Chapter 78 The training

Chapter 78 The training
Kayla’s POV

Five days. It had been exactly five days since I last spoke with my private investigator. Five days since I had instructed him to scrape through every possible crack in Vivian Ward’s life in search of something, anything that would link her to the murder of the woman called Mel. And for five long days, he had returned with empty hands.

Every morning he sent a message saying the same thing.

Nothing yet ma.

Still searching ma.

We are trying.

Today’s message came half an hour ago. It was almost identical to the others, so that was when I realized that I was already losing interest in his weak capabilities. I needed results, not endless trying.

As I tightened the straps of my running sneakers, I felt the weight of another thought: today was another training day for the race. And tomorrow would be the actual event. I would be seeing Vivian. The thought alone made my teeth clench.

I had spent the last five days preparing in two different ways. Physically, I ran, trained, stretched, strengthened. Mentally, I practiced what I would say to Vivian if I finally cornered her. I rehearsed questions and sharpened words. Not to fight her. To trigger her. To make her slip. A careless sentence could be a weapon. I wanted that weapon.

What I had not gotten in five days was a dose of Ashton or Steven. Not a call. Not a text. Not an accidental sighting. My phone was silent. My chats were empty. And people around me acted as if I was something fragile that could break with a tap.

When the woman died next to me, everyone expected me to crumble. They thought my silence meant grief. They thought my politeness meant pain. The pity in their eyes disgusted me. Women from the fundraiser had sent flowers and messages saying things like You are strong or Stay safe dear. As if the simple fact that the dead woman had been beside me was enough to shatter me.

But I was not shattered. I was angry. I was irritated. And I was tired of everyone assuming otherwise.



The field was crowded when I arrived. Coaches and athletes moved around, voices overlapping like a buzzing beehive. The scent of wet grass mixed with the metallic tang of workout equipment. I spotted my coach immediately. He was pacing near the running tracks, clipboard in hand.

I joined the group quietly. We stretched. We warmed up. But even then, I could hear whispers from nearby women. They were not angry whispers. They were sympathetic ones.

“Poor Kayla. She has been through so much.”

“I heard she fainted after the incident.”

“She should take a break.”

I ignored every single one of them because acknowledging them would give them power. Instead, I focused on tightening my shoelaces and adjusting my breathing.

Then my coach walked over and lowered his voice, as if I was a fragile child.

“Kayla, maybe do not push too hard today. You need rest and have enough strength for tomorrow.”

I did not look up. I simply nodded once to make him go away. And as soon as training began, I did exactly the opposite of what he suggested. When the coach asked us to do six laps up and down the hill, I ran ten.

The burn in my thighs felt like release. My lungs ached in a satisfying way. The world blurred behind sweat and wind. 

Behind me, I could hear the coach shouting, “Kayla! Slow down! Kayla!” but his words were swallowed by my pace.

When I finished, my legs were trembling and my chest rose sharply with each breath, but I stood straight as if nothing had happened. I saw the team’s new addition while catching my breath. 

They had gotten a replacement racer for Mel’s spot. A slim woman with long braids tied high behind her head. She looked young and eager. She waved at someone from another team like she already knew everyone. 



I scanned the field. I did not see her at first. But she showed up when the coach gathered us to brief us. Vivian Ward walked over to her team with her bottle of water tucked under her arm, ponytail swinging behind her like she was some glamorous athlete in a fitness commercial.

She still had that pitiful behavior toward me, the same one she displayed online. It was the kind of attitude that said Look at me, I am better than you, but I feel so sorry for you. It irritated me instantly.

Women gravitated toward her like flies to light. They always did. Vivian had that look of a harmless influencer. Pretty smile. Fake concern.

The coach was instructing us, but I was no longer listening to him. My focus was on Vivian. I watched her laugh with another woman as if she had no hands dipped in filth. I waited until the coach paused in his briefing and then I moved.

When I reached Vivian, she blinked slowly and tilted her head like she had been expecting me.

“Oh Kayla. You have been… quiet. Seems so much is up with you,” she said.

I smiled at her, but there was no warmth in it. “I have to commend you, Vivian. You have been very bold these past few days. I might even sue you for defamation. The comments were interesting.”

She did not flinch. She smiled wider. “Truth is not defamation.”

A few women turned, sensing tension. Phones were raised instantly because anything that involved Vivian Ward and drama was content.

“Oh please,” I replied, stepping closer. “You think your social media garbage affects me? You think I am the villain so you can get sympathy from strangers.”

Vivian leaned closer too. “Do you think I am afraid of you? You are only relevant now because a woman died beside you. Without that scandal, you are nothing.”

The women around us gasped softly. Someone whispered, “Oh God they are fighting.”

“Oh no, darling,” I said, my voice low. “I am relevant because I won. You are upset because your perfect husband is rotting in jail.”

Vivian’s expression snapped. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes glowed with something ugly.

“You adored my husband once,” she hissed. “He wanted to be with me and not you. You are beneath us. You always were not good enough for Adrian’s circle.”

I laughed out loud because what she had just said… was the most absorbed thing I’ve ever heard in a long while.

“Funny?” she asked, “because from where I stand, it will not be long before you are swept off whatever little position you think you have left.”

Vivian smirked, lifting her chin. “And oh honey, you truly have no idea how soon that will happen.”

That sentence mattered. It was exactly the kind of sentence I needed. Something that hinted at timelines. Something that revealed intention.

The women around us finally intervened.

“Enough now.”

“Stop it. You two should relax.”

“This is a training ground, please.”

I stepped away first. I did not give her the satisfaction of leaving me speechless. I walked toward the coach who was already calling us back.

The coach cleared his throat loudly, trying to recover control.

“Listen up. Positions have changed. Kayla will run first lap tomorrow. The previous first lap runner will run the third lap. The previous third lap runner will run the last lap. The new woman will run the second lap.”

Several women murmured. Everyone knew the first lap was the most important. It set the tone for everything. But I simply nodded. I knew the pressure. I also knew I could handle it.

When we were dismissed, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Before walking away, I opened my voice recorder. Everything I said to Vivian, every word she replied, every threat disguised as petty dialogue had been recorded.

Proof was rarely dramatic. Sometimes proof was just a file saved on a phone.

Driving home, the city passed like a blur of buildings and traffic lights. My thoughts drifted toward Ashton and Steven again. Maybe they had discovered that I had been tagging them along without meaning to. Maybe they were tired of being dragged into my chaos. Maybe that was why they had not reached out in five days.

I pushed the thought away. I would deal with that later.



After my shower I picked up my phone and called Ashton. He answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” I said softly. “About the other day… I am sorry for how I acted. I should not have walked out.”

“It is fine,” he replied. “We will see soon anyway.”

“We will?” I asked, surprised.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I will attend the racing fundraiser tomorrow. As your official supporter. And date.”

My heart skipped. “Ashton… I do not think that is—”

“Not open for debate,” he cut in. “I will see you there.”

He ended the call before I could respond.

I dropped the phone slowly and stared at it. I did not know what to think. Before I could dwell on it, my mother walked into my room. We had reconciled. It was still strange, but better than before.

She sat on my bed and said calmly, “Invite Steven to the racing event as your date.”

The suggestion surprised me, but I said nothing, letting the thought linger as I considered it.