Valentines Day
Kasey-Calaway Apartment

Alexandra flitted around the apartment, trying to think of the perfect moment to give LJ his Valentines gift. Living together, newly engaged, planning for a future together. People constantly making their opinions known about their age difference. It didn’t bother them at all, they lived a happy life. Alexandra had paced around the room for the hundredth time, on the phone with LJ’s older brother, and her best friend.

“Miles, I’m just hoping he likes it.” She spoke with a soft tone.

“What did you get him?” Miles' voice sounded from the other end of the line.

“A Rolex day-date.” She took a deep breath. “Something classy for the future lawyer.” She laughed softly.

“A Rolex?!?” Alex, are you out of your mind?” She pulled the phone away from her ear and shook her head.

“Not that I know of.” She tilted her head. “Maybe.”

“He’s going to love it.” She laughed as Miles spoke. “He’s a guy, he’s my brother, but still a guy. He’ll love it, you need to calm down and stop overthinking it.”

“Miles, you know me, I overthink everything.” She laughed. “I just, I want it to be special, it’s our first one. We've had our first holidays, Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas.. This is the first Valentine's Day and I want it to be memorable for him.” She took a deep breath.

“You two are so much alike, it's scary." Miles laughed. "Deep breath and just give it to him, he’s going to remember it because he’s there with you.” Miles' voice sounded in her ear, she knew he was right.

“You’re right.” She nodded, leaning against the window, looking out over Las Vegas. “It’s going to be great. I know it will.”

“That’s what I was hoping to hear.” She could hear the smile on Miles’ face.

“He should be getting home soon. I need to get ready.” She took a deep breath. “Thanks for being a sounding board Miles. It means a lot to me.” Another pause. “See you soon, say hi to Carter and Kevin for me.”

She waited until the phone clicked and then pushed off the wall next to the window and disappeared into the bedroom. She’d make sure their first Valentine’s day was one they would never forget.

---

Calling it how I see it
The Plantation

The plantation did not look like a place that belonged to the living, and perhaps that was why Alexandra Calaway felt so at home beneath its sagging roofline and whispering trees. The house stood in stubborn defiance of time, white columns cracked but upright, shutters hanging slightly askew, the wide veranda stretching along the front like a faded memory of former grandeur. Spanish moss swayed in long, ghostly strands from the live oaks, brushing the humid air as though tracing old scars across the evening sky. Magnolia blossoms opened heavy and fragrant in the gathering dusk, their sweetness thick enough to cling to the back of the throat. The air held the kind of stillness that made every sound deliberate, from the low chorus of cicadas to the soft grind of gravel beneath careful footsteps.

Alexandra moved across the grounds with unhurried purpose, her black dress fitting her like a second skin, elegant without effort, deliberate without excess. Lace traced along her collarbone and wrists, not as decoration but as armor disguised as refinement. Her dark hair fell in loose waves over one shoulder, catching the last of the fading light, and the faintest sheen of humidity on her skin only sharpened the impression of someone carved from heat and patience. There was a quiet authority in the way she carried herself, the posture of a woman raised to hold her chin high even when the world dared her to bow.

She stopped near the reflecting pool, its water dulled by neglect, and looked down at her own image shimmering in the murk. For a moment she simply watched herself, studying not her appearance but the steadiness behind her gaze. The Bombshell title was no longer around her waist. That fact did not sting the way outsiders might expect. It burned, yes, but in the way a brand sears into flesh and leaves a mark that cannot be ignored. It was not a wound. It was a reminder.

“I am not walking into this match as champion,” she said softly, her Texas accent curling warm and slow around the words. “I am walking in to earn my way back.”

The breeze shifted, stirring the surface of the pool and fracturing her reflection. She did not look away.

“They call it a triple threat,” she continued, her voice low and measured, each syllable deliberate. “Three women, one opportunity, and a chance to take one step closer to what I lost. The prestige of being a champion.”

She turned from the water and began to walk along the cracked stone path, heels pressing into the earth with a rhythm that felt almost ceremonial. The plantation seemed to lean inward around her, the willows swaying gently as if drawn to her voice.

“Bea Barnhart and I have history,” Alexandra said, her tone thoughtful but edged with certainty. “That is not something I can pretend away, and it is not something she can do either.”

Her gloved hand brushed against the trunk of a magnolia tree as she passed, fingertips tracing the grooves in its bark. “I have beaten Bea many times. Enough times that she knows what it feels like to look up at the lights and see me standing over her.”

There was no cruelty in the statement, only fact.

“I know the way she fights when she is confident,” she went on. “I know the way she fights when doubt starts creeping in. I know the moment her urgency turns into desperation.”

She paused beneath one of the sprawling branches and tilted her head slightly, as though listening to the distant echo of past matches. “Bea is not weak. She is resilient. She has grit that most women would envy. But resilience does not erase repetition.”

Her eyes sharpened, dark and steady. “In this triple threat, she will come at me with everything she has. She will want to break the pattern. She will want to prove that the story between us can change.”

A faint, almost wistful smile touched her lips. “I understand that hunger. I respect it. But understanding something does not mean I intend to let it happen. The bellyaching about people cheating. Please Bea, who’s the real bully here?”

The cicadas hummed louder as the light faded further, and Alexandra stepped into the shadow of a weeping willow, moss brushing softly against her shoulders like a curtain drawn around a stage.

“Amelia Reynolds is a different matter,” she said, her voice lowering into something more contemplative. “I haven't beaten her. That truth stands just as firmly.”

She folded her hands lightly in front of her, posture immaculate even in the deepening shade. “But Amelia does not fight from emotion. She fights from intention. She studies her losses. She absorbs them. She returns sharper.”

There was no dismissal in her tone when she spoke of Amelia, only clear-eyed recognition. “She will not rush into chaos if she can help it. She will watch Bea and me collide and look for the opening that serves her best. She will wait for the moment when our focus splinters and the opportunity becomes too tempting to ignore.”

Alexandra stepped forward again, emerging from shadow into the soft violet glow of dusk. “That kind of patience is dangerous in a triple threat. That kind of composure can steal a match before you realize it is gone.”

She inhaled slowly, letting the scent of magnolia settle into her lungs. “Which is why I will not be so careless as to underestimate her.”

The veranda loomed ahead, boards creaking faintly as she ascended the steps. From there, she turned to face the open grounds, as though addressing Bea and Amelia both, even though no one stood before her but the trees and the gathering night.

“I do not need to pin both of you,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “I do not need to prove I am better than each of you at the same time. I only need to seize the moment when it matters most.”

Her gaze sharpened with quiet intensity. “And I am very good at recognizing moments.”

She rested her hands lightly on the railing, leaning just enough to suggest ease without surrendering control. “Bea will try to rewrite history. Amelia will try to outmaneuver it. And I will walk into that ring carrying both experience and resolve.”

The Texas lilt in her voice deepened slightly, sweetness layered over steel. “I have worn that Bombshell title before. I know what it feels like against my skin. I know the weight of it and the responsibility that comes with it.”

Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Losing it did not make me less dangerous. It made me more deliberate.”

Fireflies flickered near the treeline, small sparks against the encroaching dark, and Alexandra watched them for a moment before speaking again.

“This match is not about reclaiming something I believe is owed to me because this isn’t about the Bombshell Roulette Title, this is the Bombshell Internet Title.” she said quietly. “It is about earning the right to stand back in the championship conversation.”

She straightened, shoulders squared, chin lifted. “If I defeat Bea again, it will not be because she failed to try hard enough. It will be because I prepared for her fire and refused to be consumed by it.”

Her eyes shifted slightly, as though Amelia stood somewhere beyond the willows. “If I defeat Amelia, it will not be because she lacked patience. It will be because I refused to give her the clean opening she is looking for.” The air felt heavier now, the night pressing closer, but Alexandra did not retreat from it.

“I am not the champion,” she said, her voice firm but unhurried. “I am a contender fighting to earn her way back into that light.” There was pride in that admission, not shame. “And I do not fear the climb.”

She stepped toward the open doorway of the plantation house, shadows stretching long behind her.

“When that bell rings,” she continued, her voice carrying softly into the night, “there will be no nostalgia for what I once held. There will be no hesitation because I have beaten one of these women before. The other, well we both were on the losing end of things.”

She paused at the threshold, half-lit by moonlight, half-veiled in darkness. “There will only be focus. There will only be intention. And there will be a woman from Texas who understands exactly how much she wants to earn that title shot.”

Her lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, elegant and dangerous all at once.

“Bea may come with fury. Amelia may come with a strategy. But I will come with memory and hunger.” She stepped inside, the shadows closing around her. “And hunger,” Alexandra finished softly, “has a way of making a woman very hard to stop.”

The interior of the plantation house greeted her with the scent of dust and old wood, of summers long past and winters that had crept in through cracks no one had bothered to seal. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, casting pale silver rectangles across warped floorboards, and the air carried a hush that felt almost reverent. Alexandra moved through the dim foyer without hesitation, her heels echoing softly, the sound measured and unafraid. The house did not intimidate her. It felt like a witness.

