Chapter EIGHT –
Meagan POV
It was another day. But not just any day. Today is the boxing event, golden rays piercing through the wall of windows in an unwelcome wake-up call.
Megan stirred beneath the luxurious sheets, body tense and mind already whirling. This was it – her moment to reclaim the narrative that her ex, Miles, had so ruthlessly tried to hijack.
“You’ve got this, champ,” she muttered, the familiar mantra steadying her nerves as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her gaze landed on the tattered picture frame on the nightstand – a frozen moment of Miles’ charming smile and her own adoring look, taken just weeks before the fateful night everything disintegrated.
Bile rose in her throat as the familiar sting of betrayal lanced through her. With an angered swipe, she sent the frame clattering to the floor, shattering the frozen fantasy.
“That bastard…” she spat, fists clenching the silken sheets until her knuckles strained. Miles’ callous parting words rang like the tolling of a death knell.
“You’re nothing without me, Megan. Just a fading star waiting to burn out in obscurity while I go supernova.”
Her jaw clenched, the phantom ache of his cruel backhand reigniting the righteous fury that had sustained her through the bleakest days of her recovery. She was nobody’s pawn, no hollow starlet to be propped up and discarded at his convenience.
From the living room, Jane’s gruff voice shattered the tension coiling within Megan’s core. “You awake yet, kiddo? Big day ahead.”
Shoving aside the sheets, Megan rose and cinched the plush robe tighter around her toned frame before emerging to find her grizzled mentor perusing the itinerary with a scowl.
“I’m up,” she stated simply, trying to keep her tone even despite the myriad of emotions battering her from within.
Jane’s eyes, those piercing orbs that missed nothing, studied her intently for a moment before a weary sigh slipped through her lips.
“You’re touching’ yourself up already thinking’ about that sack of shit, aren’tcha?” It wasn’t a question, more a gruff statement of fact.
Megan felt her defiant mask falter, defensiveness crumbling before the woman who had quite literally pulled her from the brink of self-destruction countless times.
“Yeah… yeah, I am,” she confessed, voice barely above a rasping whisper. “I just can’t shake his words, Janey. What if he was right? What if I really am just a… a has-been without him propping me up?”
The older woman was on her feet in an instant, calloused hands grasping Megan’s shoulders as she stared deep into her eyes.
“Now you listen to me, Megan Williams – and you listen good,” she barked in that unmistakable drill sergeant cadence that brooked no argument. “You are the fiercest, most tenacious fighter I have ever had the honor of training; you hear me?
Don’t you dare let that slimy bastard’s poisoned words make you forget the warrior I know lives in that heart of yours.”
Megan felt the all-too-familiar lump of unshed tears burning in her throat, but she blinked them back furiously.
She was sick and tired of crying, of wallowing and letting her ex’s twisted lies and abuse corrode her once-indomitable spirit.
“You’re right, Janey… you’re absolutely right,” she said, the words tasting like purification on her tongue. “That son of a bitch doesn’t dictate who or what I am anymore. Not today.”
Jane’s stern expression melted into a proud smile as she gave Megan’s shoulders one final, grounding squeeze before stepping back.
“That’s my girl. Now go get suited up, kiddo – and try to leave some of the heavy bag’s stuffing for the bout, yeah?”
Chuckling for what felt like the first time in years, Megan obliged her mentor and ventured towards the opulent home gym tucked discreetly in the corner of the penthouse’s open floor plan.
This was her sanctuary, her cone of solitude amidst the raging hurricane of her life.
Per Jane’s advice, she wasted no time in shedding her robe and firing off a blistering combo at the heavy bag, steady rhythmic thumps reverberating through her core with each bone-juddering impact. Memories of Miles flickered like heated barbs, fueling her furious onslaught.
“I. Am. Strong!” She punctuated each word with a pounding right cross, perspiration already beading across her taut muscles.
“I am resilient!” A bobbing weave and jackhammer flurry of jabs drilled into the battered leather, wisps of stuffing beginning to leak free.
“I. Am. A warrior!” The finishing uppercut snapped her wrist with a fiery sting, a satisfied grunt hissing through her bared teeth.
When the dust settled, Megan stepped back and simply… breathed. Each inhale banished another of Miles’ ghostly whispers, clearing space for the sharpened clarity of her own unbreakable mantra to take root once again.
You’ve got this, champ.
By the time Jane found her seated in a lotus position on the plush mat, drenched in sweat but radiating an unmistakable aura of rejuvenated determination, the words were ready to be unleashed into the world with earth-shattering resonance.
“It’s time,” Jane murmured, almost reverently. She’d witnessed this evolution countless times – the scared, fragile victim hardening into an unassailable pillar of hope and fortitude. Yet it never ceased to amaze her.
Megan rose, expression an inscrutable mask of focused serenity as she wiped the perspiration from her brow. “Yes… yes, it is, Janey.”
In a whirly of movement, she shed her workout attire and slipped into her signature black tracksuit, fingertips tracing the embroidered crest over the heart well – a snarling tiger ready to maul any challengers.
With a final sweeping glance in the mirror, and a subtle squaring of her shoulders, the Brave Face descended.
Yet this was no act, no performative facade as it had been when she played the ingenue to Miles’ overbearing id years before.
This was the pure, undiluted essence of a woman who had clawed her way through the raging inferno of torment and betrayal to emerge reborn, resolute and unbreakable.
The Megan who strode with purposeful strides towards the raucous clamor of the backstage area was no longer a fragile starlet, but a rose in full, glorious bloom – potent with thorns enough to draw the blood of any who mistook her quiet poise for weakness.
As frenzied stagehands and technicians ricocheted around her, Megan simply cocked her head with a muted smirk.
It’s showtime!