Chapter 3: Curiosity Is A Dangerous Thing

Milena Dragovic

I debated sitting down to drink it but decided to walk to my apartment instead. I still had time before my next client.

I told myself I wouldn’t think about him. But by the time I reached my apartment, I was already lying.

The hallway encounter replayed in my mind on a loop. The silence, the look in his eyes, the way he’d walked away without a word.

My apartment was just across the street. I crossed when there were no cars coming and unlocked the front door. I kicked off my high-heeled black leather boots and walked down the hall into the open floor plan living room.

I usually sat at the kitchen island, but today I sank onto the couch instead. I needed the comfort of the soft pillows and a warm blanket.

I pulled the file from my bag, set it on the coffee table, placed the latte beside it, and opened my laptop. I had about thirty minutes before my next session, so I opened my browser.

The search results stared back at me.

Fight records, interviews, and the occasional glossy photo where Alexander looked more model than fighter. But tucked between the polished headlines were the rumors of uncontrolled matches, threads whispering about “cash fights” in warehouses, and a single grainy video of a fight that didn’t look remotely legal.

I forced myself to click away from the video.

Professional instinct told me to stick to the notes: aggression, volatility, trust issues. But my eyes betrayed me, drawn again and again to the images of him mid-fight. Focus like steel, but rage simmering just beneath.

It was exactly what I’d seen with my brother before his accident. The same hunger, the same edge. And I hated how familiar it felt.

I shut the laptop with a snap and leaned back against the couch, dragging a hand down my face.

I know better than this. I swore I wouldn’t get involved with fighters again.

Still, the folder stared at me. Still, his eyes lingered in my head.

Alexander Li Chen.

The arrogant asshole who might turn my life upside down.

And if I said yes to Coach Jansen, I’d be committing to a case that will possibly cause me more stress than I need in my life at the moment.

The next day rolled around faster than I expected. I had a full schedule of clients, but Alexander’s file wouldn’t leave my mind. Or the way Coach’s voice softened when he spoke about him. His care for that man ran deep. Mine, however, needed to run for my own well-being.

I’d be lying if I said Alexander didn’t intrigue me, though. His stormy eyes held a story I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

Of course, I told myself this was work. Observation. Nothing more. The fact that my pulse kicked up at the thought? Irrelevant.

I pull out my phone and search for coaches' numbers in my contacts. I hovered over John’s contact for a bit. This, was reckless. But my fingers moved anyway.

Me: This isn’t a yes, but I’d like to come by tonight to observe Alexander at practice.

Coach: This means a lot to me, Mila. Xander usually arrives around six and stays late.

Coach: You can pop up whenever.

Coach: Feel free to train yourself too, I haven’t seen you box in years.

I stare at my phone and watch the text messages Coach sent me. I do miss training, but I only did it for fun occasionally with my brother or the Coach. They wanted me to know some self-defence and taught me to fight. Most of the time however, you could find me on the treadmill or doing some other form of cardio. Or I would be sitting in a corner somewhere, with a good book.

Me: I will see you there.

I quickly replied, not bothering to get into the last thing he said.

The day blurred by in sessions. Two baseball players, a swimmer, even a gymnast barely out of her teens. Athletes came young and left younger, except the lucky few who held on. By the time I was done, the gym was already tugging at the back of my mind.

By the time I locked my office, the sky had already turned into that late summer gold that makes everything look softer than it really is.

The walk to the gym felt longer than usual, maybe because my brain wouldn’t stop thinking.

You’re just observing. That’s all. It’s not even official. My inner voice sounded unconvinced.

Inside, the gym was louder than yesterday. Thuds, grunts, and the sound of punching gloves against pads. The gym felt full of energy. Fighters moved across the mats like choreographed chaos, their focus absolute.

Coach spotted me the second I stepped in. “Mila!” he boomed, waving me over. “Glad you came... He’s here.”

Of course he was.

My gaze skimmed over the floor until I found him. Alexander. No hoodie this time, just a tight shirt, black shorts, taped hands. Every motion was efficient, restrained power. He moved like the fight belonged to him and everyone else was just borrowing space.

I stayed near the edge, pretending to watch the other fighters while my eyes kept drifting back to him. Coach joined me, voice low.

“Raw talent,” he murmured. “But he doesn’t always know when to stop.”

Almost on cue, Alexander’s sparring partner landed a clean jab to his jaw. It wasn’t hard, but something flickered in Alexander’s eyes. It was cold, fast, and dangerous. The rhythm changed. His next strikes came harder, sharper, aggressive. The other guy stumbled back.

“Alex! Easy!” one of the trainers barked.

He didn’t stop.

Coach sighed and stepped forward. Two trainers moved in, catching Alexander’s arms. For a second, I thought he’d shove them off, but then he exhaled, turned away, and ripped the tape from his hands. The room went silent.

“See what I mean?” Coach muttered.

I nodded, unable to look away. Even in frustration, Alexander looked in control of the chaos he created.

He grabbed a water bottle, leaned against the cage, and tilted his head back, the line of his throat catching the light. Sweat glistened along his jaw and slid in a slow trail down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the cling of his shirt.

Heat curled low in my stomach.

Fantastic. Exactly what I didn’t need.

Then his gaze shifted. Straight to me. Our eyes met across the room. I should have looked away. I didn’t. Something unreadable passed across his face before he turned and walked toward the small side nook with cubbies, where he reached for his towel. He dragged it across his face and down the line of his neck, slow, controlled. It was nothing, but the motion held my attention like a magnet. It was ridiculous how aware I suddenly was of every slight movement.

“Give him a minute,” Coach said quietly, shifting my attention back to him. “He’ll come around.” Coach continued.

I wasn’t so sure.