The Heiress Gambit-Chapter 31- morning routine

PAIGE

The sharp, insistent buzz of my 5 AM alarm sliced through the deep, post-sex haze of sleep. I groaned, fumbling for my phone on the nightstand to silence it.

The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Reomen was already gone. Of course he was.

A long, hot bath in the Kaldewei tub was necessary. My body ached in places I’d forgotten existed, a delicious, sore reminder of the night before. As the steam filled the ensuite, I tried to scrub away the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice coaxing me to beg. It was useless.

Wrapped in a plush Frette robe, I padded back into the bedroom, my stomach growling. I needed food, and maybe a strong coffee before I had to face him. I was heading for the door when I noticed it.

A door I’d assumed was a second closet or extra storage was slightly open. Curiosity got the better of me. I pushed it open.

My breath caught in my throat.

It wasn’t a closet. It was a walk-in wardrobe the size of my entire Hell’s Kitchen apartment. And it was full. Not just full—stocked.

Racks of clothes stretched from floor to ceiling. One side held a breathtaking array of corporate armor: razor-sharp Alexander Wang blazers, silk Theory blouses, elegant trousers from Joseph. The other side was a collection of everything else: cocktail dresses that looked like they were from The Row, soft cashmere loungewear from La Perla, even a section of jeans—probably Frame or Mother—and simple t-shirts that felt impossibly soft to the touch.

Shoes were lined neatly on shelves—Christian Louboutin pumps, sleek Aquazzura flats, Valentino rockstud sandals. Drawers, when I pulled one open, revealed delicate La Perla lingerie, still with tags.

Has this always been here?

The thought was stupid. Of course it hadn’t. This was Reomen’s work. A gilded cage, just like he’d said. A cage with a jaw-droppingly expensive wardrobe.

The sheer scale of it, the calculated perfection of every item, should have infuriated me. Instead, a traitorous thrill went through me.

He’d been watching.

He knew my size, my style, down to the last detail. It was the most unnerving, possessive gift I’d ever received.

My stomach growled again, louder this time, pulling me from my thoughts. The night’s activities had left me ravenous.

I quickly picked out a simple black Theory shell and a pair of tailored trousers. Slipping into the clothes—which fit perfectly—I left the sanctuary of the wardrobe and headed out into the penthouse to find him.

His bedroom was empty, the bed already made with military precision.

I was turning to head toward the kitchen when the housekeeper appeared, her steps silent on the polished concrete.

"Good morning, miss," she said, her voice as neutral as ever. "You are looking for Mr. Daki?"

I nodded. "I was, yes."

"He is in the gym. It is part of his morning routine. I can show you the way, if you wish."

She didn’t wait for my answer, simply turning and leading me down a different hallway, one I hadn’t explored. She stopped at a set of double doors made of frosted glass.

"He is in there," she said with a slight bow of her head before melting back into the shadows of the penthouse.

I stood before the doors, my hand hovering over the handle. The faint, rhythmic thump of heavy bass music pulsed from within.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open.

The frosted glass doors swung open into a space that stole the air from my lungs. This wasn’t a home gym. It was a commercial-grade fitness center plopped into a Tribeca penthouse.

The walls were mirrored from floor to ceiling, reflecting a staggering array of Technogym equipment—weight machines, racks of dumbbells, a heavy bag, and even a Pilates reformer.

And there he was.

Reomen was on a treadmill, his back to me, but he’d clearly seen my reflection in the massive mirror wall in front of him.

He didn’t stop.

His pace was a fast, punishing run, the powerful muscles in his back and shoulders rippling under a sheen of sweat.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of black Lululemon shorts, and every defined line of his physique was on brutal, magnificent display.

"Black Cat," he called out, his voice slightly breathless but laced with its usual smugness, carrying over the thump of the treadmill and the low electronic beat of his music. "You’re up early. Or did you not sleep?"

He glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes raking over me in my new Theory outfit. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face.

"You look tired," he said, turning his gaze back to the mirror, his tone dripping with sarcastic faux-concern. "All that... effort last night must have worn you out."

He increased the treadmill’s speed, his legs pumping faster. "You should workout more. Burn off some of that lazy fat. Build up your stamina."

