Page 34 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

She couldn’t even be bothered to call. Or have an in-person conversation with me. Or do me the courtesy of two-weeks’ fucking notice.

My stomach drops. For a second, I can’t fill my lungs. I stare at the screen, waiting for something to change. Maybe a follow-up message that saysjust kiddingorApril Fool’s, except it’s June and I know better.

She’s really gone.

She was my best instructor. Clients requested her all the time. She could sub last-minute or handle the advanced classes without asking me a million questions. And now she’s walking out, and I have no backup.

Part of me doesn’t even blame her. She was my last instructor. I’ve been hemorrhaging people since Sierra fucking James started making offers. Every week it’s someone else—first Jenn, then Nicole, then both the front desk girls in the same forty-eight-hour span. Maddie held out the longest. I really thought she’d stick it out with me.

But this? This one feels personal.

It shouldn’t. I know that. Maddie’s allowed to do what’s best for her. She has bills to pay and dreams of her own. But still—she didn’t even call. After two years of loyalty, flexibility and late-night reschedules, she sent me a five-sentence text like I’m just some boss she had to endure.

And Sierra? What the fuck did I ever do to this woman that made her set her sights on me?

We’ve never even spoken. She’s never stepped foot in my studio or even tried to introduce herself. Instead, she poaches my people with salary bumps and swag bags and wellness retreats in Fiji.

It almost feels targeted. Not because I’m competition—I’m not. She has celebrity backing and a national expansion plan. She’s got investors, a glossy PR team, and five thousand square feet of industrial-chic space. I’ve got eight reformers, a faulty air conditioner, and a toilet that doesn’t always work.

But she’s still coming for me.

What did I do? What about me says “threat” loud enough that she feels the need to dismantle me from the inside out?

Maybe it’s not about me at all. Maybe I’m just collateral damage. But it doesn’t feel that way when I open my calendar.Today is full. And every class Maddie was supposed to take is now mine to teach. I will have absolutely no down time. I’m booked straight through until late afternoon.

I don’t have anyone to call. Everyone has already been lured away.

I drop the phone on my bed and press the heels of my hands to my eyes.

I built this place from scratch. I didn’t buy it or inherit it or marry into it. I started with some capital from my brother, a handful of used equipment, and more days than I can count spent crying in the storage closet between classes. I negotiated the lease and repainted the place all by myself. I taught until my voice gave out and then taught some more.

My blood, sweat, and tears took this place from a tiny hole in the wall to a successful growing business. Only to have it backslide into nothing.

I’m going to lose it all.

This isn’t sustainable. I’ve been saying that for months, but now it is undeniable. Maddie leaving isn’t just a hard hit; it’s a crack in the foundation. A crack I don’t have the money or the time to patch.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a second, trying to steady myself. But I’m already cycling through what needs to happen today—emails to send, schedules to adjust, people to disappoint—but nothing feels doable.

Three group classes, two private sessions, and a duet—all stacked with barely enough time in between to wipe down equipment and reset the machines. Maddie was supposed to take the eleven and the one, which would have given me time to reset, maybe even eat something.

Now it’s just me.

So I cancel a hair appointment I’ve already rescheduled twice and send a quick apology to the stylist. I don’t bother trying torebook. I’ll be lucky if I make it through the day without pulling all my hair out. There'll be nothing left to style.

I shove a box of protein bars in my bag and leave the house without the usual pep talk I give myself in the mirror. What’s the point? The only thing I can afford to focus on right now is getting through the damn day.

By the time the first group arrives, I’m already sweating.

It’s not the light, glowy kind of sweat that wellness influencers rock like glamorous mermaids, either. No. This is stress sweat. This is deodorant-failing, bra-strap-soaked, swamp-monster sweat.

The energy in the room is off.

And it’s me. I’m the problem.

I just have to keep pushing through and hope what I’m doing is enough to make a difference.

Halfway through my second class, I’m cuing the double leg stretch when the front door opens.