without flinching. "The portions are calculated precisely for your weight and activity level. You won't gain weight. You'll survive."
He sat down. Not politely. Not casually. Like a man who decided this was war—but would postpone the battle for now.
He reached for the oatmeal first. One spoonful. Then another. Then he paused.
"Is this... date?"
Sloane looked up from her tablet, where she was already drafting his recovery protocol.
"Yes. Natural sugar. Fast-absorbing. Otherwise you'd crash during training."
"Of course," Lennox muttered. "Natural sugar. What's next—ashwagandha and a yoga class during my match?"
Sloane looked up, her gaze unblinking.
"No. Tomorrow morning: glucose profile, followed by lactate threshold testing. Yoga only if your back can't handle the sprint pace. Let's face it, Graves... flexibility was never your strong suit."
Lennox grimaced but didn't argue. He even drank the smoothie. He paused at the turmeric shot.
"What the hell is this?"
"Anti-inflammatory. Not hell. Survival."
He stared at her for a long moment, then downed it in one gulp.
"Disgusting," he grunted.
"Effective," Sloane replied, jotting down another note. He ate. He drank. He didn't argue further. And he was still here.
That was the day's first win. He set down his spoon but didn't stand immediately. He just sat. Quietly. Arms resting on his thighs, chest rising slowly—as if still wrestling with breakfast, but not the food—with what his body was whispering to him.
He wasn't used to this feeling. His muscles weren't heavy with fatigue. His stomach didn't ache from the coffee he usually drank on an empty stomach, and his head didn't pound from skipping sleep to train. Now... something else was happening.
Energy pulsed beneath his fingertips. Not the usual erratic, explosive tension—but something more focused. Deeper. His body... was working. For real. As if, for the first time, it wasn't fighting him, but working with him.
At first, he didn't believe it. Then he felt it in his steps when he moved. Lighter. Blood flowing faster, heart steady—not driven by caffeine and rage. This was something else. Efficiency. Disciplined energy. And it pissed him off. Because Sloane was right.
She was sitting across the table, scribbling notes like nothing had happened. She didn't speak. Didn't look up. But Lennox knew she was watching. Even if her head stayed down, he could feel it—Sloane was tracking his every reaction, calculating, absorbing.
And it irritated him even more. He wouldn't say it. Not in a million years. He wouldn't give her that satisfaction. Even if she knew. Even if she planned it. No. Gratitude wasn't in his vocabulary. And he wasn't the kind of man who said thank you just because someone knew how to make his body function better.
No. His body was a battlefield. And today... it seemed ready.
Without a word, he stood. Grabbed his towel, wiped the corner of his mouth in one motion, and left the plate, the glass, the entire carefully crafted war plan behind. Like it was just another obstacle to be conquered.
He didn't look back. Didn't speak. Just walked out.
Sloane watched him disappear from the kitchen, and when the door closed behind him, she wrote just one line in her notebook:
"He didn't say it. But his body already did. The war won't be decided with words—but in that first obedience."