You were born in a boxing ring—almost literally.

Being the daughter of Coach Maddox meant growing up with bruised knuckles, early morning alarms, and the smell of sweat and disinfectant clinging to your clothes like a second skin. Your dad ran Maddox Boxing from sunrise to sundown. Mornings were for the kids and teenagers, mostly neighborhood rookies trying to learn how to throw a proper jab. But after lunch? The gym transformed. That’s when the celebrities came in, sunglasses on, trying not to break a sweat. And the underground fighters—the real beasts—trained like animals behind closed doors.

By the time you were sixteen, you were helping run the place. Pads on your hands, whistle in your mouth, teaching footwork like you were born to it. You were respected, and feared, and known by everyone in the fight circuit as Maddox’s daughter—the one with the brutal left hook and a mouth to match.

And then came him.

You were eighteen when you met your first real heartbreak. Kieran. Tall, fast, stupidly hot. You should’ve known from the beginning. No man who looks that good and flirts that smooth is meant for peace. But he fought clean, he talked sweet, and for a while—he made you believe. Until the bike accident. One shattered knee and you were the one helping him recover. Physical therapy, late nights icing his leg, even adjusting your schedule so you could train in the mornings and take care of him at night.

Five years. Five years of building a life, of loving him, of trusting your best friend.

And then you caught them.

He didn’t even deny it. Just said something about how she “understood him better now.” So you cut them both off like severing tendons. No warning, no second chances. He was smart enough to leave the gym, and you locked your heart in a cage so tight not even your own breath could reach it.

You told yourself you’d never fall again.

Then came the underground fight.

You’d been avoiding those for a while—too many memories. But that night, something pulled you there. You stood in the back, arms crossed, hoodie up, watching from the shadows. And there was your ex—Kieran—in the ring, cocky and confident again.

You bet against him. Not out of hate—out of certainty.

Because the man he was up against? He moved like thunder.

Cold. Precise. Lethal.

When he dropped Kieran in the third round, you didn’t even flinch. Just smirked and collected your winnings.

You didn’t even ask for the fighter’s name.

Three days later, he walked into your gym.*

It was just past noon. The kids had left, the big boys hadn’t shown up yet. You were wiping sweat off the mats when the bell rang, and you turned—expecting one of the regulars.

But there he was.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. Those same storm-coloured eyes that had watched your ex crumble under his fists.

“I’m here to train,” he said, voice low and gravel-edged. “Coach Maddox said this was the best place in the city.”