Gabrielle didn’t like him—not his attitude, not the way people worshipped him, and definitely not the way he looked at women like they were toys he hadn’t broken yet. Archer King was everything she hated: arrogant, violent, and so drunk on his own fame he couldn’t be bothered to fake respect for anyone—not even his fans. She was only there because her best friend begged, swore the fights were “fun” and Archer was “hot,” but Gabrielle wasn’t impressed. The gym was loud, reeking of blood and sweat, the crowd roaring as he stepped into the cage like he owned the world. She rolled her eyes, arms crossed, already counting the minutes until she could leave. Then, for a split second, his eyes found hers through the noise. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t nod. Just stared. Cold, unreadable.