Chapter 6 - Lines Crossed
They didn't come after me physically. Mark Stryker wasn't entirely stupid; he knew a street brawl with a high-profile former champion would land him in a jail cell.
Instead, they attacked the architecture of our lives.
On Friday, Ryan came home early. His face was pale, his eyes sunken with exhaustion. He set his leather portfolio on the kitchen island and sat on the barstool without taking off his coat.
“What happened?” I asked, pouring him a cup of black coffee.
“The Mercer project,” Ryan said quietly. “The commercial plaza downtown. It was sixty percent of my firm’s projected revenue for the year.”
“They canceled?”
“Derek’s uncle is on the executive board of the investment trust funding it,” Ryan explained, his hands shaking slightly as he held the mug. “Derek went to him. Crying about his wrist, showing the video, telling them that I was unstable, that my wife was a violent loose cannon who brought street violence into family functions. The board decided to pull the contract. They said my firm represented a ‘brand risk.’”
I felt the blood leave my face.
My husband had worked eighty-hour weeks for three years to win that bid. He had drawn every blueprint, calculated every cantilever, spent nights sleeping on his office sofa to make sure the load calculations were perfect.
“It’s not your fault, Claire,” Ryan said quickly, seeing my expression. “Don't look like that. Please. We’ll survive. We have savings.”
“It *is* my fault,” I said.
Before Ryan could answer, his phone lit up. It was a link sent by Marissa.
*“You need to see this. Derek’s gym just posted a press release.”*
I opened the link on my tablet.
Mark Stryker had gone on a regional sports podcast with two hundred thousand subscribers. Sitting next to him was Derek, his arm in a dramatic cast, and a woman with sharp eyes, braided cornrows, and the physique of a pit bull—Tara “The Ripper” Cruz, a top-ranked regional fighter.
*“Evelyn Carter was a product of media hype five years ago,”* Stryker was saying on the podcast, leaning into the microphone with a vicious smirk. *“She ran away when the division got tough. Now she’s beating up civilians at family cookouts to feel relevant. We challenged her to step up for a legitimate, sanctioned three-round exhibition for the Children’s Hospital charity next month. We offered her fifty thousand dollars. She refused. She’s terrified. Her whole legacy is a lie, and her husband is currently paying the price for her cowardice.”*
The host chimed in: *“Tara, would you fight Evelyn Carter?”*
Tara Cruz smiled, a cold, hungry flash of white teeth. *“I’d put her back into retirement within ninety seconds. She’s an accountant now. She sits in a chair. Her chin is glass.”*
Ryan reached over and snapped the tablet shut.
“Ignore them,” he said fiercely. “Claire, do not do this. You walked away for your brain. You walked away for your health. For *us*. I don't care about the Mercer project. We will find another client. We will build another building. Do not get into a cage for Mark Stryker.”
I looked at Ryan. I loved him more than anything on this earth. He was gentle, he was kind, and he had spent his life building things up while I had spent mine tearing things down.
“Ryan,” I said softly, touching the faint bruise that still lingered on his jaw where Derek had struck him. “They don't stop. Bullies like Mark and Derek don't stop because you’re polite. They stop when you break their teeth.”
“Claire—”
“I’m not doing an exhibition,” I said, my voice dropping into that deep, rhythmic calm that used to terrify my coaches. “I’m taking the fight. But on my terms. Under standard unified rules. And when I win, Derek signs an affidavit admitting he lied to the board, and Apex MMA pays the full damages to your architectural firm.”
“And if they don't agree?” Ryan asked, his eyes filled with worry.
May you like
“They will,” I said. “Because Mark Stryker’s ego won’t let him say no.”
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