An Iron-Body Fighter Told Single Mom "Your Punches Are Useless" — She Was Down, 6 Seconds Later He Regretted!
Chapter 8
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This one is dressed sharper than anyone who's come through Ironclad's door all week: a gray suit, no tie, the kind of watch that costs more than Callie makes in a month. He's got a leather folder tucked under one arm and the practiced smile of a man about to say something people won't want to hear. His name is Gordon Aldridge; he's Bronson's manager—but that's not the only reason he's here today."Afternoon," Gordon says, looking around the gym like he's already measuring it for something else. "Is the owner in?""Walt's not here today," Callie says. Walt Ironclad technically owns the gym—74 years old, mostly retired to Florida these days; he leaves the daily running of the place to Silas and Callie. "Can I help you with something?"Gordon's smile widens; it doesn't reach his eyes. "Actually," he says, "I think I need to speak with Mr. Whitmore. Is he around?"Callie hesitates half a second, then nods toward the back. Silas straightens up from the equipment rack, wiping his hands on a rag. He walks over, slow and unhurried."Help you?" Silas says.Gordon opens his leather folder; he slides a document across the counter—smooth, practiced, like he's done this exact motion a hundred times before. "I represent a group of investors interested in this property," he says. "We understand the gym's been struggling financially. Behind on a few payments, if the county records are accurate."Silas doesn't touch the paper. "Where'd you hear that?""It's public record." Gordon shrugs, unbothered. "Look, I'm not here to be the villain. I'm here with an offer—a fair one. More than fair, honestly, given the condition of the building.""The building's fine," Callie says, sharper than she means to.Gordon glances at her like he's noticing her for the first time. "I'm sorry, you are—?""Nobody, apparently," Callie mutters."She's the one who's kept this place standing while Walt sits on a beach in Florida," Marge calls out from the treadmill, not even looking up.Gordon ignores that, too; men like Gordon are good at deciding quickly what's worth hearing and what isn't."She works here," Silas says before Callie can answer for herself—something protective in the way he says it, final, not up for discussion.Gordon lets it go. He turns back to Silas. "The offer stands until the end of the week. Friday, to be specific. After that, we'll look at other properties on this block. I understand there's some kind of event happening Friday night—a charity thing at the community center.""The firefighters' memorial," Callie says quietly. "For the ones who died in the line of duty.""Right, that." Gordon nods like it's a scheduling detail, not the most important night of Callie's year. "Anyway, Friday. That's the deadline. After that, the offer is off the table—so is your leverage."He closes his folder, sets a business card on the counter, and gives them both a smile meant to look reassuring; it lands somewhere closer to threatening. "Think it over," he says. "I'd hate for this place to just disappear, but sometimes that's how it goes." He pauses at the door, glancing back like he's remembered something amusing. "Bronson's doing an exhibition match Friday night, by the way. Part of the memorial event. Community outreach, good publicity. He does love an audience."