Chapter 1
Chapter One
The Hunt
aria pov
I was in my gym, working out like always, when my phone buzzed for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
Ignoring it, I drove my fist into the heavy bag hanging in front of me.
The chains rattled.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Sweat dripped down my neck as I continued my routine. Punch. Kick. Elbow. Knee.
Pain was predictable.
People weren’t.
My phone buzzed once more.
“Aria,” my coach called from across the gym. “You gonna answer that thing, or should I throw it out the window?”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed the towel slung over a nearby bench.
The second I unlocked my screen, I regretted it.
There it was.
Again.
The video.
The same damn video that had been spreading across the internet like wildfire for the last two weeks.
The footage showed me inside a fight cage, facing a man nearly twice my size. At first everything looked normal. Two fighters. One match.
Then things got really messy.
The clip skipped past most of the fight and cut straight to the part people loved to replay.
The part where my opponent hit the floor damn hard to make everyone jump from there feet .
The part where I didn’t immediately back away.
The part where the referee and security rushed in like I’d just committed a damn murder.
The comments underneath were even worse.
She’s insane.
what did i just saw ??
Someone should lock her up.
This psycho almost killed him.
No wonder nobody wants to hire her.
I snorted.
what did you just saw ?? you saw that motherfucker hit the ground
People loved acting like they knew everything from a thirty-second clip.
What the video didn’t show was the first ten minutes of the fight.
It didn’t show him targeting an old shoulder injury.
It didn’t show him trying to break my arm even after the bell.
It didn’t show him laughing at me struggling while doing it.
No. they never do.
All they saw was the ending.
Convenient.
“Still watching that video?” my coach asked with a sarcastic smile on his old face .
“I like seeing how creative strangers can get.”
He walked over and glanced at my screen.
“One guy called you a rabid raccoon.”
I blinked.
nearly choked out.
“What?”
“He called you a rabid raccoon.”
I stared at him.
“That’s oddly specific.”
“Honestly, it’s one of the nicer comments.”
A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
The amusement disappeared as quickly as it came.
Because the truth was simple.
The video had ruined everything.
Sponsors dropped me.
Gyms stopped returning my calls.
Training centers suddenly weren’t hiring.
Apparently being good at fighting became a problem when people actually saw you fight.
So to worsen my mood more.
I opened another email.
Rejected.
Another.
Rejected.
Another.
Rejected.
one more.
Rejected.
I clenched my jaw.
Three months ago, I was one of the most respected fighters in the city. Every each of them were paying me high just to teach them but ...
Now?
I couldn’t even get a job teaching beginners how to throw a punch or a simple kick .
Life had a twisted sense of humor.
“Any luck?” my coach asked.
I showed him the screen.
“That’s rejection number twenty-seven.”
“Only twenty-seven? i think there would be more ”
“Don’t even try to start again .”
He chuckled.
“You’re terrifying when you’re unemployed.”
“I’m terrifying when I’m employed too.”
“ ok your point.”
I dropped onto a nearby bench and rubbed my temples oddly irritated by this god dammit situation .
Money was obviously running out.
Rent was due next week.
My savings account looked like a crime scene.
And unless I wanted to start living off instant noodles for the rest of my life, I needed a job.
Fast enough to pay my rent.
As I was deep in thinking.
The gym door suddenly opened with a loud thud .
A cold gust of air swept inside.
One of the receptionists hurried over holding a sealed envelope.
“Aria?”
I frowned.
“Yeah?”
“This came for you.”
I took it.
No return address.
No company logo.
Nothing.
Just my name written across the front on that brown piece of paper.
A strange feeling settled in my stomach.
“Well that’s really not creepy at all,” I muttered.
My coach leaned in closer.
“Open it.”
I tore the envelope open.
Inside was a single black card.
An address.
A time.
Eight o’clock tonight.
And just one fucking sentence.
We have a job offer that may catch your interest.
I stared at it.
Then I flipped it over.
Totally blank.
“No phone number?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“No company name?”
“Nope.”
“No explanation?”
“Nope.”
I looked at my coach.
“This is how MOST of the people get kidnapped.”
“Or hired.”
“Mostly kidnapped.”
He shrugged.
“You need a job.”
I hated that he had a point.
The address wasn’t familiar.
But if someone had gone through the trouble of finding me directly, they clearly knew who I was.
And judging by the expensive cardstock alone, they weren’t exactly struggling financially.
“ Are you actually considering it?” he asked.
I slipped the card into my pocket.
“I can consider anything that pays rent.”
Outside, storm clouds gathered over the city.
A bad omen.
Or maybe just weather it is .
Either way, by seven-thirtyeight that evening, I was standing in front of my apartment mirror pulling my hair into a tight ponytail.
My reflection stared back at me.
Dark eyes.
Scar above my eyebrow.
Fighter’s build.
The face half the internet apparently hated.
“Wish me luck,” I muttered to myself.
Then I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
Whatever waited at that address had to be better than another rejection email.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
I waited outside, and a black rolls royce appeared .... a fucking damn rolls royce if i was getting kidnapped then i would like to actually love too.
I would later realize that some opportunities are far more dangerous than unemployment.
And I was about to walk straight into one.
