Page 9

CHAPTER 8

Alana

My alarm goes off.

I pick up my phone. Monday.

6:30 a.m. I don’t hit snooze.

I hit cancel. Because there is no fucking way I’m getting up right now to train with Hunter.

My mind is still half-asleep, clinging to dreams of quiet.

Why? Why did I agree to start training at 7 a.m.?

I spent all of yesterday reading in my room (avoiding Hunter), doing absolutely nothing useful.

And still, there is no way I’m leaving this bed right now.

One thing about me? I am not a morning person.

I’m a creature of habit.

Routine. Control. And for the past few years, that routine has remained gloriously unchanged.

Monday to Thursday my days follow a rhythm so familiar, I could do it with my eyes closed.

Wake up around nine.

Scroll. Cuddle Salem.

Drag myself out of bed, shower, throw on something presentable, make my protein smoothie and head out just before my cleaner arrives around 10.

30 a.m.

I get to the office around eleven.

Tessa’s there by nine.

She knows mornings and I aren’t compatible.

Not even a little bit.

Work happens. At one, I take the team to lunch at Plant .

It’s a ritual. If someone’s swamped, we get their takeaway delivered back to the office.

Then it’s work until five, quick stop at the grocery store for dinner stuff, maybe a snack, definitely chocolate.

Home again. Groceries in the fridge.

More Salem cuddles, because priorities.

I hit Pilates. Tessa does a spin class or goes for a run, unless she skips, which is honestly more often than she admits.

Dinner’s a rotation: one night her, one night me.

Then we watch something together, usually trash.

By nine, she disappears into her room.

Well, what used to be her room.

I read. I wind down.

I’m in bed around eleven-ish.

And then we do it all over again.

Fridays are for dinners, dates or friends.

Saturdays Tessa and I go running (if we’re not violently hungover), then brunch.

Brunch usually ends in a tipsy shopping spree, gossip, pizza and movies on the couch.

Sometimes we skip the couch and go dancing.

Sundays? Recovering.

Rotting.

That’s the routine.

Sure, there are variables.

Like if I’m sick, or my period decides to take me hostage.

There’s comfort in knowing what comes next.

Predictability feels like safety.

But waking up at 7 a.m.?

Not part of the routine.

Hunter being here instead of Tessa?

Definitely not part of the routine.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

That’s the sound of my bedroom door getting manhandled by Hunter’s fists.

It isn’t just noise, it’s an assault.

“Alana, are you ready? It’s six-fifty. Training starts at seven sharp.” He says it as if he’s running a boot camp.

Which, let’s be honest, he probably has.

“Ugh,” I groan, burying my head under the covers.

“I’m going to need verbal confirmation that you are dressed and ready.”

Is this guy for real?

Maybe if I stay quiet, he’ll go away.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

My poor door.

My heart stutters as each knock forces me to confront how much control I’ve lost.

“I will not stop knocking until I have eyes on you. If you waste my time, I’ll waste yours.”

BANG.

BANG. BANG.

“Jesus Christ!” I yell, throwing off the covers.

He’s relentless. I’ll give him that.

The man could probably wake the dead and make them do squats.

“I’m busy getting ready! Just stop with the banging!”

“Alana, if you do not open this door in ten minutes, I will break it down again. I will ignore your earlier request to not enter your room. You will lose that illusion of privacy.”

Okay.

So, my dad hired a psychopath.

I quickly fire off a text to him.

Me:

You sure you ran the right background check on this guy?

I think he might be insane.

Clinically, I mean.

I brush my teeth, throw my hair into a ponytail.

Then I pull on some cycle shorts, a sports bra and a hoodie.

Just as I’m tying my shoelaces, my phone lights up.

Dad:

How could you even ask me that?

Of course I did! He was the top recommended candidate.

Is everything okay?

Me:

Define okay.

It’s 7 a.m. and he’s banging on my door like a lunatic.

Dad:

He told me you agreed to the 7am training with him?

Me:

Technically? Yes, I did.

But it was under duress.

Dad:

Princess, you’ll be fine.

It’s about time someone got you up earlier.

Ugh. So my dad is on Hunter’s side.

Traitor.

I shove my phone into the pocket of my cycle shorts and swing open the door, ready to tell Hunter off.

He’s standing there in black joggers, a fitted long-sleeve and that same calm, unreadable stare.

Arms folded. Unmoved.

Unimpressed.

“Seven sharp,” he says, like he didn’t just threaten to destroy my door.

God help me, I might actually punch him before this training session even starts.