My Darling Ex-Wife Is Unaware I’m Rich

Chapter 16: Into The Ring

Maxwell leaned back in the leather seat of the sleek black SUV, staring out at the blur of the city. Despite being discharged from the hospital with a clean bill of health, his body betrayed him—each movement a sharp reminder of his recent collapse. The faint hum of the engine filled the silence, occasionally interrupted by static crackling from Jackson’s earpiece.

Jackson, seated in the driver’s seat, kept his focus on the road. His stoic expression gave away little, but Maxwell sensed the man was preoccupied, likely replaying the intense conversation they’d had hours earlier. There was more to Jackson than his quiet demeanor—his presence was a constant reminder of the dangers Maxwell now faced.

When the car rolled to a stop in front of the towering glass building that housed Maxwell’s penthouse, Jackson quickly stepped out to open the door for him.

“Thanks,” Maxwell muttered, hesitating briefly before stepping onto the pavement.

As they rode the elevator to his floor, Jackson’s watchful eyes never left him. Maxwell didn’t mind the shadow—he found comfort in it, knowing Marcus had entrusted Jackson with his safety.

The moment Maxwell stepped into his penthouse, he dropped his bag by the door and shrugged off his jacket. Without another thought, he headed straight to the shower.

The scalding water pounded against his skin, washing away not just the grime but the tension of the past few days. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel the weight of everything—his crumbling health, the ghosts of his past, and the daunting path ahead.

Afterward, he collapsed onto his bed, intending to rest for only a few minutes. Sleep, however, claimed him swiftly.

After an hour, Maxwell awoke to the persistent chime of his phone. Groggy, he reached for it, Alfred’s name flashing on the screen along with a single message:

“Be here by noon.”

No address, no explanation just a road map shared. Typical Alfred. Maxwell didn’t bother replying; Alfred wasn’t one to wait for confirmations.

_

The location turned out to be an old boxing gym, its facade worn down with time. The peeling paint and boarded-up windows suggested it had seen better days. As Maxwell stepped inside, the heavy smell of sweat and aged leather assaulted his senses. The dim light filtering through cracks in the boards illuminated a worn boxing ring at the center of the room.

Alfred stood in the ring, bouncing lightly on his toes, his hands wrapped in sparring gloves. His muscular frame exuded a quiet dominance, one that Maxwell couldn’t ignore.

“You’re late,” Alfred said without looking up.

Maxwell crossed his arms, standing just outside the ropes. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”

Alfred smirked. “You are now. Get in here.”

Maxwell hesitated. “What’s this about?”

Alfred gestured to a small room off to the side of the gym. “First, go change. You can’t train looking like you just walked out of a boardroom.”

Maxwell followed Alfred’s gaze to the room, where he found a simple outfit laid out—a pair of black boxing shorts, a tank top, and gloves. The room smelled faintly of old sweat and chalk, the walls adorned with posters of fighters from decades past.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before pulling off his shirt. As he changed, he caught his reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. The faint bruises on his torso and the dark circles under his eyes served as a stark reminder of how far he’d fallen from the man he once was—or thought he was.

“Let’s see if you’ve still got it,” he muttered to himself, pulling on the gloves and adjusting the wraps around his wrists.

When Maxwell stepped out of the room, Alfred looked him over and nodded approvingly. “Now you look the part. But don’t get comfortable—that’s the easy part of today.”

With a reluctant sigh, Maxwell climbed through the ropes. Alfred’s movements were deliberate, his stance that of a seasoned fighter.

“We’re not here for a conversation,” Alfred began, rolling his shoulders. “Before I can build you into someone capable of leading, I need to tear you down. Break you. Strip away all the weakness.”

Maxwell frowned. “Break me? Sounds more like an excuse to beat me up.”

Alfred didn’t answer—he launched forward, throwing a quick jab that landed squarely against Maxwell’s shoulder.

“Keep your guard up,” Alfred barked as Maxwell stumbled back, caught off guard.

“What the hell, Alfred?!”

“This isn’t a game,” Alfred snapped. “If you think your enemies will go easy on you, you’re dead wrong.”

The punches came harder, faster. Alfred was relentless, each strike a test of Maxwell’s endurance. His muscles burned as he struggled to block the blows, but Alfred moved with the precision of a predator, exposing every flaw in Maxwell’s defenses.

“Do you even know what’s waiting for you?” Alfred growled between punches. “Alphonse. Lenox. They’ll chew you up and spit you out. And when it comes down to it, you’ll face them in the Agnikai—a duel for the seat of power. It’s your birthright, but they’ll make you bleed for it.”

Maxwell barely managed to deflect the next hit. “You mean to tell me I’ll have to fight for everything, even if I prove my claim?”

Alfred nodded grimly. “Exactly. Lenox has been training for this moment his entire life. Alphonse made sure of it. If you want to survive, you need to be stronger than you’ve ever been—physically, mentally, emotionally. And if you can’t handle that, you might as well give up now.”

Maxwell’s jaw tightened. He didn’t reply, his focus narrowing on Alfred’s movements.

The sparring dragged on, each round more grueling than the last. By the end of the first hour, Maxwell’s arms felt like lead, his lungs burning with every breath. Alfred, on the other hand, seemed as fresh as when they’d started.

“You’re soft,” Alfred said, his tone sharp. “You’ve spent your life running—letting people step all over you. That ends now. You want to lead? Earn it.”

Maxwell’s mind flashed with memories—Fiona’s sharp tongue, Emma’s cold dismissal, Lenox’s sneering gaze. The anger bubbled up, reigniting his resolve.

When Alfred came at him again, Maxwell managed to dodge, throwing a clumsy counterpunch. It wasn’t enough to land, but Alfred grinned.

“Finally. You’ve got some fight in you after all.”

By the time the session ended, Maxwell was barely standing. His bruises ached, and his legs trembled beneath him, but a small part of him felt pride.

“You’ve got heart,” Alfred said, tossing him a water bottle. “That’s a start. But don’t think this was enough. This is just the beginning.”

Maxwell collapsed onto the ropes, his chest heaving. “I thought... you wanted me to give up,” he panted.

Alfred chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. “Oh, you’ll know when I want you to give up. But until then, you’ll keep going.”

Maxwell managed a weak smile. “Looking forward to it.”