She trailed her fingers along a long hallway table, the wood worn smooth by hands that no longer existed. A cracked mirror hung above it, its surface fractured in one corner, splitting reflections into subtle distortions. She paused before it, studying the version of herself that stared back in splintered pieces.

“It’s funny,” she said quietly, her voice rolling low and steady in the stillness. “People think losing a title makes you fragile.” Her reflection held her gaze, dark eyes unwavering. “They think it breaks something in you. Makes you doubt.”

A slow breath escaped her, and her lips curved faintly, though there was no humor in it. “What it actually does is strip away the illusion.” She lifted her chin slightly, seeing herself whole despite the cracks in the glass. “When you’re champion, everyone tells you how unstoppable you are. They tell you how dominant. How inevitable. You start to hear it so often it hums in the background.”

She leaned closer to the mirror, her tone soft but firm. “But when you lose, the silence gets louder than any praise ever was. That silence forces you to confront yourself.” She straightened again, shoulders squared. “And I did.”

The words settled into the room like a confession, though there was no weakness in them. She turned and walked deeper into the house, stepping into what had once been a grand parlor. The ceiling stretched high above her, a chandelier hanging crooked and lifeless, its crystals long since dulled. Dust motes floated lazily in the moonlight, drifting in slow arcs through the quiet.

“I lost the Bombshell Roulette title,” she said, her voice echoing faintly. “That is fact.” She clasped her hands loosely in front of her, pacing slowly across the room. “And I could stand here and make excuses. I could say the odds were stacked. I could say the timing was wrong. I could say I was distracted.”

Her gaze hardened. “But that would be dishonest.”

The admission was simple, but it carried weight.

“In this business, you do not get to hold onto gold unless you are the best woman in that ring on that night. And on that night, I was not.” The words did not crack. They did not waver. They rang clear. She walked toward a tall window, looking out at the willow trees swaying gently beyond the glass.

“That does not mean I stopped being dangerous,” she continued. “It does not mean I stopped being capable. It means someone outperformed me.” Her jaw tightened briefly, not in bitterness but in resolve. “And that is a lesson I do not ignore.”

She turned back into the room, the hem of her dress brushing softly against the floorboards.

“This triple threat is not about nostalgia,” she said. “It is not about trying to relive what I once had. It is about proving I have learned.”

She stepped toward the center of the parlor, where the moonlight pooled brightest. “Bea Barnhart,” she said, her tone measured. “You know me. You know the way I move. You know the way I think.”

She lifted one hand slightly, as if addressing Bea directly across from her. “You also know what it feels like to fall short against me. Over and over.” Her expression sharpened, though her voice remained calm. “You have every reason to come into this match with fire in your veins. You have every reason to look at me and see unfinished business.”

She lowered her hand slowly. “But understand this. I have not beaten you by accident. I have not outmaneuvered you because of luck.”

She took a slow step forward, as if closing distance between them in an invisible ring. “I beat you because I see the openings you leave behind. I beat you because when pressure mounts, I stay composed while you reach.” There was no mockery in her tone. Only clarity.

“In a triple threat, your aggression will not just collide with me,” she continued. “It will collide with Amelia. And if you are not careful, it will create the very opening she is looking for.”

Her eyes shifted, focusing now on an unseen second figure.

“Amelia Reynolds,” she said softly. “You carry yourself like a woman who understands timing.” She began to circle the center of the room, slow and deliberate, as though mapping out the dimensions of a wrestling ring beneath her feet.

“You are not reckless. You do not waste movement. You calculate.” Her lips curved slightly. “And I admire that.” She stopped, facing the far wall as though Amelia stood there in shadow. “But do not mistake my respect for hesitation,” she said.

“You think I will be too focused on Bea’s history with me to notice you moving into position.” She shook her head faintly. “I will notice.” Her voice deepened, accent warming around the edges. “I will feel the shift in the air when you step closer. I will hear the change in the crowd when you see your moment.”

She placed her hand over her chest briefly. “I have been in enough matches to recognize that rhythm.”

The house creaked softly as the night settled further in, but Alexandra did not flinch.

“In a triple threat, alliances are illusions,” she said. “There is no loyalty between opponents. There is only opportunity.”

She began walking again, her pace steady and unhurried. “If Bea and I clash, Amelia will wait. If Amelia and I lock up, Bea will strike. The chaos is inevitable.”

Her gaze sharpened with quiet intensity. “The difference is that I thrive in chaos.”

She paused near an old grand piano, its keys yellowed with age. Running her gloved fingers lightly across them, she produced a faint, discordant note that echoed briefly in the room.

“Chaos unsettles some women,” she continued. “It makes them rush. It makes them panic.” She turned away from the piano. “I do not panic.” The statement hung in the air, unchallenged. “I adapt,” she said. “I adjust. I choose my moment.”

She walked back toward the hallway, her reflection catching again in the cracked mirror as she passed. This time, she did not stop. She did not need to. “The Bombshell title is not yet around my waist,” she said quietly as she moved. “But it is not out of reach.”

She stepped back into the foyer, moonlight illuminating the sharp line of her jaw. “This match is my chance to earn that championship opportunity. Not to demand it. Not to assume it. To earn it.”

Her voice softened slightly, though it did not lose its strength. “There is something different about fighting your way back to the top. It strips away entitlement. It forces humility.” She lifted her chin. “And humility does not make me smaller. It makes me sharper.”

Outside, a faint roll of distant thunder murmured along the horizon, the promise of a storm building somewhere beyond the trees. She stepped back out onto the veranda, the night air warm against her skin. Fireflies blinked lazily among the branches, and the magnolia scent seemed richer now, heavier.

“When that bell rings,” she said, her voice carrying across the dark grounds, “I will not be fighting from a place of comfort.” She descended the steps slowly, heels sinking into the soft earth once more. “I will be fighting from hunger.”

The word lingered.

“Hunger changes a woman,” she continued. “It makes her see clearly. It makes her move with purpose.” She walked toward the willow trees again, shadows shifting around her.

“Bea, if you think familiarity gives you an advantage, you will find that familiarity cuts both ways,” she said. “I know your strengths. I know your patterns. And I know how to turn them against you.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Amelia, if you believe patience alone will carry you through, you will learn that patience without control of the tempo is a gamble.”

She stopped beneath the willow, strands of moss brushing against her shoulders like a crown of silver threads.

“I intend to control the tempo,” she said softly.

The wind stirred, lifting her hair gently.

“I will not rush. I will not hesitate. I will not assume either of you will make it easy.” Her gaze drifted upward toward the night sky, stars beginning to pierce through the darkness. “I will earn it,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

There was pride in that promise.

“I will step into that ring as a contender who understands exactly what she lost and exactly what she wants.” She lowered her gaze again, fireflies dancing in the space between the trees. “And when the match ends,” she continued, her voice smooth and certain, “I will not be the woman wondering what went wrong.”

She turned, beginning the slow walk back toward the plantation house.

“I will be the woman who took her first step toward claiming what belongs in her future.” Her heels echoed softly against the wooden steps as she ascended once more, her silhouette framed against the doorway.

“Bea. Amelia,” she said, her tone calm but unyielding. “Bring your fire. Bring your patience. Bring every ounce of determination you possess.” She stepped into the shadowed interior, the moonlight outlining her form one last time. “Because I am bringing experience, calculation, and a hunger that has only grown sharper with time.”

The door creaked faintly as it shifted in the night breeze, and her final words drifted into the darkened grounds. “And I promise you both, I am not done climbing.”

The storm that had threatened finally began to roll closer, not with rain just yet, but with the low, distant growl of thunder that trembled through the humid air and settled into the bones of the old plantation. The wind shifted, stronger now, dragging the Spanish moss into restless motion and bending the magnolia branches until their blossoms trembled on their stems. Alexandra stepped back out onto the veranda as though summoned by the sound, her silhouette cut sharp against the flicker of lightning far beyond the treeline. The night did not swallow her. It framed her.

She descended the steps slowly, each footfall deliberate, the earth soft beneath her heels. There was no rush in her movements, no frantic energy. What radiated from her now was not hunger alone, but heat. The kind that builds beneath the surface before something ignites.

“For weeks,” she began, her voice carrying across the grounds with smooth authority, “people have asked whether I can climb back to where I once stood. Whether losing that title took something from me that I cannot recover.”

She stopped beneath the largest oak, one hand resting lightly against its trunk as thunder rolled again overhead. “They look at Bea and they see heart. They look at Amelia and they see growth. And they look at me and they see a former champion trying to fight her way back into relevance.”

A faint smile curved her lips, slow and cutting. “Relevance,” she repeated softly, as though tasting the word. She pushed away from the tree and stepped forward, her dark eyes reflecting the flicker of lightning.

