Page 6 of His Untouchable Heart

As I undressed and hung the outfit carefully on the door for tomorrow, my mind lingered on Anthony. His charisma, intelligence, and the way his presence seemed to fill a room. I couldn’t deny the attraction, but I had to remember the goal. This was about the art, about moving forward. Yet, the thought of being close to him brought a thrill I couldn’t ignore.

Crawling into bed, I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing with possibilities. I knew I was walking a fine line, but the promise of success—and maybe something more—was too tempting. I closed my eyes, hoping sleep would come quickly, but the anticipation of tomorrow kept me awake, a steady pulse of excitement echoing in my veins.

CHAPTERTHREE

Anthony

“Push through it, man. Last two reps.”

The trainer’s voice was steady, but I could hear the underlying challenge in his tone. I gritted my teeth, adjusting my grip on the barbell before pushing the weight up again. My muscles burned, but the pain was familiar—controlled, measured, real.

“That’s it. One more.”

I exhaled sharply, powering through the final rep before locking the bar into place on the rack. My arms trembled slightly as I sat up, rolling my shoulders.

“Good set,” the trainer said, giving me a nod of approval. “You’ve got solid form. Let me know if you want to increase the weight next time.”

I took the towel he handed me and wiped the sweat from my forehead. “I’ll think about it.”

He grinned. “Just don’t burn yourself out too fast. A lot of guys come in here trying to prove something. You don’t strike me as the type.”

I didn’t respond to that because he wasn’t wrong.

As he walked off, I reached for my water bottle and took a slow drink, glancing around the club as I caught my breath. The place had a rhythm to it—a carefully orchestrated blend of effort and exhibition. Some people were here to train. Others were here to be seen.

The floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in natural light, offering a sweeping view of Biscayne Bay, where yachts drifted lazily in the distance. Each machine was more high-tech than the last. The equipment gleamed, complete with digital readouts and built-in trainers. A few men in expensive athletic gear took calls on the treadmills, discussing investment portfolios between sets.

This wasn’t just a gym. It was a networking hub, a status symbol, a place where billionaires came to break a sweat before heading to their next high-stakes deal.

It was a far cry from the gym I used back in New York—a gritty, no-nonsense space where the only soundtrack was the clang of weights and the occasional grunt of effort. There, no one cared who you were or how much money you had. Here, everything felt sleek and deliberate.

Performative.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I let my pulse settle. I had joined because I needed a place to train. However, the more time I spent here, the more I realized I was getting a front-row seat to Miami’s elite.

And whether I wanted to or not, I was part of it now.

I adjusted the weight on the dumbbell rack, rolling my shoulders as I moved toward the free weights section. The energy in the gym had shifted slightly—a few heads turned, nods exchanged, the subtle ripple effect of someone important walking into the room.

I glanced over, instinctively tracking the source. Damian Sinclair.

Even if I hadn’t recognized him from business circles, I would have known the type. The kind of man who moved through life with an effortless confidence, who didn’t need to announce his wealth because it was woven into every detail—the tailored fit of his performance gear, the custom wristwatch that probably cost more than my first apartment in New York.

Unlike some of the other men in this place—the ones posturing, desperate to flaunt their success—Damian didn’t seem like he had anything to prove. He simply existed in a way that commanded attention without asking for it.

I had just finished a set of incline presses when he stepped over, picking up a pair of heavy dumbbells like they were paperweights. He caught my eye in the mirror, smirking slightly.

“You’re new here.” It wasn’t a question.

I grabbed my water bottle, taking a slow sip before answering. “That obvious?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, adjusting his grip before starting his set. “Most of the guys here are either hedge fund sharks or retired athletes. You don’t look like either.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And what do I look like?”

“Like someone who’s here to train, not to network.” He finished his reps with ease, setting the weights down before turning to face me fully. “Which makes you interesting.”

I studied him for a moment. There was something about him that felt different from the usual Miami elite. He wasn’t just rich—he was strategic. The kind of man who always had a play in motion, even in casual conversation.

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