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But we’ve agreed the hiding has to end.

For the first time since this madness started, the end feels less like a looming threat.

It feels exactly like a promise.

15

ZANE

Ironside has booked the private room at a Chicago training center for the week. Dan starts me on the mitts before I have finished warming up.

Dan has been riding my back since we landed, but today holds a sharper edge. He wants to crack me wide open. He wants to dig into the fissures and see the weakness spilling out onto the mats.

“Again.” Dan barks the order across the ring. “Your footwork is sloppy.”

My footwork is flawless. Fifteen years of relentless practice guarantee it. I reset my stance anyway. I run the combination from the top. Jab, cross, slip, counter. The leather mitts pop loud like gunshots in the empty gym.

“Sloppy.” Dan steps closer. He invades my personal space. “You’re distracted. You’ve been distracted for weeks.”

“I am fine.”

“You are not fine.” Dan circles me. He moves the way a predator evaluates a wounded animal. “I watch you. The rhythm is off. The focus is gone. Whatever this weakness is, it ends today.”

My heart hammers a frantic, erratic beat against my ribs. I keep my expression completely blank. I lock down my breathing, forcing the air through my nose in slow, measured drags.

He doesn’t know. He can’t know. There’s no evidence to uncover.

“The rematch is in five days.” Dan points a taped finger directly at my chest. “Five days until you step into that cage with Rivera. Five days to remind the world exactly why Ironside produces absolute champions. I need your head in this fight. Not wherever it wanders.”

“My head is in the fight.”

“Is it?” Dan narrows his dark eyes. “Because I see the way you stare at your phone. I see the way you disappear after sessions instead of staying to grind on the heavy bag. I see the way you flinch every single time a reporter mentions the name Rivera.”

Ice floods my veins.

“I do not flinch.”

“You do.” Dan stops directly in front of me, planting his feet wide. “I don’t care if it is nerves. I don’t care if the pressure is getting to you. I don’t care about whatever personal bullshit you let creep into your training camp. I only care about this. You bury it. You lock it down tight. You walk into that cage as the weapon I built.”

Dan knows exactly where to hit.

I stand my ground and take the hits. I always take them. My father taught me the exact method for enduring verbal abuse. Chin tucked, eyes forward, never let the blood show on your face.

“Your father built Ironside.” Dan delivers the lowest blow possible, aiming straight for the ghost haunting my every waking hour. “He built a legacy out of blood and iron. You’re the absolute last of it. The only wall standing between the Butler name and total irrelevance. Do you understand the weight of that? Do you understand what you owe him?”

I owe him zero. He is dead. He never loved me. He would have despised the man I actually am.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Dan takes a step back. He holds up the leather focus mitts. “Now run it again. This time, look like a man who actually wants to win.”

I run the combination again. And again. I repeat the violent movements until my lungs burn with the effort.

For two grueling hours, I perform. I hit the pads with perfect technique. I drill slips and counters until my shoulders scream for mercy. I execute every single command Dan issues. I play the role of the perfect Ironside champion.

But I’m tired of being good at this.

Every time I nod, I want to tell him to fuck off. Every time I reset my feet, I think of Micah. I’ve spent my whole life giving Dan and my father what they wanted. I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing it.