“Bea,” she said, her tone no longer contemplative but sharpened to a blade’s edge, “you have chased my shadow for so long that you have convinced yourself this match is your redemption.” Her voice deepened, that Texas lilt warming around something dangerous. “You tell yourself that this time you will finally break the cycle. That this time you will stand over me instead of beneath me.”

She shook her head slowly, almost regretfully. “You are brave, Bea. I will never deny that. But bravery without evolution is just repetition. And repetition has never favored you when it comes to me.”

The wind whipped harder now, tugging at her hair, pressing her dress against her frame as lightning split the sky behind her in a brief, brilliant flash.

“You will come at me with everything you have,” she continued. “You will throw your strength at me, your frustration, your pride. And when that moment comes where you think you have me cornered, where you think history is finally bending in your favor…” Her eyes hardened, unflinching. “You will realize you are still one step behind.”

The thunder cracked louder this time, closer, and Alexandra did not flinch beneath it.

“And Amelia,” she said, turning slightly as though addressing a second presence in the dark, “you have been patient. You have been careful. You have built yourself into someone who cannot be dismissed.”

Her voice lowered, not with softness but with intensity.

“You believe this match is about precision. You believe you can wait until Bea and I tear into each other and then slip in to claim what remains.” She took a slow step forward, gaze cutting through the night. “That is smart. That is disciplined. That is exactly what someone who wants to steal an opportunity would do.”

Her chin lifted slightly, pride and defiance woven together.

“But understand this. I have fought too many battles to let myself become someone else’s opportunity.” The air felt electric now, the promise of rain hanging thick and heavy.

“This is not about who has more heart,” she said firmly. “This is not about who has grown the most. This is about who is willing to do whatever it takes in that moment when the ring is chaotic and the title shot hangs by a thread.”

Her voice carried across the plantation grounds, unwavering. “And I am willing.”

She began to pace again, slow and deliberate, circling an invisible center as though already standing inside the squared circle.

“I have been champion,” she said, and there was no boast in it, only fact. “I have felt the weight of that gold and the pressure that comes with it. I know what it costs.”

Her gaze burned brighter than the lightning that flashed again above.

“And I know what it feels like to have it taken.” The words landed heavy. “That loss did not weaken me. It stripped me down to the core. It forced me to decide whether I was content to be remembered as someone who once held greatness or someone who refused to let it end there.” She stopped moving.

“I chose the latter.” The wind howled through the willows now, bending them low as though in deference. “In that triple threat, there will be a moment,” she said quietly, her voice lowering but growing more intense. “A single heartbeat where one of you hesitates. Where one of you thinks the other will handle it.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, predatory in their focus. “I do not hesitate.” She stepped forward again, closing the distance between herself and the camera that did not exist, as though speaking directly into the eyes of both women.

“If Bea swings wild, I will step aside and let her momentum betray her. If Amelia waits too long, I will seize the space she thought was safe.” Her accent thickened just slightly, honey over steel. “You both know I am capable of it. You have felt it.”

Thunder cracked directly overhead, loud enough to rattle the old windows behind her.

“This is your warning,” she said, her voice cutting clean through the storm’s growl. “Do not come into this match thinking I am simply fighting to get back what I lost.” She shook her head once, deliberate. “I am fighting to remind this entire women's division exactly who I am.”

Rain began to fall at last, slow at first, heavy drops striking the earth and darkening the dust around her heels. She did not retreat. She did not shield herself.

“I will earn that opportunity,” she continued, rain catching in her hair and tracing down her cheek like liquid silver. “And when I do, it will not be because one of you slipped. It will be because I outlasted you, outthought you, and outperformed you when it mattered most.”

The storm intensified, wind and rain swirling together, magnolia petals tearing loose and scattering across the ground.

“Bea,” she said firmly, “if you want to rewrite your history with me, you better bring more than hope.” She turned slightly, rain streaking across her lashes.

“Amelia, if you want to outmaneuver me, you better move faster than you ever have before.” Lightning flared again, illuminating her in stark white against the darkness.

“Because I am not the woman who just lost the Bombshell Roulette title.” Her voice dropped into something fierce and unyielding. “I am the woman who learned from it.”

The rain poured harder now, soaking through lace and fabric, plastering dark hair against her skin, but she stood unmoved beneath it, chin high, shoulders squared.

“When that bell rings,” she said, her voice steady even as the storm raged around her, “there will be no ghosts of past victories and no comfort in familiar patterns.”

There will only be three women and one future.

“And I promise you both,” Alexandra finished, eyes blazing beneath the lightning-lit sky, “I intend to burn through whatever stands between me and my climb back to the top.”

The thunder answered her like applause as the rain fell harder, and Alexandra Calaway did not step back. She simply turned and walked into the storm, disappearing from view.

Rules of Engagement
Alexandra’s Blog
Las Vegas, Nevada

Turns out the puzzle box wasn’t meant to be beaten alone.

LJ and I finally solved it together. No rushing. No forcing pieces where they didn’t belong. Just patience, laughter, a couple wrong turns, and that quiet moment where everything finally clicked. And when it did, when the live mechanism fell into place and the box finally opened?.

There was a ring inside.

An engagement ring.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt something so perfectly balanced between surprise and inevitability. Like it was always meant to be there, waiting for the right hands, the right moment, the right mindset. The box didn’t open because one of us was stronger or smarter. It opened because we trusted each other enough to slow down and solve it side by side. And that’s when it hit me.

Not every challenge in life is meant to be conquered the comparable way.

Some challenges reward patience, connection, and understanding. Some challenges give back when you stop being difficult to overpower them and start respecting them. The puzzle box wasn’t about domination. It was about partnership. About timing. About being aware when to push and when to listen.

Alicia Lukas?

She’s not that kind of challenge. Alicia isn’t a puzzle you solve with a smile and a quiet moment on the couch. She’s the kind of problem that demands pressure. Violence. Precision. She’s the kind of opponent who tests whether you can stay sharp when everything hurts and the stakes are screaming at you to blink first.

That’s the contrast people don’t seem to understand. I can be soft in one moment and pitiless in the next. I can celebrate love, commitment, and stability,  and then walk into a ring ready to tear someone’s world apart. One doesn’t weaken the other. It sharpens it.

Because when you know who you are, when you know what you’re fighting for, you stop hesitating.
The puzzle box reminded me that not everything worth having comes from brutish force.

But wrestling? Championships?

Alicia Lukas standing between me and what’s mine?

That’s a various equation entirely. At Inception, Alicia won’t get patience. She won’t get a partnership. She won’t get the version of me that sits back and waits for the answer to reveal itself. She gets the version that applies pressure until something gives. The version that thrives when the solution comes through impact, not insight.

The box opened.

The ring is on my finger.

My future is clear.
And Alicia?

You’re not a puzzle.

You’re an obstacle.

And obstacles get removed.

Your Forever Champion,
 Alexandra Calaway

---

Late Night
Ashlynn’s Room
Las Vegas, Nevada

Ashlynn was supposed to be asleep. Alexandra knew this because the clock on her phone read 1:17 a.m., and because Ashlynn had, very definitively, said “I’m tired, Mom” a few hours ago before disappearing into her room. Which was why the light bleeding out from under the door stopped Alexandra short in the hallway. She hesitated, fingers brushing inattentively over the ring on her left hand. The diamond caught the glow from the living room lamp, delicate but impracticable to ignore. Her heart gave a small, uptight thump, not fear, exactly. Just, weight. She knocked softly.

“Come in,” Ashlynn said, in a voice that said she was way too awake.

Alexandra pushed the door open. Ashlynn was sitting cross legged on her bed, hoodie pulled over her hands, laptop open but clearly abandoned. She looked up and immediately her eyes dropped. direct to the ring. Ashlynn froze. Then her mouth fell open.

“Oh my God,” she breathed.

Alexandra smiled, tired and warm all at once. “Hi.”

“You,” Ashlynn shot to her feet. “YOU,” Alexandra scarcely had time to brace before her daughter crossed the room and grabbed her hands, lifting them like evidence. “IS THAT?”

“Yes,” Alexandra laughed softly. “That’s exactly what it is.”

Ashlynn stared at the ring like it might vanish if she blinked. “LJ proposed?”

“He did.” Alexandra nodded her head softly, smiling at her daughter.

Ashlynn let out a sound that was half laugh, half gasp, and pulled Alexandra into a stiff hug. “I knew it. I KNEW it was coming. He’s been acting all weirdly calm.”

Alexandra snorted. “He was not calm.”

Ashlynn pulled back, eyes bright. “How did he do it? Did he cry? Please tell me he cried.”

“He didn’t cry,” Alexandra said, amused. “But remember that puzzle box he gave me for Christmas. That one that almost made me throw it at the wall. It was inside the box, it took both of us to open it.”

Ashlynn’s eyes widened. “That is SUCH an LJ move.”

