“Then you won’t.”
“No,” Mara said. “But I’m going to find out what he knows.”
Brielle learned about Rusk’s connection to the old exhibition from a conversation she was not supposed to hear.
He had gone to the office to ask Mercer whether the academy could host an open sparring day for local youth programs. The door was ajar. Inside, Mercer was speaking quietly on the phone.
“No,” the coach said. “She won’t meet him alone. And you can tell Dorian that the old contract doesn’t give him ownership of her past.”
Brielle stopped in the corridor.
Mercer listened for a moment. “You’re confusing access with consent. They are not the same thing.”
She ended the call and looked up. Brielle stepped into the doorway.
“Dorian Rusk knows Mara from before?”
Mercer set the phone down. “You should knock.”
“I heard his name.”
“Then you heard enough to know this is not your business.”
“Someone is threatening her. That makes it the academy’s business.”
“Correct. The academy’s. Not yours to manage.”
Brielle’s face flushed. “I’m trying to help.”
“Then start by understanding that helping does not mean taking control.”
The words struck too close to his own recent behavior. He folded his arms, then unfolded them. “If Rusk is behind this, I can get information from him. He wants me to sign with Northline. He’ll talk to me.”
“Which is why you should not give him another reason to use you.”
Brielle ignored the warning and called Rusk from the car park.
The promoter answered on the second ring. “Champion. I was beginning to wonder whether you’d forgotten me.”
“I want to know why you’re contacting Mara Voss.”
A pause, followed by a soft laugh. “Straight to the point. I admire that.”
“Answer me.”
“I’ve sent no threats. I sent a reminder. There’s a difference.”
“Of what?”
“History.”
“Leave her alone.”
“Now that is interesting. A week ago, you didn’t know her name. Today you’re her guardian?”
“I’m not her guardian.”
“Then perhaps you should let her speak for herself.”
Brielle hated how neatly Rusk used the truth. “What happened in Rotterdam?”
“That depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Then you’ll need to come to my office.”
“I’m not signing anything.”
“I didn’t ask you to. Come for coffee. We can discuss your future, and I can explain why Mara Voss’s return would be worth more than any contract you’ve ever signed.”
Brielle gripped the steering wheel. “She isn’t a product.”
“Everyone is a product in this business. Some people simply prefer not to read the label.”
Rusk ended the call.
Brielle sat motionless for several minutes. She could hear the academy’s air-conditioning unit humming through the wall. Her own reflection stared back from the windshield, face divided by the pale line of afternoon light.
He had always believed the business around fighting was merely the machinery that allowed the real thing to happen. Training was real. Competition was real. The contracts, press conferences, sponsorships, and rivalries were decorations around the core. But Rusk spoke as if the machinery had always been the point, and the fighters were raw material.
Brielle went back inside and found Mara restocking paper towels near the locker rooms. She stopped at a respectful distance.
“Rusk called me,” he said. “He wants me to meet him. I won’t do it without telling you.”
She studied him, searching for the hidden hook. “What did he say?”
“That he sent a reminder, not a threat. He wants to talk about Rotterdam and says your return would be valuable.”
“Of course he does.”
“He may have information.”
“He may have a story that benefits him.”
“I thought you should know.”
Mara nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”
Brielle had not expected gratitude to hurt. It did, because it showed how little was required of her: not a rescue, not a dramatic gesture, just honesty delivered without a demand for praise.
“Do you want me to stay away from him?” he asked.
“I want you to decide whether you can hear something unpleasant without turning it into a fight.”
He accepted the challenge silently.
“Then I’ll meet him,” he said, “and I’ll listen.”
“Listening is not the same as believing.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He almost gave the automatic answer. Instead, he said, “I’m trying to learn.”
Mara held his gaze for a moment, then returned to the supplies. “That’s a better answer.”
The meeting with Dorian Rusk took place in a glass-walled office above a hotel lobby, where every surface had been polished until it reflected a version of the world that looked more expensive than the real one. Rusk stood to greet Brielle and offered a handshake with the confidence of a man who had never worried that someone might refuse it. Her suit was dark, her cuff links understated, her smile carefully calibrated between warmth and amusement.