Brooklyn University Gym & Ethan's Apartment
Saturday night — Brooklyn University Gym.
The clink of weights echoed faintly, but Ethan Vale existed in another rhythm. On the rubber floor, his palms were planted firm. He pushed into a clean handstand—legs rising like iron cables controlled by will alone.
A slow breath. Then, deliberate descent into a diamond push-up. The muscles across his chest and back flexed beneath his black tee, soaked in silent discipline.
He wasn't training for strength.
He was sculpting intent.
Across the room, John—20, red-haired, slightly round, and eternally impressed—sat on a bench, halfway through a bag of fries and an energy drink.
"Jesus, Ethan…" he muttered. "Are you part machine now? Or were you bitten by a Greek statue?"
No answer.
A buzz. Ethan's phone vibrated on the mat beside him. He dropped down from the hold, palms first, silent as a cat, and scooped up the device.
Marco Valentino 🥂
Beachfront Villa Party – Next Sunday, 10 PM
Invite Only. Come elite or don't come at all.
Ethan's face didn't change. Just a blink. Then the phone slid back into his gym bag without comment.
John stood now, peeking over. "Bro. Tell me that was Marco's invite."
"It was," Ethan said.
"You're going?"
Ethan grabbed his towel. "Next Sunday."
John froze. "You're going. Holy shit."
The redhead stared at his friend like he'd just been told a monk was moonlighting as a rockstar.
---
Brooklyn Heights – Ethan's Apartment, Later That Night
The hallway was dim. Ethan walked in fresh from the shower, hair damp, black T-shirt fitting like a second skin.
In the kitchen, Roxanne Bellefort stood barefoot on the cool floor, her silk robe cinched at the waist, a book open beside her wineglass. Early thirties. Widow for almost five years. Beautiful in a quiet, mature way—sharp eyes, thoughtful mouth. The scent of lemon oil hung faintly in the air.
She looked up, watching Ethan move through the space.
And like always, she said nothing at first. Just observed. Every line of his frame. Every stillness between movements.
"You've been pushing hard lately," she finally said, voice low but steady. "Training like you've got something to prove."
Ethan opened the fridge. "Not to others."
She took a sip of wine. "That's what makes it more dangerous."
John was sprawled on the couch by now, shirt half-lifted, mumbling over fries. "He's not training for anything. He is the training."
Roxanne gave him a side-glance. "And you're… what, the motivational speaker?"
"I'm the audience," John grinned.
Roxanne turned back to Ethan. Her tone softened. "You know… you've lived here two years. Not once have I seen you chase anyone or anything."
Ethan paused, one hand on the fridge door. "Sometimes what's worth having doesn't need to be chased."
That landed. Her grip tightened slightly around the glass.
Roxanne never said it aloud, but something about Ethan had drawn her from the start. Not his looks—though they were hard to ignore—but the silence, the purpose, the pain she could see but not name.
She had buried a husband in her late twenties. And something about Ethan's eyes looked like they had buried something too.
John sat up. "You know what's nuts? He got invited to Marco's elite beach party next Sunday."
Ethan didn't react. But Roxanne did.
She blinked. "Marco Valentino?"
John nodded, stuffing another fry. "Yeah. Big villa, wild parties, real Gatsby shit."
Ethan spoke before Roxanne could. "I hadn't planned on going."
John frowned. "But you will."
Roxanne, quiet now, tilted her head. "You're full of surprises."
Ethan took a long sip of cold water and leaned back on the counter.
"I don't go for the waves or the wine," he said. "But sometimes, the battlefield is where people forget they're being watched."
John blinked. "Bro, what does that even mean?"
Roxanne didn't ask.
She just watched him.
Two years in that apartment. She had seen boys grow into men. But Ethan Vale hadn't grown. He had refined. Distilled into something sharp, strategic… and alone.
And next Sunday, under coastal lights and champagne skin, she wondered:
Would the world finally see what she already did?
Or would they be too busy drowning in noise to recognize a storm?