Alexandra laughed. "It was a pain in the ass if you ask me.. but romantic as well."

Alexandra leaned against the doorframe as Ashlynn bounced back onto the bed, patting the comforter like she expected the full story to be deposited there.

“So?” Ashlynn prompted. “Please tell me you said yes mom.”

“Of course, I said yes.” Alexandra nodded her head. “Why wouldn’t I? I love LJ.”

Ashlynn grinned, fierce and proud. “Good.”

Alexandra tilted her head. “That’s it? No freak out? No dramatic spiral?”

Ashlynn shrugged. “Why would I freak out?. He's LJ.” Her response was simple and certain. “He moved us out here to be closer to us, so you all could stop having to constantly video call when he couldn’t be in Dallas.” Ashlynn continued, quieter now. “He helped me with math when I was ready to cry. He takes interest in my sports and life. He, even when in pain, is there when you need him, standing backstage watching your matches, believing in you. Hell mom, he treats you like you’re, indestructible and fragile at the same time.”

Alexandra swallowed past the explosive tightness in her throat.

“And,” Ashlynn added, smirking, “he’s gonna lose his mind when you face Alicia Lukas for the Bombshell Roulette Title.”

Alexandra laughed. “He already is.”

“You’re gonna win,” Ashlynn said, immediately. No hesitation in her voice or on her face.

“Bombshell Roulette is literally chaos,” Alexandra said gently. “Anything can happen.”

“Yeah,” Ashlynn said, eyes sharp. “And you thrive in chaos.”

Alexandra reached out, brushing her thumb on Ashlynn’s cheek. “Are you okay with this? With all of it?”

Ashlynn nodded. “I don’t feel like I’m losing you,” she said. “I feel like we’re just, getting more. Not only do we get LJ, but we get Miles, Carter and Kevin as our family.”

Alexandra pulled her into another hug, longer this time. Ashlynn rested her forehead against Alexandra’s shoulder, voice muffled but sure.

“So when you win that title,” Ashlynn added, “we’re totally telling people he proposed before you became champion, right? For melodramatic irony.”

Alexandra laughed, tears stinging her eyes. “Absolutely.”

Ashlynn smiled, content, then yawned hard. “Okay. Now I’m actually tired.”

Alexandra kissed the top of her daughters head and stepped back into the hallway, the glow of the ring catching the light again. Behind her, Vegas hummed on bright, loud, relentless. But inside the apartment, everything felt solid. Anchored. Like they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

---

Ghosts of the Past
Flamingo Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada

The Flamingo never sleeps.

It pretends to rest, cycles the lights, softens the music late at night, but it never really shuts its eyes. Alexandra noticed that immediately. The hum stayed constant. The kind of sound that crawls under your skin if you stand still eternal enough. She liked that. She stood motionless in the courtyard, hands light at her sides, posture relaxed in a way that came from certainty instead of comfort. Neon washed over her skin in soft pinks and reds, turning everything unreal, like the world was trying to hide its incisive edges under beautiful colors. Water rippled idly nearby. Decorative. Controlled. Designed to look peaceful.

Nothing here was peaceful.

“People say this place is haunted,” Alexandra said calmly, almost absent-minded. “They always do. Anywhere with sufficient history gets labeled that way eventually. Easier to blame ghosts than admit what humans do when they want something deplorable sufficient.”

She shifted her weight slightly, boots grinding faintly against stone. “They talk about mobsters. Visionaries. Criminals with ambition so heavy, sufficient to kill for. Men who thought they owned the future until it turned around and shot them in the back.” A dim smile crossed her face. “That kind of story makes people feel better. Makes it feel distant. Like it could never be them.”

She looked out over the courtyard, eyes unfocused, as if she were staring through layers of time instead than space. “But the ghosts that matter are quieter than that. They don’t announce themselves. They don’t rattle chains or whisper names.” Her jaw tightened slightly. “They just sit with you. Patient. Persistent. Waiting for you to slow down sufficiently enough to hear them.”

She inhaled slowly. “Those ghosts sound like the referee’s hand hitting the mat a third time for someone else. They sound like a crowd going quiet because they thought you were going to win and you didn’t.” Her eyes flickered. “They sound like applause that fades too quickly.”

Alexandra turned her head slightly, as if addressing someone standing nearby. “You don’t know those sounds yet, Alicia. Not really. You’ve been insulated from them. Protected. Wins stacked neatly so people can pretend this industry is fair.” She let out a quiet breath through her nose.

“I’ve lived inside those sounds. They followed me from city to city. From ring to ring. Every time I was told I was close. Every time someone said I was severe but not dependable. What was it so many have called it before, reckless?”

She nodded slowly, as if agreeing with voices only she could hear. “Reckless means you don’t fit into the shape they want. It means you don’t know when to stop. It means you’re willing to go places other people won’t and accept the consequences without asking for sympathy.” Her eyes lifted, calm but sharp. “They said it was a flaw. Like it was something I should sand down, soften, apologize for.”

Her mouth curled faintly. “But bold is just another word for someone who already understands what losing feels like. Someone who isn’t afraid of the damage because the damage has already happened.” She leaned forward slightly, voice steady, unsettling in its certainty. “I didn’t survive all of that to become careful. I survived it so I could finally stop hesitating.”

Her hands flexed once. Then she allowed them to relax.

“They don’t scream anymore,” she continued. “They used to. Back when I still cared what they meant.” Her expression softened into something unsettlingly neutral. “Now they just remind me of patterns. Mistakes. Weaknesses I already burned out of myself.”

She stepped near to the water, staring down at her reflection as it fractured with each ripple. “This is the part people misunderstand about failure. They think it breaks you or humbles you.” A soft laugh escaped her. “Failure teaches you where the rules stop working.”

She tilted her head. “Every loss I took showed me incisively how thin the margin really is. How frail momentum can be. How hot admiration turns into doubt once people decide you are no longer convenient.”

Her gaze hardened. “I learned how forgotten you are the moment you stop winning.”

Alexandra straightened and looked outward again. “You don’t fight with that knowledge. You perform with it. You posture. You protect what you have.” She shook her head slowly. “I fight with the understanding that everything can be taken at any time.”

She paused, letting the idea sit. “That does something to you,” she said quietly. “It strips aside the fantasy. The part where you imagine this being about fairness or destiny.” Her lips twitched. “It turns every match into a negotiation with pain.”

She clasped her hands generally behind her back, pacing slowly now. Not restless. Measured. “People think I’m intense because I move fast or hit hard.” She glanced to the side. “That’s not it. I’m intense because I don’t rush. I don’t need to.”

She stopped again. “I already know what happens when things go wrong. I’ve lived it. I’ve worn it. I’ve had it replayed back to me by strangers who think they understand my career better than I do.”

Her eyes lifted slightly, incisive and focused. “That’s why I’m calm now.”

A beat.

“You stand in the ring with confidence, Alicia. Real confidence. I’m not taking that from you.” Alexandra nodded once. “You believe in your skill. Your presence. Your god given right to be there.”

Her voice lowered. “I believe in my tolerance.”

She stepped forward again, just sufficient to feel the water cool against the edge of her boots. “I know how much I can be hurt before it stops mattering. I know how much pressure it takes before I stop thinking about winning and start thinking about surviving.”

Her mouth curved faintly. “That’s not something you train for. That’s something you earn.”

She turned her head slightly, as if listening to something only she could hear. “The ghosts ask the exact same question every time.” A pause. “What if this is it? What if you fail again?”

Alexandra exhaled slowly. “And every time, I give the voices in my head the exact same answer.”

She leaned forward slightly, voice constant and quiet. “Then I fail again. And I keep going. And I learn something modern about how far I can be pushed.”

“You think this is about skill. You think this is about power. You think this is about who can hit harder or move faster. That’s what they all tell themselves when they step into the ring. They cling to it like a lifeline because they’re afraid to admit what this really is.” Power was just a concept of the feeble mind.

“It’s about recklessness. Pure, naked recklessness. Not the kind that gets applause or fills highlight reels. The kind that sits in your chest and laughs at you while the crowd cheers. The kind that doesn’t care if you’re loved, admired, or remembered. The kind that asks you to keep going when every mental part of you says stop.”

As wrestling often was. It was about the chaos, the carnage. Watching someone destroy someone else, only for the solitary purpose of entertainment. Had been that way since the days of honest to goodness Roman empires.

“That’s what I’ve been listening to my entire career. Not the marks. Not the fans. Not the commentators with their refined sentences and dull smiles. The recklessness. The raw, irrefutable fact that nothing is owed to you. Ever. And you either accept that or you fold.”

HAHA see there another “gambling term”. Folding is what causes people to lose. Risks were meant to be taken.

“I didn’t accept it. I swallowed it whole. I made it part of me. I turned it into something sharp, something unrelenting. And you? You’ve been allowed to live in the safety of convenience, in the illusion of order. You’ve been told that talent is enough, that effort equals reward. You haven’t seen how quickly those rules vanish when someone wants your place more than they want to breathe.”