The insult was so arrogant, so deliberately provocative, that I just stood there for a second, frozen by his audacity.

He was referencing the most intimate night of my life and using it to mock my fitness level.

My face flushed with a mixture of anger and humiliating arousal at the sight of him. Before I could form a cutting retort, he reached out and hit the stop button on the treadmill.

The machine slowed to a halt. He grabbed a white towel from the rail and wiped the sweat from his face and chest, not even slightly winded. He turned to face me fully, his smirk firmly in place.

"Unless you’d rather just watch," he purred, throwing the towel over his shoulder. "I don’t mind an audience. But participation is far more rewarding."

He took a step toward me, his presence overwhelming the large space. "So? What’s it going to be, Paige? Are you going to stand there, or are you going to get on a treadmill and prove you can keep up?"

I knew I would regret this. My gym routine for the past year had consisted of casual runs along the Hudson and the occasional set of squats in my living room.

I was no match for whatever brutal regimen he followed in this palace of pain.

But the smug, challenging look on his sweaty, perfect face was too much.

"Keeping up has never been the problem," I fired back, my voice sharper than I felt. "It’s staying interested, that’s the challenge."

His smirk widened. He gestured with a sweep of his hand toward the treadmill next to his. "By all means. Impress me."

Gritting my teeth, I walked to the machine. I could feel his eyes on me, cataloging every movement. I stepped onto the belt, my heart already hammering with a mix of dread and defiance.

I set a pace that was ambitious for me—a fast run, just on the edge of what I knew I could handle.

He let out a low, mocking laugh. "A solid start, Black Cat! Let’s see if you can maintain it!" He started his own treadmill again, easily matching my pace and then increasing his, pushing himself harder, showing off.

I refused to look at him. I focused on the digital display, on the rhythm of my own breathing.

The burn in my lungs was immediate. My legs, still sore from the night before, began to protest.

But I pushed. I pushed through the ache, through the stitch forming in my side. This wasn’t about fitness. This was about pure, undiluted determination. It was about not letting him win this stupid, petty battle.

He kept up a running commentary, a mix of taunts and what sounded like genuinely surprised encouragement. "Look at you go! Who knew you had it in you? Don’t quit on me now!"

I was close to my limit. The world began to narrow to the thud of my feet on the belt and the ragged sound of my own breathing.

My muscles screamed. My vision started to spot at the edges.

I had given it everything I had, fueled by nothing but spite. And as I finally hit the stop button, stumbling off the treadmill with shaky legs and dripping with sweat, I knew one thing for certain: this magnificent, stupid display of pride was going to make me unable to walk properly tomorrow.

It was going to bite me right in the butt. But the look of sheer, amused astonishment on his face? For a single, glorious moment, it felt worth it.

The brutal run, fueled by nothing but pure spite, had left me completely hollowed out. The hunger I’d felt before was nothing compared to the ravenous, gnawing emptiness that now gripped my stomach.

A wave of lightheadedness washed over me, and I staggered, my shaky legs finally giving out.

He laughed, of course he did. A rich, dark sound of pure amusement that echoed in the massive gym.

"And that’s the end of today’s lesson," he chuckled, wiping the sweat from his brow with his towel. He walked over to me, not with concern, but with a mocking swagger.

Before I could protest, he bent down and scooped me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing. I was too exhausted, too dizzy to even put up a token fight.

My head lolled against his sweaty shoulder, and I hated that the scent of him—clean sweat and effort—wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

"Look at you," he teased, carrying me effortlessly out of the gym and down the hall. "All that fire, and a little run turns you into a helpless kitten."

He shouldered his way into his massive, minimalist bedroom and deposited me gently onto the rumpled sheets of his bed.

The contrast between the cool, high-thread-count Frette linens and my overheated, sweaty skin was a shock.

He walked over to a sleek panel on the wall, pressing a button. "Yes," he said, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone. "Bring two breakfasts to my room. The usual for me. And for the guest... something substantial. She’s about to fall over from hunger."

He released the button and turned back to me, a smug, triumphant look on his face as he took in my pathetic, sprawled-out form.

"See?" he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I take care of what’s mine. Even when they’re foolish enough to collapse from a lack of common sense and carbohydrates."