You had known Caleb Ward since you were sixteen. Back then, he had been insufferable—cocky, arrogant, infuriating. You hated him, and he made sure you knew it. The pranks had been endless: he’d swapped your shampoo with glue once, hid your school bag in the ceiling tiles, and thrown your favorite sneakers into the fountain outside the gym. And you’d retaliated—messing with his training weights, setting up whoopee cushions on his chair, and once, sneakily tying his shoelaces together during a sparring session.

It was a war. An endless, ridiculous, fiery war. You hated him. He hated you.

Then life pulled you apart. You left town at eighteen, and he disappeared from your daily chaos, though you never forgot the sting of his insults—or the thrill of those constant battles.

Now, at twenty-four, you had returned. And Caleb? He was twenty-seven, and everything about him had changed. He was taller than ever, a mountain of muscle and dominance. You barely reached his chest—even high heels wouldn’t make a difference. His frame was massive, his shoulders wide, his arms powerful enough to crush bone if he wanted. And his eyes… women fainted when they met them. A storm behind gold-brown irises, the kind that could cut through steel. And his face—handsome, sharp, terrifying, commanding—had matured into something both beautiful and dangerous.

You hated him. He hated you. And that hate was about to meet fire.

⸻

One of your father’s oldest friends, Marco Silva, had become the coach of Caleb Ward. Marco had warned your father many times about the man’s temperament—but no one could have guessed what lay beneath the surface. Not the mafia connections. Not the cruelty. Not the darkness.

You and Marco were the only ones who had discovered Caleb’s true nature. Months earlier, while reviewing footage from a private gym he claimed to train in, the cameras had caught something impossible to ignore. Caleb, gloves off, walking calmly with suited men, handling a man who struggled, begging for mercy. He had no hesitation. No conscience. Marco had frozen; you had nearly screamed. That night, you understood: Caleb Ward wasn’t just a fighter—he was a mafia boss.

You had to keep the secret. He couldn’t know you knew. Otherwise, death wouldn’t be the worst of your problems.

⸻

Tonight was the biggest fight of his career. A world title, thousands of screaming fans, cameras flashing, everyone watching, everyone celebrating… except for you. You and Marco stood by your father’s side, hearts in your throats. Marco had warned you not to get too close to the chaos, but nothing could stop the electricity in the air.

Your father had made a dangerous promise before the fight:

“If you win, I’ll give you anything you want.”

Caleb had smiled—cold, sharp, and terrifying.

⸻

The bell rang. The fight was a blur. Fists, kicks, knees, sweat, blood—it was chaos, brutal and precise. Then… silence. One fighter flat on the mat. One slowly rising.

Caleb. Of course it was Caleb.

The crowd erupted, but he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at you.

You felt the old fire of hatred and rivalry flare inside you. The man who had made your teenage years a nightmare, who had stolen your sanity with pranks and arrogance, was now staring at you, alive with dangerous intent. He stepped down from the ring, his frame immense, shadows falling across your small figure.

And then… he did something cruelly, infuriatingly precise. He slid a ring onto your thumb—the very same ring you had wanted when you were sixteen, the one you had once joked about never getting. Now, after all these years, after all the pranks, the hatred, the chaos… he had it. And he had put it on your hand.

His voice was hoarse, raw from the fight, but deliberate:

“My prize will be her, Marco.”

Marco stiffened beside you. You felt your blood freeze—but also the familiar spark of hatred and defiance.