Even if it means Alexandra made her stop breathing, just eternal enough to pass out.

“I have. Every single time. Every imminent call, every narrow escape, every questionable loss that everyone else labeled a failure, they were lessons. Brutal, humiliating, exhausting lessons that nobody else wanted to teach me. And I learned them all. I didn’t just survive them. I cataloged them, I studied them, I let them sink into my bones.”

In this industry, hesitation could fuck you over in a heartbeat.

“And now? Now there is no hesitation. Now there is no doubt. Now there is no pretense of restraint. Everything I do in that ring is intentional. Every strike, every move, every second of movement is calculated, but calculated in a way that doesn’t look calculated. That’s the difference. That’s what separates someone who just survives from someone who dominates.”

Calculated, Cold, Cunning and Engaged. Focus and clarity came easily these days.

“You think you can intimidate me. You think you can unsettle me. You think I’m like the others who felt the heat and blinked, who felt the pressure and stumbled, who felt the inevitability of loss and froze. You’re wrong.”

No holding back, no restraint this time. “Because I’ve seen what happens when restraint dies. I’ve learned the rhythm of chaos, and I’ve choreographed myself around it. I move through it, I exploit it, I become it. And you? You’ll just be standing there, thinking it’s a match, thinking it’s a competition, thinking that any of this is fair.”

Fairness and equality, what a laugh. You couldn’t compare the two of them, as you couldn’t compare any two wrestlers ever.

“Fair doesn’t exist in this ring. Fair exists in pamphlets, in rulebooks, in motivational speeches. It’s for people who are afraid to push too far, to risk too much. I am not afraid. Not of you. Not of this arena. Not of the consequences of pushing every limit, breaking every expectation, shattering every assumption about what someone in my position can do.” A pause, faster than the last, the momentum she had built up, showing through.

“So go ahead. Look at me. Study me. Try to predict me. Try to map me, analyze me, contain me. Because every second you spend doing that, I am moving faster. I am thinking deeper. I am building the inevitability of what comes next while you are still wondering if you can survive it.” She shrugged her shoulders with a smile.

“When that bell rings, it won’t be a fight. It won’t be a contest of skill or endurance or popularity. It will be the point where I finally finish every question, every doubt, every assumption anyone has always dared to place on me. I am not here to win applause. I am not here to perform for a crowd. I am here to end it. Your reign as the Bombshell Roulette Champion.”

She remembered her reign as if it was just yesterday. But the title still didn’t make her, she did that on her own.

“And when it’s over, you won’t know what hit you. You’ll only know that it did. And that will be enough. Because I don’t need permission. I don’t need validation. I don’t need someone else to tell me what I am capable of. I already know.”

She had proved that time and time again, whenever a heavy match came around, management put her name in that match. “I am done playing by the rules anyone else wrote. I am done being careful. I am done pretending that restraint matters. The ring is mine at this moment. And I will bend it, break it, dominate it, and leave no doubt behind.”

She motioned to the camera and then around herself.

“Everything else, the titles, the accolades, the commentary, the applause, they are just noise. And I am a storm. A storm that doesn’t wait. A storm that doesn’t apologize. A storm that doesn’t care who survives and who doesn’t.” Something about everything that had happened, brought her to this point. To the point where recklessness was a gift.

“Step inside if you want. Stand there and try. Test me. But know this before you even take the first step: I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve been preparing for this. And nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to stop what happens next.”

She smirked looking at the camera. “I don’t chase victory. I claim it. I don’t fight opponents. I dismantle them. I don’t enter the ring. I own it. And when it’s done, the only thing left will be the fact that I was here. And that will be enough.”

She straightened, eyes cold now. “You don’t scare me because you might beat me. You scare the people who haven’t learned how to lose yet.” She began pacing again, slow circles, moot movements. “You want to keep the Bombshell Roulette Championship because it validates everything people already believe about you.” She nodded. “That makes sense. Titles are proof. They tell the world a simple story.”

Her gaze snapped forward. “I don’t need a simple story. I need closure.”

The word hung heavy. “Every loss left something unresolved,” Alexandra continued. “Every unreal win left a question mark.” Her jaw clenched. “This title answers them.” She stopped pacing. “Not because it makes me a champion. Because it proves the ghosts of my ancient mistakes, and everyone else wrong.”

Her expression shifted. Something cracked just sufficient to show the edge beneath. “They tell me I hesitate. That when it matters most, I overthink. That I can’t do it, that I can't win.”

Her smile was thin. “They haven’t seen what happens when I stop caring how it looks.”

She took another breath, dull and controlled. “I am not here to impress anyone. I am not here to be admired.” Her eyes burned. “I am here to finish something.”

The Flamingo buzzed behind her. Laughter echoed faintly from inside. Tourists chase luck without realizing what luck costs. Alexandra ignored it all. “This place understands that,” she said quietly. “Vegas doesn’t reward restraint. It rewards nerves. It rewards people willing to bet everything aware the house might still win.”

She nodded to herself. “That’s honest.”

She turned amply now, facing the camera in front of her once more. “You walk into Inception thinking this is about defending a title.” A pause. “I walk in aware I am confronting every version of myself that didn’t get it done.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Those versions are cruel. They don’t forgive. They don’t forget.” Her voice softened, almost gentle. “I do.” She stepped forward one more time, stopping at the edge of the courtyard. “When the bell rings, the noise fades. The ghosts go quiet.” Her lips curled faintly. “All that’s left is instinct.” She tilted her head.

“And instinct doesn’t care about reputation.” She gave a wink at the camera.

Her voice dropped to a soft whisper. “When I pin you, it will feel triumphant. It’ll feel necessary.” She straightened, posture relaxed, certainty absolute. “You won’t be the villain of my story. You’ll just be the moment it stopped haunting me.” Alexandra turned toward the casino doors, the neon reflecting off her eyes like a warning light.

“At Inception, this isn’t a match.” She paused.

“It’s an exorcism.” She smiled, calm and unmistakably unhinged. “And I am finally ready to let the ghosts go.”

With that she walks into the darkness of the desert night, the Las Vegas lights glinting off the new shiny piece of jewelry on the ring finger of her left hand.

As the World Falls Down
LJ’s Apartment
Las Vegas, Nevada

Here we are, the end of the year is upon us, Christmas is here and we are staring down the barrel of the annual Toy’s for Tot’s, Sin City Wrestling, Winter Wonderslam show. Now I’ve done many Toys For Tots events while in this industry, but this year, I don’t know, it just seems so different. It’s more than just another stop on the road for me. It’s another chance to show that despite the horrible showing this year, I’m still one of the best Sin City Wrestling has.

Now, with the holiday season upon us, let’s start from the top of my December. Why don’t we? First off, a ghost from my past arrives and basically slaps some sense into me. Thanks Jubal by the way for reminding me just who the fuck I am. I needed that, seriously, I mean it. Then we fast forward to Climax Control and what happens, my boyfriend got injured by a piece of shit, a worthless joke of a man, who thought that attacking someone on the ramp was the way to go. Then pokes the bear by verbally berating my family and he thought I wouldn’t find a way to be out there when he faced off against LJ’s brother Miles, my best friend Miles, the same man who by no surprise, beat the ever loving shit out of Billy boy. And I made sure that his little wifey-poo manager couldn’t get involved, since they like to accuse others of doing the very same thing they are WELL known for doing. Which leads me to that night.

Enter Victoria Lyons, I did exactly what I said I would. I defeated Victoria Lyons, finally closing that chapter of what is really a life-long feud. Will she and I ever see eye to eye? No. I doubt it, because while we both carry that same flame for destruction, it was time that the tides changed for her. Though I know, give it time and we will find our ways back to each other. It’s only a matter of where and when. Just know Vicky, I’ll be waiting to remind you that diamond you think you are.. It was me that made the pressure happen. I was the one who sharpened your sword. And you used it to stab me in the back. But instead of crumbling and never returning, I came back and used that sword and took you down.

I’m making a bee-line for Inception and my match against Alicia Lukas for the Bombshell Roulette title. I’m not going to waste it. I had Victoria in my path there and I put her down. Now Frankie finds herself standing on the tracks and this train isn’t stopping. If she wants to play chicken with this train, I’ll put her down the same way I did Victoria. I will go into Inception primed and ready to remove the burden of the Bombshell Roulette Championship from Alicia. Frankie, if you think that Climax Control is going to be a walk in the park, I’m going to need you to just take a look at everything that’s happened in the past few weeks and ask yourself, is it really going to be that easy?

As for LJ, since I’ve been asked many questions. He’s doing well, healing up and looking forward to being back at work in the new year. Doctor’s said he’s healing up well and that there wasn’t any major damage. Bill should thank his God for that. Or this would be a different message. Now, I’m going to finish decorating for Christmas in our new home and mentally prepare to tear into Frankie and go into Inception on top.

