The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the heavy bag was the only music Linda Thorne needed.
Sweat slicked her skin, making the charcoal-grey spandex of her trainers shimmer against her curves like a second skin. She was a masterpiece of functional muscle—broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and legs that looked like they could crush granite. Every man in the "Iron Vault" gym was staring; some were discreet, others were practically drooling over their dumbbells. To Linda, they were background noise. They were ghosts in a room she was just passing through.
Her phone buzzed against the bench. She caught it on the third vibration, her breathing shallow and controlled.
"Talk to me, Jen," Linda said, her voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"I've got a live one for you," Jennifer's voice crackled with excitement. "A high-end detailing gig at one of the glass towers downtown. Triple the usual hourly rate because the 'client' is a man that stinks money. You in?"
Linda wiped a bead of sweat from her jaw. "The address?"
"Sending it now. Get moving, Thorne. This kind of cash doesn't wait for a cooldown."
Linda hung up, already pulling a loose hoodie over her sports bra. She began packing her gear, her mind already calculating the grocery list for her siblings and the cost of her mother's next physical therapy session.
She was halfway to the exit when the air behind her shifted.
A shadow loomed—a man twice her size, smelling of expensive cologne and unearned confidence. As he passed, his hand didn't just "brush" her; his fingers curled, firmly and intentionally, around her backside.
In the heartbeat it took for him to smirk, the world flipped.
Linda didn't scream. She didn't gasp. She moved with the fluid, terrifying precision of a predator. She caught his wrist, pivoted her hips, and used his own momentum to send him airborne.
CRUNCH.
The man hit the floor so hard the nearby weight racks rattled. Before he could draw a breath to groan, Linda was on him. She pinned his throat with her shin, her weight distributed so perfectly that his massive frame was rendered useless. He thrashed, his face turning a mottled purple, but she was an anchor.
She leaned down, her face inches from his. Her eyes weren't angry; they were cold. Empty.
"You've got a decent face," she whispered, the silence in the gym now absolute as every lifter froze in shock. "It's a shame you're so eager to have it rearranged. Don't waste your DNA picking on girls who can break you in three places before you can scream."
She didn't wait for an apology. She delivered a sharp, stinging backhand across his cheek—a final punctuation mark of disrespect—and stood up.
Linda adjusted her bag over her shoulder, didn't spare a glance at the stunned crowd, and stomped out of the gym. She had a job to do, and a billionaire's car was about to find out exactly how much 'nonsense' Linda Thorne was willing to take.
The downtown core of the city was a forest of steel and glass, and the Canberg Tech headquarters was the tallest redwood of them all. Linda stood in the underground executive garage, a bucket of specialized solution at her feet and a microfiber cloth in her hand.
She had spent three hours on the black obsidian paint of the Maybach. It wasn't just clean; it was a mirror. She could see the reflection of her own defiant scowl in the door panel. Her muscles ached from the gym brawl earlier, but she'd funneled that adrenaline into every buff and polish.
The elevator hissed open. Out stepped John, a man in a suit that cost more than Linda's monthly rent, holding a tablet like it was a sacred text. He walked around the vehicle, squinting through designer glasses.
"Is there a problem?" Linda asked, her voice echoing in the concrete space.
John touched a gloved finger to the hood, then looked at his fingertip as if searching for a single atom of dust. He sighed, a patronizing, thin sound. "The CEO... he isn't going to be pleased, Ms. Thorne. There's a faint streak near the emblem. Barely visible to the naked eye, but Robert? He'll see it from a mile away."
Linda's grip tightened on her damp cloth. "A streak? I've spent three hours on this. The car is sparkling. What exactly does he want? For me to sanitize the engine with a toothbrush?"
"He's... a bit of a neat freak," John said, offering a weak, nervous smile. "Standard 'clean' isn't Robert Greg's language. He requires clinical perfection. If he's not happy, the company doesn't pay for the service."
Linda felt a slow heat rising up her neck. This was the nonsense she'd smelled coming. "Listen to me, John. If your boss is so obsessed with a speck of dust that doesn't exist, tell him he should roll up his silk sleeves and wash the damn thing himself."
"I wouldn't suggest that if I were you," a new voice clipped through the air.
The temperature in the garage seemed to drop ten degrees. Emerging from the shadows of the pillars was Robert Greg.
He was devastatingly handsome in a way that felt dangerous—sharp jawline, dark hair perfectly coiffed, and eyes that moved like lasers, scanning the room for flaws. He wore a charcoal tuxedo that fit his lean, athletic frame with surgical precision.
He stopped inches from Linda, his presence commanding the very air she was trying to breathe. He didn't look at her first; he looked at the car. He pulled a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and swiped it across the exact spot John had pointed out.
He held up the cloth. It was snowy white.
"The effort is noted," Robert said, his voice a smooth, cold baritone. "But the execution is... pedestrian. John is right. No pay for mediocre work."
He finally turned those piercing eyes to Linda, expecting to see a worker trembling for her paycheck. What he found instead was a street fighter with her chin tilted up, ready to burn his world down.
Linda didn't see a billionaire. She didn't see the most powerful man in the tech industry. She saw a man standing between her and the medicine her mother needed.
"Pedestrian?" Linda's voice dropped an octave, vibrating with a lethal edge. "You're sitting in an ivory tower while I'm down here breaking my back for your 'perfection.' You want to talk about execution? Let's execute a reality check."
Before Robert could even register the movement, Linda lunged.
She bridged the gap with the explosive speed of a professional brawler. Her hand shot out, her fingers twisting into the crisp, expensive silk of Robert's tuxedo collar. She jerked him forward, forcing the titan of industry onto his tiptoes.
Robert's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock breaking through his icy mask. For the first time in his life, someone had invaded his sterile personal bubble with raw, unadulterated violence.
"Look at me, you arrogant prick," she hissed, her face inches from his. "You're going to pay me every cent. Because if I don't get that money, I'm going to make sure the only thing 'perfect' about your afternoon is the shape of the bruise I leave on that handsome jaw."
"Sir!" John shrieked, dropping his tablet.
"Hands off!" a voice boomed.
Within seconds, the silence of the garage was shattered by the heavy thud of tactical boots. Two massive security guards—Robert's personal shadows—pounced. One grabbed Linda's waist, while the other pried her hand from Robert's collar.
Linda didn't go quietly. She twisted, throwing an elbow that caught the first guard in the ribs, but the weight of two trained professionals eventually forced her back. They pinned her against a concrete pillar, her feet nearly leaving the ground as she snarled like a trapped leopard.
Robert stood still, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm he didn't recognize. He reached up, slowly smoothing the wrinkled silk of his lapel where her knuckles had left their mark. He should have been furious. He should have had her arrested.
But as he looked at the woman being held back by his elite security—her eyes burning with a fire that made his orderly world look gray—he felt a strange, terrifying jolt of electricity.
"Let her go," Robert said, his voice strangely steady.
"Sir, she assaulted you," the lead guard protested.
"I said," Robert turned his gaze to his men, his eyes narrowing, "let. Her. Go."
They obeyed, stepping back cautiously. Linda landed on her feet, adjusting her hoodie, her chest heaving as she stared Robert down, waiting for the next move.
Robert stepped closer, stopping just outside of striking distance. He studied the smudge of grease on her cheek and the defiance in her posture.
"You have a very expensive temper, Ms. Thorne," he murmured, his curiosity finally outweighing his obsession with cleanliness.