Chapter 14

The gym is a temple of polished chrome and grunting effort. The air is cold and sterilized, smelling of chlorine from the pool and the sharp, clean scent of disinfectant. It’s the exact opposite of the musky, intimate darkness of the motel room. I feel like an imposter, a wolf wandering into a well-ordered pasture.

I spot him immediately.

Edward. My father.

The gym was a cathedral of steel and sweat, the air thick with the sharp tang of antiseptic and the faint chlorine whiff of the pool. It was a place of order, discipline, and control—the antithesis of the shadowy motel room where secrets thrived. I scanned the room, my gaze landing on him immediately. Edward. My father.

He was on the leg press, his focus laser-sharp. The massive weights he was pressing made the machine groan softly, his thick, hairy thighs and calves taut with effort. His shirt was off, soaked through with sweat, revealing a torso that was a landscape of dense muscle and dark, curling hair. A silver whistle dangled from his neck, glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. He looked every inch the respected doctor, the man in control. But he had no idea—no idea who I was, no idea what I knew.

I watched him for a moment longer, my phone already in hand. I shot Adam a quick message: “I’m here at the gym. I just saw your dad. He’s exactly as you described—built, focused, clueless. What’s our next move?”

The reply came almost instantly: “What do you think? Should we mess with him? Or wait?”

I smirked, my fingers typing out a response: “Let’s see how long it takes for him to notice me. I’ll keep you updated.”

Edward finished his set, his chest heaving as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He glanced around the gym, his eyes briefly meeting mine. There was no recognition there, just the indifferent curiosity of a man assessing his surroundings. Perfect.

Carlos and Edward ... it was only a matter of time before the game began. And I intended to play it better than anyone expected.

I find a bench press machine a few rows away, my back to him. I don’t need to stare. I can feel him. I can hear the rhythmic clank of the weight stack and the sharp exhalation of his breath with each rep. It’s a rhythm of discipline, of control. A life so ordered it has no room for the messy, desperate hunger that defines mine.