The sincerity in his tone caught her off guard, and Riley felt some of her defensive walls beginning to lower despite her best efforts.
"Well," she said, attempting to inject some lightness into her voice, "how bad is it? And please don't sugar-coat it. I can handle the truth."
Adrian's expression grew serious, and she watched him choose his words carefully.
"It's not great," he said finally. "Based on your current profit margins and the rate at which your expenses are increasing, you have maybe six months to turn things around before the gym becomes financially unsustainable."
The words hit her like a punch to her sternum, knocking the breath from her lungs. Six months. Her life's work, everything she'd built from nothing, everything that defined who she was—gone in six months.
"That can't be right," she said, her voice sharper than intended. "I've been careful. I've been smart about expenses, I've?—"
"Riley." Adrian's voice was gentle but firm, cutting through her rising panic. "The numbers don't lie. But that doesn't mean this is hopeless."
The waiter appeared at their table with impeccable timing, his cheerful demeanor a jarring contrast to the weight settling inRiley's chest. She ordered a Caesar salad without really thinking about it, her appetite having vanished the moment Adrian had delivered his verdict.
"It's going to be okay," he said quietly after the waiter left, and something in his tone made her look up. "I have several short-term fixes that will help stabilize your cash flow immediately. But if you're looking for long-term viability, we need to explore ways to increase your visibility and bring in more foot traffic."
Riley's stomach clenched, and not from hunger.
"Here we go," she muttered. "Let me guess—I need to get more social media presence, maybe soften my image, smile more for the cameras, turn myself into some kind of fitness influencer who sells protein shakes and motivational quotes."
She could feel herself getting defensive, the familiar walls slamming back into place. This was Trent all over again—another man who thought he knew better than she did about how to run her own business.
But Adrian's response surprised her.
"Actually," he said, leaning forward with an intensity that made her pulse skip, "I want to play to your strengths, not change your image in any way. You've built something authentic here, Riley. Something that matters to people. The last thing I'd want to do is ask you to compromise that."
The honesty in his voice made something tight in her chest begin to loosen.
"I'm willing to work with you to come up with options that fit your vision and your comfort level," he continued. "But I need you to trust me enough to let me try."
Riley stared at him across the table, caught between the fierce independence that had carried her this far and the growing realization that she might not be able to save her gymalone. Something in Adrian's expression—patient, determined, and surprisingly respectful—made her want to believe him.
For the first time in months, she felt like she might not have to carry everything by herself.
The waiter arrived with a flourish, placing Riley's simple Caesar salad and Adrian's perfectly cooked steak between them. He then presented a bottle of red wine with a practiced cork-pull, pouring a taste for Adrian, who gave a curt nod of approval. As the waiter filled their glasses, Riley was starting to feel calmer. Maybe it was the aroma of food, or the warm, inviting glow of the restaurant, or the way Adrian hadn't pressed her after delivering his grim financial prognosis.
She picked up her fork and took a bite of the crisp romaine and sharp parmesan. The simple act of eating tonight with Adrian felt like a small reclaiming of normalcy after six months of extreme stress.
Adrian watched her for a moment, his gaze intense but not intrusive. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to tonight," he said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air. "But if you do, I'm just going to sit back and listen."
The offer felt like a trapdoor opening beneath her feet. She never talked about Trent or her personal life that much. Not to anyone but Lila or her mom, and even then, it was with clipped sentences. Never to a man she'd just met, especially one who looked like he'd stepped out of a fantasy and smelled like a forest after a storm. Yet, the words climbed her throat, fueled by a sudden, reckless need to be understood by him.
She took a large gulp of wine, the warmth spreading through her chest.
"Pace yourself," Adrian said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips.
A laugh bubbled out of her, surprising her with its genuineness. "Sorry. It's been a rough six months," she said, the admission slipping out before she could stop it. "It's just… my former gym manager. Trent. He wasn't just my manager."
Adrian's expression didn't change, but his eyes focused on her with absolute stillness, absorbing every word.
"He was my boyfriend for a year," she continued, the story pouring out in a quiet, steady stream. She told him about the initial support, the relief of sharing the load, and then the slow, insidious shift. The suggestions that became demands. The criticism wrapped in concern. "He wanted me to be softer. More approachable. He said my intensity was intimidating to potential gym members. He wanted to change everything—the pricing, the clientele,me—to fit some marketable mold."
Understanding dawned across Adrian's face, not as pity, but as sharp, clear recognition. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing the stem of his wine glass. "I would never advise you to change yourself," he said, each word deliberate. "That's the antithesis of good strategy. You build on strengths, not dismantle them." He took a slow sip. "And mixing business with personal relationships… I've had a few brief, shaky attempts with colleagues at my family's firm. It complicates things."
The admission startled her. This powerful, controlled man was confessing to professional missteps. He wasn't presenting himself as infallible. The realization was like a key turning in a lock she'd kept bolted shut. He understood. Not in the placating, patronizing way Trent had, but with the clarity of someone who'd navigated similar minefields.
She found herself relaxing into the conversation, the wine and his presence melting the rigid guard she usually wore. They finished their meals and the bottle of wine, the conversation flowing from business to training regimens to the specific challenges of building something that mattered. With everyexchanged word, the magnetic pull between them grew stronger, a live wire humming just beneath the surface of their polite discussion.