Alexandra Calaway

---

Soul Sisters
Goldfield Hotel
Goldfield, Nevada

The doors of the Goldfield Hotel open with a sound that feels older than rust, a low, dragging complaint that echoes deeper than it should. Alexandra steps inside alone, and the air changes immediately; thick, stale, heavy with a silence that doesn’t feel empty so much as occupied. Dust hangs in the dim light like something suspended mid-breath, unwilling to settle, unwilling to move on. The outside world seals itself shut behind her, and the hotel receives her without ceremony, without welcome, the way a place that has swallowed too many people learns to do.

She doesn’t rush. She never does anymore. Her boots carry her forward at an unhurried pace, each step measured, deliberate, the sound of leather on warped floorboards traveling farther than it should through the cavernous lobby. The building feels hollowed out, like something vital was taken from it and never returned, leaving behind only structure and memory. Alexandra’s shoulders square instinctively, not out of fear, but recognition. She knows this kind of space. She has lived inside it.

The hotel belongs to Mika now; ownership stamped on paper, keys exchanged, history claimed by someone still breathing, but the walls don’t seem to acknowledge that fact. Ownership is a shallow concept here. The Goldfield Hotel does not feel possessed so much as endured. It stands the way something stands after realizing escape was never an option, only survival.

Alexandra slows near the center of the lobby, her gaze lifting toward the ceiling where shadows gather in corners that light never quite reaches. She can feel the weight of expectation pressing down, the invisible pressure of roles long assigned and never questioned. Wife. Ornament. Proof. Ghost. The hotel hums softly, a frequency just below sound, and something in her chest tightens in response.

“I know,” she murmurs, not sure who the words are meant for.

The thought arrives uninvited, unwelcome, and unmistakably clear: You were never meant to leave. Not the hotel. Not life. Not the shape someone else decided you would take.

Alexandra exhales slowly, her breath fogging faintly in the cold interior air. She doesn’t believe in coincidence, not anymore. Places like this attract the discarded, the contained, the women who were built into cages and told it was love. She takes a step toward the grand staircase, fingers trailing lightly along the banister, the wood worn smooth by hands that once climbed it daily, hands that belonged to someone who had nowhere else to go.

Elizabeth.

The name doesn’t echo. It settles.

She doesn’t see her; not the way stories want you to, not a figure in white or a shadow at the edge of vision. What Alexandra feels instead is presence, dense and intimate, like a thought that has been thinking itself for decades and finally found someone capable of hearing it. Elizabeth is not angry here. She is not a spectacle. She is a restraint that never broke, longing that calcified into permanence.

Alexandra ascends the stairs slowly, each step creaking beneath her weight, the sound swallowed by the hotel as if even noise knows better than to linger. Her hand tightens on the railing as understanding blooms, sharp and unwelcome. Elizabeth was not trapped by walls alone. She was trapped by expectation, by the rigid architecture of what she was supposed to be, who she was supposed to serve, how small she was required to remain in order to be acceptable.

Alexandra stops halfway up the staircase, pulse steady, jaw set.

“I filled those roles too,” she says quietly, voice carrying just enough to feel honest. “I wore them until they started cutting into me.”

The hotel seems to lean in. Floorboards groan softly, not in protest, but acknowledgment.

Alexandra has spent her life being shaped by other people’s needs. The disciplined one. The controlled one. The reliable one. The one who could take it. Every expectation stacked neatly on her shoulders, each one praised as strength while quietly erasing her autonomy. She thinks of the way Elizabeth’s life was defined by proximity to someone else’s ambition, someone else’s image of success, until even her suffering had to be contained, sanitized, and made palatable.

Until there was nowhere left to go but inward.

Alexandra resumes climbing, the stairwell narrowing, shadows thickening with every step. She doesn’t feel watched so much as understood, and the realization unsettles her more than fear ever could. Elizabeth didn’t choose to stay. Staying was the consequence of being molded into something that no longer fit through the door.

The hallway at the top is long and dim, wallpaper peeling like old scabs, the air heavy with the residue of lives half-lived. Alexandra walks it slowly, her thoughts spiraling inward despite her efforts to keep them contained. She recognizes the pattern now; the way control disguises itself as care, the way cages are sold as protection. The way obedience is mistaken for virtue.

“I thought if I did everything right,” she whispers, stopping near a door left permanently ajar, “they’d let me be free eventually.”

The silence answers her, thick and knowing.

Elizabeth never got that freedom. She became part of the building instead, her presence woven into the beams and corridors, a permanent reminder of what happens when a woman’s will is treated as negotiable. Alexandra presses her palm flat against the wall, feeling the cold seep into her skin, grounding her in the moment.

“I didn’t disappear,” she says, more firmly now. “I refused.”

The hotel does not respond with warmth or comfort. It doesn’t absolve. It doesn’t forgive. It simply exists, bearing witness. That feels more honest than any consolation ever could.

Alexandra stands there for a long moment, alone but not lonely, surrounded by the weight of a history she did not live but understands intimately. Elizabeth’s presence does not cling to her, does not ask her to stay. It only mirrors something Alexandra has already survived. The suffocating stillness of being owned by expectation, the slow death of becoming an idea instead of a person.

When she finally turns back toward the stairs, her posture is unchanged, but something inside her has settled into place. She carries the understanding with her, not as a burden, but as a confirmation. She was never meant to be contained. Neither was Elizabeth.

One of them learned that too late.

The other will not.

Alexandra descends the staircase in silence, the hotel closing around her again as if sealing a confession into its walls. The doors wait at the far end of the lobby, patient, indifferent. When she reaches them, she pauses, not out of hesitation, but respect for the woman who stayed, and for the version of herself that never will.

The doors open. Night air rushes in. Alexandra steps through without looking back.

---

No Uncertainty Here
Red Rocks Amphitheatre
Denver, Colorado

Red Rocks Amphitheatre looms behind Alexandra like the ribcage of a long-dead god, jagged sandstone rising on both sides, carved by time, pressure, and violence. The stage is empty. The seats stretched into darkness, row after row of silent witnesses waiting for a show to begin. The wind cut sharply carrying the distant hum of Denver far below, but up here there is no civilization; only exposure, only stone, only the sense that something ancient is watching.

Alexandra stood alone on the stage, her back to the camera, her posture rigid. The wind tugged at her hair, trying to pull something loose, something buried beneath muscle and memory, and she did not fight it. For a long moment, she said nothing, her head slightly bowed but not in defeat, in concentration. Her voice broke the silence, steady and low, echoing faintly off the stone. “I can feel it now. The silence after a war.”

She turns her head slightly, enough so the camera catches the edge of her profile, the tension set deep in her jaw. “Victoria and I?” Her breath slows. “That wasn’t chaos. That was violence with purpose. That was understanding. Two women who knew exactly what the other was capable of and chose to walk into the fire anyway.”

She turns fully now, facing the camera, expression unreadable. No smile. No anger. Just something simmering beneath the surface, dangerous in its restraint. “Climax Control wasn’t about proving who was better. It was about survival. About refusing to disappear. About dragging the truth out of each other whether we wanted to see it or not.”

Her boots scrape softly against the stone as she steps forward. “And when it was over, when my hand was raised and hers wasn’t, I didn’t feel relief.” She exhales slowly through her nose. “I felt clarity.”

Clarity didn’t arrive gently. It didn’t come with peace or relief or the quiet satisfaction people like to imagine follows victory. It arrived like a blade sliding into place, like something locking shut behind her ribs. Standing there afterward, sweat cooling on her skin, lungs burning, hands still trembling from the violence she had just survived, Alexandra realized that winning hadn’t ended anything at all. It had stripped the excuses away. It had left her alone with the truth.

Victory didn’t heal her.

It sharpened her.

That understanding sits heavy in her chest now as the wind claws across the open stage, tugging at fabric, at hair, at memory. Red Rocks amplifies everything; sound, breath, silence. Even her thoughts feel louder here, echoing back at her with nowhere to hide.

She had expected to feel finished after Victoria. Vindicated. Proven. Instead, she felt exposed, like something ancient inside her had been dragged into the light and refused to go back into hiding. Victoria hadn’t just fought her. She had seen her. Had met her head-on and dared her not to look away from what stared back.

That kind of encounter changes you.

Alexandra inhales slowly, grounding herself in the cold bite of the air, in the solidity of stone beneath her boots. This place understands endurance. It understands what it means to remain standing long after softer things have crumbled into dust.

Her voice, when she speaks again, carries farther now, fuller, as if the amphitheatre itself has decided to listen. “People think winning is the end of the story,” she says quietly. “They think it closes a chapter. Ties things off. Makes sense of the damage.” A faint shake of her head. “It doesn’t.”

She turns slightly, eyes scanning the empty seats, imagining them filled, not with cheers, but with expectation. With judgment. With the weight of being seen. “Winning just removes the lies you tell yourself to survive losing.”

