CHAPTER 199: BREAKING TO BREATHE

My grip on the Louisville Slugger tightened, the feel of the rough wood a grounding sensation amidst the chaos. My pupils felt dilated, my senses sharpened. The heavy bass of the music no longer felt like background noise—it was a pulse, a rhythm, a command torelease.

"Again!" Aria roared, swinging her sledgehammer with short, precise bursts at a stack of old CDs to my left. Fragments glittered across the concrete floor. "Don’t hold back, Isa! Tell that monitor what you think of its judgment!"

We screamed and smashed. Bottles exploded straight ahead. Chairs snapped to the right. Plates flew against the wall behind us. The floor became a graveyard of broken things, each fragment a tiny exorcism of anger.

Crunch. Crack. Yes. Yes!

I kicked a monitor until sparks sputtered. Take that, take all of it.

Aria decapitated a mannequin to my left, cradled its head, and then hurled it against the wall with a dramatic wail: "For every passive-aggressive comment mother ever made about my life choices!" Oh God. I feel that. Every. Single. One.

I doubled over, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

When I finally tore my mask off, sweat dampening my hairline, my chest heaved—not with fear, not with panic, but with something lighter. Something freer.

"I..." I gasped between breaths. "I actually feel—"

"Alive?" Aria supplied, eyes sparkling as she pulled her own helmet off.

"Alive," I echoed, smiling through damp cheeks.

That was all it took. She curled her fingers into claws, threw her head back, and unleashed a guttural, unhinged howl.

"YEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

I couldn’t resist. The madness was contagious. I threw my fists into the air, flexed with every ounce of fake muscle I had, and mirrored her feral scream. "YEAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

The heavy bass music continued to throb around us, but now it felt more like a celebratory anthem than a battle cry. The room, once a canvas of potential destruction, was now a chaotic masterpiece of debris. Shards of glass glittered under the industrial lights, plastic fragments lay scattered like confetti, and the once-proud recliner was now a mangled heap of springs and fabric. It was beautiful.

The laughter slowly ebbed, leaving only the sound of the bass and our ragged breathing. My throat ached from screaming, my arms shook from the effort, but my chest—God, my chest felt light for the first time in forever. I turned to her, my voice small, almost swallowed by the music.

"Thank you, Aria."

She didn’t make a joke. Didn’t brush it off. Just gave me a single, sharp nod, eyes burning bright behind the dust and sweat. And in that silence between us, I knew she understood.

Just then, Kai’s voice crackled over an intercom, cutting through the music. "Alright, ladies! Time’s up. Hope you enjoyed your... therapeutic experience."

Aria groaned playfully. "Already? We were just getting warmed up!"

We exchanged one last, exhilarated look, then tossed our weapons onto the heap of demolished electronics and shattered ceramics. The floor was a disaster zone, a testament to our rage and release. Twisted metal, plastic shards, ceramic dust, and glittering glass crunched under our boots as we made our way to the door.

When we handed our helmets to Kai, he raised an eyebrow at the wild glint in our eyes. For the first time all evening, his mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. He handed us each a bottle of water.

"Good session?" he asked.

I opened my mouth, but Aria beat me to it. She unscrewed the cap with a flourish, took a dramatic gulp, and then declared, her voice still vibrating with adrenaline:

"Beyond good. Transcendent."

We stepped back into the gear room, peeling off the heavy suits piece by piece. The second we peeled off the coveralls, the burgundy came back to life, sharp and smug against the destruction we’d left behind. My waistcoat clung to my skin with the faintest sheen of sweat, my skirt flaring back into place as though nothing had happened. Aria shook out her curls, her grin feral, eyes still blazing with wild triumph.

The cool night air hit me the second we stepped outside, and I blinked at the sudden contrast. The industrial park was quieter now, the only light spilling from the flickering sign of Smash Therapy. Aria stretched like a cat, practically glowing from the session, while I was still reeling at how cathartic it felt to shatter a printer into pieces.

The convertible waited at the curb, polished and gleaming beneath the streetlights. Thomas stood at attention beside it, his posture immaculate, one gloved hand behind his back. The moment we approached, he stepped forward and opened the door with his usual precision.

"Miss Miller. Miss Smith," he said smoothly. "Mr. Walton asked me to inform you he will be home in thirty-five minutes."

Thomas’s words hung in the air like a starting gun. Thirty-five minutes. My stomach did a little flip as aria and I exchanged glances.

"Oh no," I whispered.

"Oh no," she echoed, and we both dissolved into laughter.

"We completely lost track of time," she wheezed as we slid into the seats, still giggling like kids caught skipping class.

Thomas inclined his head, silent, and shut the door with care before walking toward the G-Wagon idling a short distance behind.

The chauffeur pulled the convertible away from the curb, the city lights streaking by in a blur. I sank back against the leather, breathless from laughing, the night air whipping at my hair. But as the city lights blurred by, a thought bubbled up that silenced me.

Then, without meaning to, I said softly, "I want to make dinner tonight."

Aria turned, her grin fading into something gentler. Strands of hair framed her face, loosened by the wind.

"Make dinner? Ma’am, the man’s on his way back in—" she checked her phone dramatically "—twenty-eight minutes."

"I know." A small smile tugged at my lips, though my chest ached with something heavier. "It’ll be a race. But... it’s been so long since I cooked, you know? None of you allowed me into the kitchen or to do anything. Besides, everything’s been moving so fast—the spa, the hospital, then the gala... and through all of it, he’s just been... there. Constant. Unshakable. A calm and support through all of this chaos. And, I haven’t given him a proper ’thank you’ yet." My voice faltered, but I forced myself to meet her eyes.

"What could I possibly give him, Aria? He has more money than God, more power than anyone I know... and I kept asking myself, what could a girlfriend possibly give a man who has everything? I mean, even with all he has done for me. And he didn’t do it for credit, but I know things." I swallowed. "He’s been quietly funding my dad’s vet clinic. He’s been sending my little brother money every month—he doesn’t know I know. He drops money in my account sometimes, even though I’m already on his payroll."

"Today he handed us his card and—" I glanced at her, a smile pulling at my mouth, "—he called you to spend the day with me just to make sure I didn’t spiral. He thinks of me, and he thinks of my people. I can’t help it—I feel... grateful. But more than that, Aria—I feel genuinely loved."

"It’s been such a whirlwind, Aria. I feel like I’ve been swept up in his world, his challenges, and his solutions. I just want to contribute something, anything, that isn’t just me reacting to what’s happening to me, but something I purposefully do for him."

Aria’s grin spread slowly, like she’d just been handed trouble she couldn’t resist. "Alright. We’re doing this. You’re cooking for your billionaire, and I’m your sous chef. God help us both." Aria checks her phone again. "But the clock is ticking. Twenty-Five minutes now. So, what’s the plan, Chef?"