Chapter 3: Sweat Dripping
986 Words
Andrew’s POV
Ambrose Fitness Gym House opened every day at 6:30 a.m. A high-end fortress of sweat and vanity where the membership fee alone could rival a month's rent in downtown Manhattan. And today, unlike most days, I found myself pulling up to its glossy entrance, veering off from my usual solo sessions at my private home gym.
The Ferrari 488 GTB purred to a halt in the nearly empty parking lot. 6:40 a.m.—still early enough for peace. I stepped out, locking eyes with my reflection in the tinted windows. Focused. Sharp. Restless.
Inside, the receptionist scanned my card. "Welcome back, Mr. Phillips," he said, surprise registering for a moment before he masked it with politeness. "It’s been a while."
“I know,” I replied coolly. “Felt like switching things up.”
The main gym floor was only lightly populated mostly the hardcore crowd who believed in bleeding before breakfast. I started with a light jog on the treadmill, thirty minutes of zoning out to my own thoughts. Then came the push-ups. Then the deadlifts.
My hands wrapped around the barbell. The weight mocked me—400 pounds of cold, unrelenting steel. I set my stance and pulled. One set. Then another. My muscles burned. My back trembled. Sweat ran down my spine like a second skin.
“Come on, Andrew. Two more,” a voice called from behind me.
I didn’t have to look. That voice was familiar.
With clenched teeth and a guttural growl, I hoisted the final set and held it. My entire body shook. Five seconds. Ten. Then I let it drop—slow and controlled.
“Well done, Andrew.”
I turned. “Chris. Long time.”
We clasped hands. Chris had been a friend and business partner for two years, bonded first by barbells and later by blueprints and billion-dollar contracts.
“Man, I’m surprised to see you here. You’ve been ghosting this place for, what—six months?”
“I needed a different energy this morning. Private gym’s too quiet. Too predictable.”
He chuckled. “Glad you’re back in the land of the living.”
We shifted to chest routines, falling into an easy rhythm. That’s when I saw her.
A woman on the stationary bike. Dark ponytail, sculpted legs, and fitted black workout wear that clung to her body like second skin. Not overly flashy. But she moved with purpose. Confidence.
“You know her?” Chris asked, catching me mid-stare.
“No,” I murmured. “Just admiring the view.”
He smirked knowingly.
Right then, my iPhone vibrated. Mayor Phillips, in bold. My father.
I excused myself and stepped to the far corner of the gym. Then I pressed to accept the call.
“Good morning, Father.”
His voice, sharp and commanding: “Andrew. Come to my office before eight today, treat as important.”
I exhaled. “I have a 9 a.m. board meeting and a full day planned. Can this wait till evening?”
“No. I expect you soon.” Click.
That was it. No reason. No room for negotiation.
I stared at the phone. Something was off. Urgency in my father’s tone always meant one thing—manipulation was coming.
I turned to find Chris chatting up the same woman. Laughing. Close.
I didn’t care. Or maybe I did. But I wouldn’t show it.
“Ayo, Chris,” I called out. “I’ve gotta bounce. Something came up.”
He jogged over. “I was just about to introduce you to your girl. The one you were eyeing.”
“She’s not my girl,” I muttered. “See you around.”
As I walked out, I felt eyes follow me admiring, assessing. Women stared, some whispering. I was used to it.
Fair-skinned, 6’8, and owning one of the largest construction companies on the East Coast. Add my father’s reputation as a wealthy, ruthless politician, and you had me: Andrew Phillips. Built to intimidate. Raised to dominate.
But none of that mattered right now. Something was stirring beneath the surface, and I hated being pulled off track.
Back at my mansion, the automatic gate slid open. The water fountain shimmered in the morning light. A line of muscle-bound men in black suits stood like sentinels, eyes sharp, posture tighter than a drum.
I stepped out, tossing the Ferrari keys to one of the guards. “Park it. Get the Phantom ready. We leave in ten.”
Inside, my PA greeted me with a tablet in hand, already listing the chaos of my day.
“You’ve got a 9 a.m. board meeting, a site inspection at ”
“Cancel everything,” I cut in. “We leave in ten.”
“Understood, Sir.”
In the kitchen, Agnes handed me coffee. “Velvety. No sugar. Just how you like it.”
“Thanks, Agnes.” Her warmth softened something in me, just for a second.
I downed the coffee, showered fast, suited up even faster. Navy Tom Ford, silver cufflinks, hair slicked back. A storm in a suit.
By 7:40, I descended the stairs, glanced at the dining room clock, and met my PA at the door.
“We’re ready, Sir.”
As the Phantom rolled out, the convoy followed behind.
I couldn’t shake the feeling crawling up my spine. My father didn’t do anything urgent without reason. And whatever he wanted, it wasn’t going to be good.
I leaned back into the leather seat, jaw tense.
And for a split second… I pictured her again. The woman in the gym.
I didn’t even know her name.
But I had a sinking feeling I was going to.
Suddenly my gut twisted as the convoy turned toward the city. Mayor Phillips never called without an agenda and if he was cutting through my packed schedule like this, it meant one thing.
He was about to ruin everything.
- Writer
