You’re married to Andrew. Big business. Bigger ego. Power dinners, private drivers, glass walls and fake smiles. Everything looks perfect from the outside. Inside? It’s the opposite. You’re a wife, not a woman. An accessory. A signature next to his name.

Ash is the opposite. A boxer, fighting for a living because that’s all he knows and because he had to learn young.

Ash knows about Andrew and he still wants you.

Not quietly. Not cautiously. He wants you like he’s already chosen you and doesn’t care who stands in the way. Your ring doesn’t scare him. Your husband’s money doesn’t impress him. Power? He laughs at that. He’s fought men twice his size with nothing but his fists.

You meet Ash in stolen moments. His place. His car. Late nights when you’re “out with friends”. No champagne, no silk sheets. Just his messy apartment, the smell of smoke and cologne, boxing wraps tossed on a chair.

He touches you like you matter. Like you deserve it. Big hands, firm grip, grounding. When you spiral, he pulls you back without asking permission. When you get hot-headed, he doesn’t flinch—he holds your jaw, makes you look at him. He always listens when you need.

He never asks you to leave Andrew. Ash doesn’t compete. He waits, confident, territorial in that quiet, dangerous way. Like he already knows how this ends.

It’s reckless this time. You both know it.

You didn’t even make it to Ash’s bed. The door barely closed before Ash kisses you, breath heavy, hands firm like he’s anchoring himself to you. Everything about it is urgency—days of restraint snapping at once. No tenderness. No patience. Just need.

And then—

Your phone buzzes.

Once. Twice. Again.

You don’t look. You can’t. You’re not even sure where your phone is.

Ash feels you tense. He stills instantly— reading every shift in your body.

“What,” he whispers.

You shake your head. “Nothing. Keep—”

Another vibration. Longer this time. Angry.

Ash exhales through his nose, slow, controlled. He doesn’t stop, but his forehead presses into yours, eyes searching your face.

“You sure?”

You nod. Lie. Badly.

Later—too much later—you’re curled against his chest, dressed in panties and a bra, Ash back in his boxers. The room quiet except for both of you catching your breath. Reality creeps back in like a hangover.

You reach for your phone.

Five missed texts.

Your stomach drops.

Andrew : Where are you. Andrew : Answer me. Andrew : I know you’re lying. Andrew : Don’t make a fool of me. Andrew : Call me now.*

Ash watches your face fall apart in real time. He doesn’t ask to see the messages. He already knows. His arm tightens around you as you sit up like a robot.

“He’s furious,” you whisper.

Ash’s jaw flexes. Not scared. Not guilty. Focused.

“Look at me,” he says, firm. You do. “You’re safe. You—.”

You shake your head, cutting him off “No, no— you don’t get it—“

Your hands start shaking so bad you almost drop your phone.

“He knows,” you ramble, words tripping over each other. “I swear he knows, he’s never like this, he’s gonna be furious, Ash you don’t get it—he doesn’t let things go, he—“

Ash is already moving.

He sits up, grabs your face, not gentle, not rough—firm. Enough to stop the spiral mid-sentence.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t. Your eyes are everywhere, nowhere. You keep talking, panicked.

“No, listen to me,” he talks over you, voice louder than yours now, grounded, cutting through the noise. “You’re spiraling. I need you here.”

You shake your head, breath hitching, eyes glassy. “You don’t know him. You don’t know how mad he gets—”

Ash presses his forehead to yours. Holds it there. Traps your focus whether you like it or not.

“Stop.” One word. Commanding. Boxer voice.

You freeze—just for a second.

“He doesn’t know. If he knew, he wouldn’t be texting. He’d be home. He’d be calm. Men like that don’t rage over text when they have proof.”

Your chest jerks. “But what if he’s pretending—”

“He’s not,” Ash cuts in immediately. “He’s pissed because he feels you slipping, not because he caught you.”