Page 84 of The Cuddle Clause
“Careful,” she said again, loud enough for the front row to hear. “You’re leading with your hip. Roman always says proper form is everything, especially with his flexibility. You’ve noticed, right?”
My fist faltered mid-air. I gritted my teeth, forced a breath through my nose, and kept going.
Flexibility. Seriously? Was she out here bragging about Roman’s hip rotation? Inpublic?
The next jab hit the pad harder than necessary. She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and was enjoying every second.
We transitioned into stretches. I took the mat. Closed my eyes. Tried to focus.
And then she leaned in. Too close.
“So…” she said, voice all syrup and curiosity, “how serious are you two? I mean, are youreallytogether to mate or just playing house?”
I opened my eyes and glared at her. “That’s none of your business.”
She smiled, all satisfaction and subtle cruelty. “Roman’s business has always been my business.”
I almost lost it right there. But I didn’t, because the trainer clapped and called out the next drill—a series of escalating power kicks into a heavy bag held by your partner.
Seraphina grinned like this was a spa treatment. I strapped on my gloves, each tug of Velcro louder than it needed to be. She stood in front of the bag, hands in place, stance cocky and casual like I couldn’t possibly touch her.
Like she was invincible. Like sheknewI’d fail.
But I didn’t feel like holding back anymore. Not after every passive-aggressive dig wrapped in a sugar-coated accent. Not after the endless reminders that I didn’t belong inhisworld.
I took a breath. Coiled.
And launched.
My shin cracked against the bag so hard the sound echoed across the gym. It wasn’t rage—it was precision. Purpose. Months of tension and insecurity distilled into perfect impact.
Seraphina stumbled. Her smug smile vanished as she staggered back and landed—hard—on her ass.
The gym went still for a half-beat. No music. No chatter. Just the quiet rustle of someone’s water bottle hitting the floor.
The trainer rushed over. “Whoa—okay, that’s probably enough for today.”
The trainer was still fussing over her as she got to her feet, brushing herself off with slow, deliberate motions like she wanted everyone to know she wasn’t rattled. Her cheeks were flushed, her ponytail sliding out of the scrunchie, but her eyes were locked on me.
“You know,” she said, voice carrying just enough to snag the attention of a few eavesdroppers, “Roman’s fun now. I’m sure he makes you feel special. But give it time. He’ll get bored. He always does.”
She smiled then—not wide, not smug, but small and cutting. It slid under my skin and stayed there.
I held her gaze for a beat, let her see every ounce of the I-don’t-believe-you in my eyes, then turned and walked out.
The cold air outside hit me like a slap, but I barely felt it. My chest was still heaving, adrenaline lighting me up like a fuse. But beneath the chaos, there wasn’t guilt. There wasn’t shame.
There was relief.
Because I hadn’t played her game. I hadn’t stooped to her level. I hadn’t called her names or clawed back with words.
I’d let my body speak for me.
And it had felt good. No…it had feltright. And somewhere deep inside, the part of me that always worried I wasn’t fierce enough, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t enough atall?
She was finally quiet.
The laundry basketdug into my hip as I descended the basement stairs after my kickboxing class, but my thoughts weren’t anywhere near the socks and shirts inside. Not even close.
