ing at the untouched glass of water on the table in front of me. The events of the past twenty-four hours played on a loop in my mind: Vincent's cryptic warning, the attack in the parking lo

pulled up to an old boxing gym in a less glamorous part of town, I raised an eyebrow. "A gym?" I asked, stepping out of the car and staring at the weathered sign above the entrance. "You've been through a lot," Armando said simply, leading the way inside. "It's time you learned how to protect yourself." The scent of sweat and leather filled the air as we walked in. A few people were scattered around, throwing punches at heavy bags or sparring in the ring. Armando handed me a pair of gloves and guided me to a corner of the gym where a punching bag hung from the ceiling. "Hit it," he said, his tone firm but encouraging. I stared at the bag, then back at him. "You're joking, right?" "Do I look like I'm joking?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. Reluctantly, I slipped on the gloves and squared up to the bag. My first punch was weak, barely moving the heavy bag. "Harder," Armando instructed, stepping closer. I threw another punch, this one slightly more forceful. "Think of James," he said, his voice low and deliberate. That did it. My next punch was harder, and the one after that harder still. My mind filled with images of James's betrayal, Samantha's smug face, and the fear I had felt during the attack in the parking lot. By the time I stepped back, my breath was ragged, and my hands ached. But I felt... lighter. Armando handed me a water bottle, his eyes scanning my face. "Better?" I nodded, unable to put the feeling into words. That evening, as we returned to the penthouse, a package was waiting for Armando. He opened it in the kitchen, his expression