After Victoria, there was no lie left to cling to. No illusion that restraint made her noble. No fantasy that discipline alone could protect her from cruelty. She had crossed a line she could never uncross, and instead of destroying her, it had steadied her.

That scared her more than defeat ever had.

Alexandra takes another step forward, shoulders rolling back as if settling into her own skin more completely. “I stopped pretending pain was a tax you paid for belonging,” she continues. “I stopped believing suffering earned respect.” Her eyes narrow. “I realized the people who thrive in this world don’t endure pain, they apply it.”

The wind surges, rushing through the stands, howling like a warning siren. She lets it wash over her, lets it punctuate the thought. “And that’s when I started thinking about you again, Frankie.”

Not with anger. Not with obsession. With analysis.

Alexandra has always studied her opponents, but before, it had been technical. Mechanical. Footwork. Timing. Conditioning. Against Frankie, she learned something else entirely: how control functions as a weapon. How confidence, when wielded correctly, can suffocate someone before the first blow ever lands.

Frankie didn’t just beat her.

Frankie contained her.

“She didn’t rush me,” Alexandra says, voice low, deliberate. “Didn’t overpower me. Didn’t panic.” A faint, almost appreciative tilt of her head. “She let me exhaust myself trying to prove something.”

That memory still burns, not because it hurts, but because it taught her too much. Frankie’s greatest strength wasn’t speed or strength or even strategy. It was a certainty. The calm assurance that the match would bend to her will if she simply waited long enough.

“That kind of confidence is intoxicating,” Alexandra admits. “Especially when you haven’t earned your own yet.”

Back then, Alexandra had been chasing validation disguised as victory. Every move had carried the weight of please see me. Frankie had sensed it immediately. Had slowed the pace just enough to let doubt creep in. Had turned patience into a cage.

Alexandra stops pacing, eyes darkening as she stares straight into the camera. “You didn’t beat me because you were better,” she says evenly. “You beat me because you were certain. And I wasn’t.”

The silence that follows is thick, charged.

“I fixed that.” The words land without flourish, without heat. They don’t need it.

Certainty didn’t come from winning. It came from understanding exactly who she was willing to be when stripped of approval, of hope, of the need to be liked. It came from accepting that restraint had limits and that crossing them didn’t make her monstrous.

It made her effective.

Alexandra gestures again toward the stone, fingers brushing its surface as if reading a language only pressure understands. “These rocks weren’t formed gently,” she says. “They weren’t shaped by kindness. They were broken down layer by layer until only what could endure remained.”

Her hand presses flat against the cold stone. “I know what that feels like.” Every loss had taken something unnecessary with it. Every humiliation had peeled away a layer she no longer needed. Every time she’d been dismissed, underestimated, overlooked, something inside her had hardened instead of cracking.

She turns back to the camera slowly. “Victoria forced me to stop lying to myself. She showed me that survival isn’t enough.” Her eyes burn brighter. “Jubal reinforced it. Iron sharpens iron. And I learned that if I was going to exist in this world, truly exist, I couldn’t do it half-armed.”

Her pacing resumes, tighter now, more purposeful. “Everyone wants to diagnose me. To label the cracks they see. Call them instability. Call them weakness.” A low laugh. “They don’t understand geology.”

She stops sharply. “Cracks don’t mean collapse. They mean movement.”

The wind surges again, as if answering her. “I am not unraveling,” Alexandra says, voice steady, resolute. “I am shifting. Repositioning. Preparing.”

She steps closer, presence filling the frame. “You thrive on control, Frankie. On dictating rhythm. On pulling people into your pace until they forget their own.” Her lips curve, not quite a smile. “That only works on people who need permission to act.” She doesn’t. “I don’t care about your tempo,” she continues. “I don’t care about your confidence. I don’t care how calm you look while doing violence.” Her voice drops. “I care about results.”

Alexandra leans in slightly, eyes unblinking. “And the result of underestimating me will be catastrophic to your certainty.”

Another pause. This one was deliberate.

“I’m not haunted by my past anymore,” she says. “I’ve mastered it. Every hesitation you exploited is now cataloged. Every moment they waited for me to blink is now a weapon I know how to turn outward.”

She straightens. “I rebuilt myself from that loss. Reinforced every weak point. Burned down everything that depended on approval to function.”

The wind howls through Red Rocks, carrying her words far beyond the empty seats. “You don’t get to face the version of me that hoped hard work would be enough.” Her eyes lock in. “You get the version that understands consequence.”

Alexandra exhales slowly, controlled. “When that bell rings, I won’t be fighting to belong. I won’t be fighting to rewrite history.” Her expression turns feral. “I’ll be fighting to take something from you.”

She points at the camera again, unwavering. “Your certainty.” The finality in her voice is unmistakable. “You lit the fuse when you beat me,” she says. “You walked away thinking the explosion had already happened.” A thin, dangerous smile crosses her lips. “You were wrong.”

The smile doesn’t last. It never does. Alexandra lets it fade as quickly as it came, because this isn’t about theatrics or satisfaction. It’s about truth, and truth doesn’t linger in expressions meant for other people. Truth settles deeper than that. It takes root. It waits.

She turns away from the camera again, slow and deliberate, facing the vast, empty sweep of Red Rocks as if the amphitheatre itself deserves the rest of what she has to say. The wind surges harder now, tearing through the open air, rushing past her ears until it almost sounds like voices layered on top of one another; old echoes, imagined crowds, memories of impact and breath and bone colliding under lights that never cared who survived them.

“This is the part no one sees,” she says quietly, not turning back. “The space after realization. After the moment where you understand there’s no going back.”

She inhales deeply, filling her lungs with cold air until it burns, until it grounds her in the present. “People think transformation is loud. Violent. Obvious.” A faint shake of her head. “They think it comes with explosions and spectacle.” Her hands flex at her sides. “They’re wrong.”

Transformation, she learned, happens in silence. In the moments when no one is watching. When you’re alone with the knowledge of what you’re capable of and you don’t flinch. When you stop asking yourself should I? and start asking how far? Alexandra steps closer to the edge of the stage again, looking down at the drop, at the distance between where she stands and where the city glows faintly below. The height doesn’t frighten her. It never has. Heights are honest. They don’t pretend there’s safety where there isn’t.

“I used to think restraint made me strong,” she continues. “That holding back meant I was disciplined. Controlled. Better.” Her lips press together briefly. “All it really meant was that I was afraid of what would happen if I stopped apologizing for my instincts.”

She remembers the first time she realized that mercy had limits. The first time she felt hesitation cost her something she couldn’t get back. The first time she understood that the world doesn’t reward potential. It rewards finality.

“I am done negotiating with myself,” Alexandra says, voice steady. “Done softening my edges so other people don’t bleed when they get too close.”

The wind whips around her again, stronger now, as if the amphitheatre itself is pushing back, testing her resolve. She welcomes it. Let it batter against her like resistance in training. Pressure reveals structure. It always has.

“I know exactly what I am,” she says. “I know what it costs. I know what it takes.”

She turns back toward the camera one final time, eyes dark, focused, stripped of anything unnecessary. There is no anger in them now. Just certainty, sharpened and cold.

“I am not fighting for redemption,” she says. “I am not fighting for validation. I am not fighting to prove I belong in any room, any ring, any conversation.”

Her voice lowers, grounded, immovable. “I fight because I finish what I start.” She takes a step forward, then another, until she stands exactly where she began; center stage, alone, perfectly framed by stone that has endured everything the world could throw at it.

“Every loss I’ve taken taught me something,” Alexandra continues. “Every scar stripped away something that didn’t matter. Every time I was underestimated, something inside me recalibrated.”

She places a hand over her sternum, not dramatic, just present. “What’s left isn’t fragile. It isn’t uncertain. It doesn’t hesitate.”

A pause. Heavy. Intentional. “I don’t spiral,” she says flatly. “I descend.”

The words hang there, unadorned. “Downward is where pressure lives. Where foundations are tested. Where only what’s real survives.” Her gaze never wavers. “And I am very real.”

She straightens fully now, posture relaxed but coiled, like something that knows it doesn’t need to rush. The fight will come. The bell will ring. Time will compress into moments where instinct decides everything.

“And when it does,” Alexandra says, “I won’t be looking for openings.” Her jaw sets. “I’ll be creating them.”

She lets the silence stretch again, long enough to feel uncomfortable, long enough to force attention. The wind roars through the stands, relentless, ancient, carrying her words outward whether anyone is there to hear them or not.

“This isn’t about revenge,” she finishes. “It’s about inevitability.”

One last breath. Calm. Centered. “I am the version of myself that remains when hope is removed from the equation,” Alexandra says. “I am what’s left after fear burns off. After doubt collapses. After permission is no longer required.” Her eyes harden, final and absolute. “I don’t ask,” she says. “I don’t wait. I won't stop.”

