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46

FLASHBACK

TEENAGE VIVIENNE POV

The gym smelled like iron and sweat, a sharp tang that made my stomach twist but also made my blood hum. The sandbag swung lazily in front of me, mit was mocking me, daring me to hit it harder

. My fists were already raw,my knuckles split and bleeding, but I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop.

“Again,” my father’s voice cut through the air He stood in the shadows near the weight rack, arms crossed. “And this time, don’t half-ass it.”

I gritted my teeth, wrapping my fists with tape that was already sticky with blood from the last round. The leather of the bag was coarse against my

knuckles, a reminder that nothing worth doing came easy. I hit it again, but my shoulder muscles were burning, my lungs screaming for air.

“Stop complaining. Stop whining. Pain is your friend,” he barked. His footsteps echoed on the floor as he circled me, he was inspecting my form like a hawk. “You are meant to be feared, Vivienne, not loved. Understand that.”

I swallowed hard, i was already tasting copper in my mouth from the blood pooling in my throat. I nodded, even though the words twisted something deep inside me. “Yes, father,” I muttered,

“You think these men will take you seriously because you have nice hair or a pretty smile?” he sneered, gesturing to the dumbbells lined up like soldiers.

“They won’t. Because you’re female. Because they think softness belongs to you. You want them to fear you? To respect you? You’ll have to earn it with every punch, every strike, every goddamn drop of blood you can spill without flinching.”

I turned back to the bag, my teeth were gritted so tightly my jaw hurt. My fists slammed into the leather again, and again, until I felt my skin tear an

My hands were shaking, fingers trembling, but I couldn’t stop. Every hit was a statement. Every thud was a promise. I would be more than they expected. More than anyone expected.

“You’re too soft,” he said suddenly,“Look at your stance. Your shoulder drops. Your guard is weak. If a real man stood in front of you, you’d crumble.”

I froze for a second, “I… I’m not soft,” I whispered, though even I could hear the disbelief in my own voice.

“Not soft?” he laughed. “You think bleeding knuckles prove anything? You think crying after sparring proves anything? No, Vivienne. Strength isn’t measured by how hard you hit or how much blood you spill. It’s measured by how much fear you can inspire without letting anyone see the cracks. And right now, you’re cracked. All of you.”

I clenched my fists, ignoring the sting, even ignoring the heat crawling up my arms. I hit the bag again, this time letting the rage spill over, letting my frustration with every insult fuel the power in my punches.

“You are weak,” he said. stepping back and folding his arms. “Weak people get hurt. Weak people get laughed at. Weak people get crushed.”

I turned to face him, breathing hard “I’m not weak,” I spat. “I… I’ll never be weak.”

He tilted his head, his expression was unreadable. “We’ll see.”

I threw myself at the bag again, fists flying faster now, moving almost on instinct. Every punch was precise, even through the burning ache that threatened to slow me.

My shoulder throbbed with the impact, my wrists rattled with every hit, but I kept going. Pain didn’t matter. Pain was temporary. Fear—power—respect—that was permanent.

“You have fire,” he said, almost approvingly,“But fire alone isn’t enough. It will consume you if you can’t control it. You want to be feared? You must control the storm inside you, not let it destroy you.”

I gritted my teeth and hit the bag harder, letting the last bit of doubt, of shame, of fear, funnel into each strike. Sweat stung my eyes, but I ignored it, focusing on the raw force I could put behind each punch.

I imagined them all—the men who would underestimate me in the future when I took over the family. The ones who would laugh, who would mock, who would think I was soft because I was female.

Every single one of them was in front of me now, swinging at the bag with fists of fury I would never allow them to face.

“Good,” he said finally, stepping back. “Finally, some teeth. Now listen. This world isn’t built for someone like you. It never will be. You will be underestimated. You will be mocked. You will be dismissed. But that is your advantage.

People only fear what they can’t predict. People only respect what they can’t touch. Make them fear you. Make them respect you. And never—ever—let them see the girl behind the fists.”

I nodded, blood dripping from my knuckles, it was pooling in the tape wrapped tight around my hands.
This—this pain, this effort, this endless cycle of punishment and discipline—was not punishment. It was preparation.

Every cut, every strike, every bruise was a lesson. A step toward the person I would become.

I looked down at my fists, at the broken skin and the blood, and felt a strange kind of satisfaction. Fear. Power. Control. These weren’t just ideas anymore. They were mine to claim, mine to shape, mine to use. In the future

“You’re not ready yet,” my father said,. “But you’re closer. Keep going. And remember this—no one will give you respect. You take it. Every ounce of it. And if they laugh… let them. You’ll have the last laugh when they realize what they underestimated.”

I swallowed hard, tasting the copper in my mouth again, nodding. I turned back to the bag, ignoring the ache, I struck again, over and over, the sound of leather hitting flesh a mantra in the echoing gym.

This was the beginning. The start of something larger than pain, larger than fear. Something they would all regret underestimating.

And as the sweat and blood mixed, dripping onto the floor, I realized: I would never be soft. Not in their eyes. Not in mine. I would be feared.