Chapter 3 — Anger Ignited

Clara

The rhythmic pounding of fists against the heavy bag echoed through the dimly lit private gym. Clara Bennett, clad in sleek black leggings and a fitted tank top, moved with a precision that bordered on mechanical mastery. Her dark brown hair, pulled back into a messy ponytail, clung to her damp forehead as beads of sweat traced the sharp lines of her face. The faint creak of the bag’s chain and the cool give of the rubber mat beneath her feet grounded her in the moment, the physicality of her movements a temporary antidote to the storm raging within.

Left. Right. Jab. Hook. The sequence was sharp, deliberate, as though the force of her anger could be measured in exact increments. Yet, there was an underlying chaos to her movements—a raw, unpolished edge that betrayed the turmoil simmering beneath her polished exterior. Clara could feel it, the crack in her carefully controlled armor, threatening to widen.

Ryan’s smiling face flashed in her mind—blond hair faultlessly styled, his arm draped around Emily Hart in that infuriatingly saccharine social media post. Clara’s gray eyes narrowed, and her fists flew faster, harder, the bag absorbing the full brunt of her fury.

“Replaced,” she muttered, her voice low and venomous. The word felt sharp, like glass splintering on her tongue. Replaced, she thought again, like an outdated model discarded for a flashier upgrade. Her chest tightened at the thought, the humiliation twisting deep into her ribs. She struck the bag harder, the sound reverberating off the walls like the echo of her suppressed rage.

The memory of the Galleria Ballroom surged forward, unbidden. The glittering chandeliers. The sea of pitying eyes. Whispers curling around her like smoke. Her jaw clenched as she shook her head, as if she could physically dislodge the image. The punches came faster now, her rhythm faltering, the precision of her movements giving way to something messier, more frantic.

“How dare he,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice barely audible over the sound of her fists.

The text message loomed in her mind, stark and cruel in its brevity: “I can’t do this.” It played on a loop, a cruel refrain that collided with the news alert that had come hours later—Ryan reveling in Ibiza, champagne in hand, while she stood amid the wreckage of their wedding day. The life she had spent years meticulously building with him had shattered in an instant. She could still hear his voice, low and steady, from the day he’d slipped the ring onto her finger: “We’re unstoppable, Clara.” His words had once felt like a promise. Now, they felt like a mockery.

Her breath hitched as she landed a particularly hard jab, her knuckles stinging even through the gloves. Pausing, she pressed her forehead against the heavy bag, her chest heaving. Her reflection in the mirrored wall caught her eye—shoulders taut, cheeks flushed, gray eyes blazing with something she couldn’t quite name.

Anger, yes. Fury, certainly. But beneath it, an ache gnawed at the edges of her resolve. A whisper of doubt that clawed its way to the surface, sharp and unrelenting.

What if it was my fault?

The thought hit her like a blow to the gut, stealing her breath. She had buried it under layers of anger and blame, but now, in the stillness of the moment, it clawed its way back with brutal clarity. What if she had been too rigid, too demanding? What if her need for control had driven him away, had pushed him into the arms of someone else? The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Her fingers curled tighter into fists, the gloves biting into her skin. No. She wouldn’t let herself dwell there. Not tonight.

“No,” she said aloud, her voice firm and sharp, slicing through the silence like a blade. She pushed herself upright, straightening her posture. “This isn’t on me. This is on him.”

Her movements resumed, slower now, more deliberate. She adjusted her stance, tightening her form, the chaos of her earlier strikes giving way to calculated precision. Each punch felt purposeful, each movement a small reclamation of control. Her breathing steadied, the rhythm of her strikes echoing the resolve hardening in her chest.

Her gaze flicked to her gym bag resting in the corner. The sleek leather case of her steel fountain pen peeked out from the edge, catching the dim light. The pen had been with her through every significant moment of her career—contracts signed, victories won, arguments made. It was a symbol of control, of power. And now, it would be a tool in dismantling the carefully curated image Ryan Calloway had built for himself.

She thought again of the post—Ryan’s audacity to flaunt his new relationship so publicly, so brazenly. It wasn’t enough for him to devastate her; he had to rewrite the narrative, casting himself as the victim and her as the villain. The thought made her blood boil, but this time, her anger felt sharper, more focused.

Her lips curled into a bitter smile. “You underestimated me, Ryan,” she murmured, her voice low and dangerous.

The gym door creaked open, and Clara froze, her fists dropping to her sides. She turned to see Frank, the gym’s wiry owner, peering inside. His gray hair was cropped close, and the faded tattoo snaking down his forearm caught the dim light as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Thought I heard someone in here,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “Fighting the wrong enemy won’t win you the war, you know.”

Clara wiped her forehead with the back of her glove, offering a tight smile. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, her voice measured, though the words struck deeper than she cared to admit.

Frank lingered for a moment, his gaze steady and assessing, before nodding. “Don’t stay too late. Whatever you’re fighting, it’ll still be there tomorrow.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Clara turned back to the heavy bag. Frank’s words echoed in her mind, threading through the armor she’d so carefully constructed. She removed her gloves and set them neatly on the bench, her fingers brushing the leather case of her pen as she reached for her towel. The cool weight of it in her hand grounded her, a reminder of the precision and control she prided herself on.

Stepping out into the cool night air, Clara paused. The city spread out before her, a glittering expanse of skyscrapers and streetlights, the hum of distant traffic weaving through the sharp coolness of the breeze. It felt sprawling, endless, like a battlefield waiting to be claimed.

Clara Bennett had been humiliated, betrayed, and cast aside. But she wasn’t broken. Not yet. And if Ryan thought she would fade quietly into the background, he was about to learn just how wrong he could be.