in the boxing gym today. That saves me some trouble.
I warm up on the bags, kicking and punching to stretch out and activate my muscles. My punching bag is close to the ring, where two men are dancing around each other.
Men do that. Dancing is their specialty, for instance, creating pyramid schemes and calling them MLMs so that they can prey on women’s insecurities—placing the wealthy housewives at the top of their teams to entice the desperate—making rich men even richer under the ruse of female-run businesses.
Or, in this instance, setting up multiple fake LLCs to funnel money overseas, then buying and selling stolen diamonds that “accidently” fell off freight liners between ports.
One of the men on the platform is an expert at dancing. When he knocks the other down, counting to his not-so-peaceful victory, I make my way to the ring.
I shove the bite guard into my mouth, between the slits in my helmet, and climb onto the platform.
“I’m not done,” a familiar voice says.
“I’m not asking you to leave,” I say, my mouthguard slurring my words and making me spit. “You and me.” I nod my head, pulling my gloves on.
“You’re a girl,” he chides.
“Then you might have a chance.” Smack talk was always a trigger when we were kids, and it seems to be working now, too.
A bell chimes, and he begins his bouncing and sashaying around the ring. I waste no time. I take a swing, connecting my glove with the side of his helmet.
Today, I don’t give a fuck about rules. This first strike is for Olivia—all the lies he told her, and the hell he put her through.
He stumbles backward, regaining his footing. He’s not fast enough. I strike again—for the years of unsuccessful fertility treatments that he put Olivia through.
“What the fuck?” he mumbles, straightening himself again.
“You spend too much time sidestepping,” I tell him, taking another swing.
This time, when he stumbles, I spin, my foot connecting with his body. He loses his footing and hits the ground.
For stealing my shit.
I back off, allowing him to stand again.
As soon as his gloves are in front of his jawline, he tries to swing at me, but I duck and spin through the move, striking him again.
For faking your own death and leaving me all alone.
When he lands on the ground, he gasps for air, not scrambling up like the time before.
I move slowly, stepping over him and squatting down. I slam my glove into the mat, counting down to his defeat.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” he gasps.
Locking my eyes with his, I yank my gloves off and remove the mouthguard before slipping off my helmet. His eyes widen with fear, and he tries to get up, but I shove his shoulder down.
“From you.” I make my words like ice so they’ll chill as they sink in.
Leaning over him, I bring my face within inches of his.
“Tell me, where’d you learn to sell counterfeit jewelry?” I ask in a low rumble.
“From you,” he spits back, a cackle rising from his chest.
“Really?” I let a purposeful grin cross my face. “I heard you’re too cowardly to work for yourself. Instead, you let someone else boss you around.”
He stirs underneath me, a fresh rage boiling from his core.
“Libby made me a great deal. It’s the same one he made our parents. The difference is, I was smart enough to take it.”
Anger pulsates through me. I shove him into the mat, pressing against his throat.
His face turns red as his oxygen supply drops.
“I tried … to protect … you.” His raspy tone is colder than my blood, pleading for redemption.
“No, you protected yourself and took everything—leaving me for dead. It didn’t work, did it?”
He can’t speak now; I’m pressing too hard.
“Elle,” a calm voice calls from behind me. It’s my reminder.
I give one final shove, then release him, standing and backing away. He gasps and chokes on air, his hand to his throat.
“Olivia?” he finally manages to say as I climb out of the ring.
She tosses a white stick at him.
“Let’s go,” she whispers, steering me toward the door.
I stare over my shoulder at him, unable to walk away with the confidence that she has. As the officers pass us, running to the ring where Travis is lying on his side, I finally pull my eyes from him.
“You’re pregnant?!” he shouts after us.
Olivia lifts her arm and waves, a man’s watch shifting on her wrist as she does.
“Why do you have my watch?” Camden says with exasperation.
She turns back toward him, her eyes locking with his.
“For all the time you stole from me,” she says, then spins around and links her arm with mine. “Ready to get home? There’s a pup waiting for you.”
My chest is full as I settle into an existence that’s focused on neither lies nor revenge.
“But first, there’s a little shop down the road…” I say with excitement. “It’s full of baby things. Maybe you know it. I’d like to take you there.”
She squeezes my arm. “Yes, please.”