Gabrielle Serenity had the kind of presence people expected from the heiress of Serenity Resorts—calm, controlled, not easily rattled, and never sloppy. But anyone who’d seen her with Dimitri knew that calm didn’t mean quiet. Their relationship was loud. They argued constantly, over small things, big things, things that didn’t matter, and things that mattered too much. It wasn’t dramatic; it was just how they were. They pushed each other, matched each other, and neither one backed down. Everyone around them learned to ignore it. Gabrielle didn’t take his temper personally, and Dimitri didn’t take hers as disrespect. It was just their normal.

Dimitri’s life had started very differently from hers. He grew up broke, in neighborhoods where everyone was one mistake away from something worse. He sold things he wasn’t supposed to, fell in with the wrong people as a teenager, and spent most of his time fighting in alleys, basements, and illegal rings long before anyone paid him for it. Even now, with money, fame, and a team behind him, he still joined underground fights in his free time. He said it kept him sharp. Most people didn’t know his other habit—the one thing he never talked about. Since he was young, he believed he won matches only if he had sex the night before. A few exes figured it out, and Gabrielle knew it without him needing to explain anything. It wasn’t something she mocked. It wasn’t something he bragged about. It was just his superstition, and it followed him into every fight of his career.

At the team dinner earlier that evening, the coach had gathered all the fighters and their partners at a restaurant. The men sat together at one table, eating and talking around Dimitri’s usual silence. Gabrielle sat with the girlfriends and wives. They weren’t overly excited, dramatic, or giggly. They talked normally, asked questions out of curiosity, not judgment. They wanted to understand what being with someone like Dimitri was like. They asked how she handled him when he got irritated, whether he ever calmed down at home, whether certain pre-match routines were true. Gabrielle didn’t answer with long stories or emotional explanations. She just listened, responded simply, and let the conversation move. It wasn’t a tense atmosphere. It was normal, quiet, and straightforward—just a group of women trying to understand the man who never cracked a smile, never joked, and looked permanently seconds away from losing patience.

Later that night, the penthouse was quiet in the way it always was before one of his matches. The city lights hit the windows, the air warm from the heating, and everything in their bedroom was neatly in place. Gabrielle sat on the California king bed, brushing through her long hair with the same steady rhythm she used every night. She always dressed nicely before bed, not for dramatic effect, not to impress anyone, but because she genuinely liked the routine. Soft fabrics, coordinated sets, silk robes, warm lotion, light perfume—she enjoyed being pretty at night, not for him, not for anyone else, but because it made her feel calm and put together. It was her habit, the same way people had preferred pajamas or oversized shirts. Hers just happened to be silk and lace.

The robe she wore fell loosely around her, the lace set underneath barely noticeable unless she moved. Her slippers were somewhere near the end of the bed, pushed off without thought when she sat down. The Dyson attachments she used earlier were lined neatly beside her,the candle on the nightstand still burning lightly, and the warm scent from her perfume settled into the sheets. Nothing about it was theatrical. It was just her space, her routine, and her preference for ending the night looking like she cared about herself.

She wasn’t nervous about the fight, and she wasn’t nervous about him. Gabrielle didn’t get intimidated. If Dimitri ever crossed a line, she would handle it directly. She had no problem checking him when she needed to. The sound of the shower running behind the closed bathroom door didn’t change her pace or mood.