Chapter 26
Sienna's POV
"Your landing pattern changed," I said.
The words came out before I could stop them.
Hayes stopped walking. The trainer beside me glanced up from his clipboard, surprised. "That's... actually correct. We flagged that in his last eval."
Hayes turned to face me, his expression unreadable.
"You remember how I used to walk," he said.
Not a question. A confirmation.
I felt the ground shift under me. Shit.
"Designers have to remember," I said quickly. "It's part of the job. Understanding movement patterns."
"No." He took a step closer, his voice low and precise. "You know how I used to walk. Which means you've been paying attention."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Because the truth was written all over my face, in the way my hands clenched around the notebook, in the way I couldn't meet his eyes.
The silence stretched between us, taut and suffocating.
Then the trainer cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "Ms. Thorne, we have his recent training data if you'd like to review it."
I grabbed onto the lifeline like it was the only thing keeping me from drowning. "Yes. I need to see it."
The trainer handed me a tablet, and I forced myself to focus on the screen. Gait analysis. Pressure mapping. Joint angle measurements.
Everything looked normal. Within acceptable ranges.
But I knew better.
I scrolled back to the pressure distribution chart and pointed at the right ankle. "He's not loading weight correctly here. He's compensating through his knee."
The trainer frowned. "The data shows his ankle stability is—"
"The data doesn't know him," I interrupted. My voice came out harder than I meant it to. "He's been doing this since high school. He'll shift his weight to avoid putting pressure on the injury site, and then his knee takes the hit instead."
The trainer's eyes widened slightly. He looked at Hayes, waiting for confirmation.
Hayes didn't move. He just stared at me, his expression carved from stone.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"She's right," he said quietly. "I've been doing it for years."
The trainer made a note on his clipboard, but I barely registered it. My heart was pounding too hard.
Because Hayes was still looking at me. And in his eyes, I saw something I didn't want to see.
---
I stood up abruptly, grabbing my toolbox. "I have what I need. I'll start working on the design."
I was already moving toward the exit when Hayes's voice stopped me cold.
"You signed the contract."
I froze, my back still turned.
"On-site collaboration," he continued, his tone even. Controlled. "That's not optional."
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe.
He wasn't asking. He was stating a fact.
He was right.
I turned around slowly, meeting his gaze across the field. This time, I didn't look away.
"Then I'll follow the rules," I said. My voice was steady.
---
The training session ended at five o'clock. I packed my tools mechanically, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind spun in circles. The pressure sensor. The leather swatches. The notebook with Hayes's measurements.
I was zipping the toolbox shut when a woman in a team polo intercepted me near the exit.
"Ms. Thorne?" She extended her hand, her smile professional and impersonal. "I'm the Catalyst project coordinator. I need to discuss your accommodation arrangements."
I blinked at her. "Accommodation?"
She pulled out a folder, flipping it open with practiced efficiency. "Contract clause seven specifies on-site residency for the design team. Given the nature of athletic equipment development, we need you available for immediate adjustments to Hayes's training schedule. Your workshop is—" she glanced at the paperwork, "—quite far from the facility. We can arrange temporary housing to streamline the process."
My chest tightened. "I don't need housing. I can commute."
She shook her head, her expression unchanging. "I'm afraid it's not optional. The clause was included specifically to ensure design-athlete collaboration remains fluid. We've secured an apartment for you at Harbor View Residences, Tower B. You can move in tomorrow morning by nine."
She handed me the folder. Inside: building address, unit number, keycard pickup instructions. All neatly typed. All already decided.
I stared at the address. Harbor View Residences.
On-site.
"I need to go back to my workshop tonight," I said, keeping my voice level. "To pack."
She nodded. "Of course. Tonight you can collect your essentials. The apartment is fully furnished, so you won't need much. Just personal items and work materials."
I closed the folder. "Fine. I'll be there tomorrow."
She smiled again, that same efficient, empty smile, and walked away.
I stood there for a long moment, the folder heavy in my hands, trying not to think about what it meant.
---
The drive back downtown felt longer than usual. I sat in the driver's seat with both hands gripped tight on the wheel.
I was halfway down Old Harbor Road, the industrial stretch where warehouses gave way to shipping yards and the streetlights thinned out, when the engine started making a sound it had never made before.
A grinding, metallic screech. Like something inside was tearing itself apart.
"No," I muttered. "Not now. Please, not now."
The car didn't care. The grinding got louder. The dashboard lit up—check engine, oil pressure, battery. Every warning light I'd been ignoring for months, all flashing at once.
I pressed the gas pedal. The car shuddered and slowed.
Then it died.
I coasted to the shoulder and sat there in the sudden silence, my hands still locked on the wheel, and let out a long, shaky breath.
Of course. Of fucking course.
My grandmother's car—a ten-year-old Honda Civic with a dent in the rear bumper and a check engine light that flickered on and off at random—had been with me since college.
I pulled out my phone. Six fifteen PM. The sun had already sunk below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of rust and ash. Around me, the old shipyard stretched out in shadows—abandoned warehouses, rusted shipping containers stacked like forgotten tombstones. The kind of place where people didn't stop unless they had to.
I opened the roadside assistance app and typed in my location. The loading wheel spun. Spun. Finally, an estimate popped up: forty-five minutes.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.
Forty-five minutes. Alone. In the dark.
I climbed out of the car and popped the hood, not because I knew how to fix it, but because standing still felt worse. The engine was a mess of metal and grime, coolant dripping onto the asphalt in a slow, steady leak. I shone my phone's flashlight over the belts—one of them had snapped clean through.
"Damn it," I whispered.
I slammed the hood shut and leaned against the car, arms crossed against the cold. The temperature had dropped fast. My breath misted in the air.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. No cars. No headlights. Just the wind howling and the distant sound of waves against the docks.
Then I heard an engine.