Chapter 2

The iron door slammed shut behind me with a deafening bang, cutting me off completely from Dorian and that suffocating cologne.

I strode through the dim corridor, jaw clenched tight, swallowing the rage, forcing myself back into fight mode.

One step out of the shadows. Blinding spotlights slammed down. The roar hit my eardrums without warning.

"Maiden! Maiden! Maiden!"

In this place, I was untouchable. Forty-nine fights, forty-nine wins. A hundred percent finish rate.

In this meat grinder reeking of blood and sweat, I'd carved out my throne with my bare fists.

But tonight, something in the air felt wrong.

I stood in the red corner of the octagon, eyes locked coldly on Bianca in the blue.

She wore that brand-new pink gear, muscles completely relaxed, even blowing kisses at the cameras. Like this wasn't the cage—it was some Hollywood red carpet.

My gaze cut past the chain-link, landing on the front-row VIP section.

Dorian sat there, champagne in hand. The way he looked at me—like he was evaluating defective merchandise scheduled for disposal.

"Ding!"

The bell tore through the noise, starting Round One.

According to that disgusting arrangement, I had to make it to the second minute of Round Three before "accidentally" dropping my guard and letting her knock me down.

Until then, I just had to survive this drawn-out charade.

Bianca shuffled toward me with painfully amateur footwork, guard hanging loose. She threw a tentative lead jab.

Too slow. In my eyes, the movement played like underwater slow-motion.

I only meant to slip it, but her footwork was so sloppy, her whole body lunging forward without control—even though I pulled back hard, my reflex check-hook still landed square on her nose.

Smack.

"Ahhh—!" Bianca let out a shrill scream.

Two streams of blood gushed out instantly, staining her chin. She stumbled backward, hands clutching her face, tears flooding down.

The crowd fell into stunned silence. Then erupted into a tidal wave of boos.

"That's it? This is who's challenging the Maiden?"

"Get outta here, you trust-fund princess!"

Ringside, Dorian slammed down his champagne flute.

Face dark as thunder, he rose to his feet, leaning forward, eyes boring into the referee. He made a cold, deliberate hand signal.

I caught it. Ice flooded my veins.

Not even bothering to play out Round One anymore?

Under the ref's stiff prompting, Bianca steadied herself.

When she looked up again, tears still wet on her cheeks, her gaze held something new—pure, distilled hatred.

She came at me like a rabid dog, arms flailing wildly.

Full of openings.

I slid back smoothly, not even bothering to counter. I just wanted distance, to burn the clock.

The instant I gave ground, Bianca's right hook grazed my left forearm.

Just a split-second of contact—

A nerve-shredding pain exploded through my arm.

I jumped back hard, cold sweat instantly beading on my forehead.

I looked down. Where there should've been a minor scrape, the blood vessels beneath my skin had ruptured, swelling into a horrifying purple mass.

Something was very wrong.

That dull, bone-jarring impact—it wasn't what four-ounce gloves should produce.

I stared hard at Bianca's pink gloves. The stiff bulge at the wrist wasn't standard hand wraps.

Hardened resin. Maybe plaster.

Those were hammers wrapped in pink leather.

"Ref! Check her gloves!" I raised my good right hand, calling out.

But the official who usually couldn't even meet my eyes now acted deaf and blind.

Not only did he refuse to stop the fight, he strode over, jabbing a finger in my face. "Red! Work! Move!"

Everything clicked into place.

I whipped my head toward the VIP section.

Dorian had settled back into his seat, raising his champagne flute. A cruel smile finally curled at the corner of his mouth.

I got it now.

This wasn't a dive to save the orphanage. This was a hit job.

Dorian didn't just want me to lose. He wanted to break me—his disobedient former meal ticket—so I'd never fight again. Paving the way for his shiny new investment.

"You're done, bitch!"

The moment I was distracted, viciousness flashed in Bianca's eyes. Using her momentum, she swung that loaded fist straight at my temple.

A clean hit meant lights out. Maybe permanent.

Instinct took over. I threw both arms up, covering my head.

CRACK!

The snap of bone echoed through the cage. My left ulna shattered, the jagged edge nearly piercing skin.

My vision went black. Cold sweat soaked through my sports bra. But I bit down hard on my tongue, using the copper taste to force myself back to clarity.

No way out. In this octagon, backing down meant the drop.

Ignoring the white-hot agony, I stepped into Bianca's second rush, exploding forward.

In the split-second before impact, I drove a vicious knee straight into her gut.

Bianca retched, bile spraying from her mouth as her knees buckled. She crumpled onto the blood-streaked canvas.

"Ten!... Nine!... Eight..."

Now the ref decided to wake up. He stood there, reluctantly beginning the count, dragging out every number.

I stood in place, gasping down air thick with the taste of copper. My left arm hung useless, blood dripping off my fingertips onto the mat.

Just hold on. Make it through the count.

If this is how I go out, I go out on my feet.

Just as the ref stretched out "three," Bianca moved.

The fear in her eyes vanished, replaced by something feral.

She didn't get up. Instead, using the ref's body as cover, she shot across the canvas on all fours.

With everything she had left, she swung those loaded gloves at my unguarded right knee.

CRACK!

This time, the sound was loud enough to silence the arena.

My kneecap exploded. Losing my only support, I crashed hard onto the canvas. The springs beneath groaned.

The pain was gone—shock had killed it. Only freezing numbness spreading from the marrow outward.

But Bianca didn't stop.

Like something finally unleashed, she mounted me, raining down blow after blow with those pink hammers—my leg, my ribs, over and over.

"Think you're tough?! Die already!"

Outside the cage, screams erupted. Someone hurled a beer bottle at the fence, shouting "Foul!" Others shrieked for someone to stop the fight.

But the ref just turned his back, making a show of "controlling" the crowd, blind to the beating happening behind him.

Blood loss blurred my vision. Hot liquid filled my eyes, painting everything dark red.

Through the haze, I locked onto the VIP section.

Dorian sat perfectly still, watching me get destroyed with clinical detachment. He even raised his glass for another slow sip.

Seven years of my life. Countless times I'd bled for him, fought for him, nearly died for him.

And this is how he pays me back—throwing me to the wolves.