She turned from the camera once more, silhouette framed against the dark stone and open sky as the wind howled through Red Rocks like a warning etched into the bones of the earth itself.

Alexandra gestures broadly to the empty amphitheatre, to the towering rock formations that frame her like a cathedral built by indifference. “This place is built for sound. For impact. For voices meant to carry.” Her gaze sharpens. “And tonight, I’m not here to whisper.”

She begins to pace the stage, slow and deliberate, a predator mapping territory. “Beating Victoria reminded me of something I had forgotten. Not how to win. I never forgot that.” She stops, eyes distant for a brief moment. “It reminded me how far I’m willing to go when someone stands across from me and decides my story is finished.”

Her focus snaps back to the lens. “And that brings me to you, Frankie Holliday.”

She lets the name linger, heavy. “You’ve been quiet. Confidence. Watching. Smiling like someone who already knows how this ends.” A faint, humorless chuckle slips free. “I know that smile.”

Her pacing resumes, slower now, heavier. “It’s the smile of someone who’s already beaten me once and thinks that moment is frozen in time. Preserved. Untouchable.” She shakes her head. “Nothing stays untouched. Not even me.”

Alexandra reaches the edge of the stage, Denver’s lights flickering far below like something fragile and small. “You beat me in a different era of my life. Back when I believed effort was enough. Back when I thought discipline and heart could carry me through anything if I followed the rules long enough.”

She turns back toward the camera, eyes darkening. “That version of me didn’t understand cruelty. She thought pain was something to endure, not something to wield. She thought suffering would earn respect. She thought it would change the minds of the people who looked past her.”

A pause. Her jaw tightens. “You took advantage of that.” She lifts her chin. “And I don’t blame you. That’s what predators do. They sense hesitation. They smell uncertainty. They strike before the other side has accepted what they are.”

Alexandra steps closer, the frame filling with her presence. “But here’s what you didn’t account for.” Her voice drops. “I learned.”

She gestures toward her chest, then slowly toward the towering stones behind her. “These weren’t shaped by comfort. They weren’t formed by patience or fairness. They were carved by pressure. By erosion. By forces that didn’t care what cracked along the way.” Her fingers curl into a fist. “That’s what I’ve become.”

She turns, running her hand along the cold rock face, grounding herself in its permanence. “I have been broken. Pushed to the edges. Dismissed. Beaten.” Her eyes blaze as she faces the camera again. “And I survived. Not just survived; I was remade.”

Her voice sharpens. “Victoria forced me to confront the cracks I’d been hiding. She held a mirror up to everything I was afraid to lose. Jubal did the same. Iron sharpens iron. They reminded me who I am when survival isn’t enough.”

She resumes pacing, faster now, energy building. “Everyone thinks I’ve been spiraling. That the cracks they see are weak.” A low laugh escapes her, cold and unsettling. “No. They’re fault lines.”

She stops abruptly. “And fault lines only matter when the ground starts to move.”

Alexandra leans forward slightly, eyes locked in. “I’ve replayed our match more times than I can count. Every misstep. Every hesitation. Every moment I second-guess myself instead of trusting my instincts.” Her voice steadies. “That doesn’t haunt me anymore. It educated me.”

She straightens. “You don’t live rent-free in my head anymore, Frankie. I renovated the place. Reinforced it. Turned it into something fortified.”

The wind howls louder, tearing through the amphitheatre. “You thrive on control. On dictating pace. On dragging people into your rhythm and drowning them in it.” A slow shake of her head. “That won’t work this time.”

Her eyes burn. “I don’t care about your strategy. I don’t care about your certainty. I don’t care how many times you’ve walked out thinking you had someone figured out.” She steps forward again. “I’m not a puzzle anymore.” Her voice lowers. “I’m a consequence.”

A heavy pause settles over the stone.

“When that bell rings, I won’t be fighting to prove I belong. I won’t be fighting to erase the past.” Her expression turns feral. “I’ll be fighting to take something from you.”

She points directly at the camera. “Your certainty.”

Alexandra straightens, breath controlled but intense. “You helped create this version of me when you beat me. You lit the fuse and walked away thinking the explosion was behind you.”

A smile crosses her lips. “You were wrong.”

She takes one last look around Red Rocks, empty but waiting. “This place will be full someday. People are screaming. Chanting. Watching bodies collide under the lights.” Her gaze snaps back. "But right now? This moment is just for you.”

Her voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “You don’t get the version of Alexandra that wants approval. You don’t get the one that hopes.” Her eyes lock in, unflinching. “You get the one that finishes things.”

Alexandra turns her back on the camera, staring into the darkness as the wind roars through Red Rocks like a warning carved into ancient stone.

Law School and Wrestling
LJS Apartment
Las Vegas, Nevada

3:30 am

Alexandra blinked awake to a quiet apartment, the kind of stillness that felt unusual, almost wrong. LJ usually stirred before she did, always clattering in the kitchen or humming absentmindedly as he made coffee. But this morning, the air felt heavy and unmoving. It felt really off to wake up and him not be there.

She pushed the blanket aside and slid her feet onto the cold floor. “LJ?” Silence answered.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she padded down the hallway. A faint, warm glow seeped from the dining room, the only light in the apartment. As she rounded the corner, the picture snapped into place, LJ, fast asleep at the dining table, his head resting against a tower of open law textbooks. Highlighters, sticky notes, and half-finished case briefs were scattered like fallen leaves around him. His glasses sat crookedly at the end of his nose, threatening to fall off with every slow, exhausted breath. Alexandra’s heart softened. A cold mug of coffee sat beside his elbow, forgotten hours ago. A legal pad had slid partly off the table, covered in LJ’s tight, meticulous handwriting. She stepped closer, lifting the pad carefully so it wouldn’t wake him. Each page was dense with analysis he’d clearly pushed himself through the night.

“You’re going to burn yourself out,” she whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear. She gave a slight shake of her head, eyes fixed on him.

One of his hands still loosely held a pen, as if he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence. His hair was a mess, pushed up on one side where he’d dragged his fingers through it repeatedly while thinking. She could tell from the tiny crease between his eyebrows that even in sleep, he was bracing himself, still wrapped in the pressure he carried when awake.

Alexandra placed her hand gently on his shoulder. He didn’t wake, just breathed a little deeper. She hesitated, torn between letting him sleep and guiding him somewhere more comfortable. Finally, she reached for a blanket draped over the couch and wrapped it around him with careful precision. “You work too hard,” she murmured, touching the edge of his hair. “Far too hard, but I understand why. And I’ll always be here to help you.”

And as she watched him sleep amid the chaos of case law and highlighted statutes, she felt a swell of affection, not just for the man himself, but for his determination, his ambition, and the quiet vulnerability he never let himself show when awake. Alexandra hovered for another moment, watching the slow rise and fall of LJ’s shoulders beneath the blanket she’d just tucked around him. Part of her wanted to leave him there, he needed the sleep. But another part, the one that hated seeing him fold himself in half for everyone except himself, nudged her forward.

She brushed her fingertips lightly over his forearm. “Hey,” she whispered. “LJ, love.” She kissed him softly.

He didn’t move at first. Then his brow twitched, and he let out a soft groan. “Mmh, what time is it Angel?” he mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

“Early morning, around three thirty.” she said gently. “You didn’t come to bed.  You need real rest, preferably in bed.”

His eyes cracked open, squinting against the warm dining room lamp. For a second he looked disoriented, like he had to remember what planet he was on. Then he blinked at the books spread around him and sighed.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I must’ve passed out.”

Alexandra pulled out the chair beside him and sat, her knee touching his. “You think?”

He huffed a little laugh, tired, crooked, self-aware. “Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you. I just had to finish outlining these cases, so I’m prepared for class.”

She reached out and slid his skewed glasses off his face before they could drop. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, the movement slow and sluggish.

“This isn’t sustainable, LJ,” she said softly. “You can’t keep doing all-nighters like you’re invincible.”

He shrugged, eyes still half-closed. “I’ll be fine. Law school’s, it’s just, it's a grind.”

“And you act like you’re the only one who knows what grinding feels like.” Her tone stayed warm, teasing, but honest.

He looked at her then, really looked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alexandra gestured between them. “I mean, you realize our lives revolve around throwing our bodies at the ground for a living, right? We take bumps in a ring, and you take them in textbooks too.” She nudged his elbow. “The difference is, our bruises fade. Yours just turned into midterms and finals too.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him, head dipping. “Okay, that’s fair.”

She leaned back slightly, eyes roaming the mess of highlighters and legal pads. “But at least in wrestling, when you’re pushing yourself too hard, someone tags in. Or the ref forces a break.” Her voice softened. “You don’t give yourself breaks, LJ. And you are in need of one.”

He sighed again, this time heavier, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I just, I want to do this right. I want to prove I belong there. That I can handle it. All of it. Wrestling, School, a family.”

“You already do.” She slid her hand over his, grounding him. “You show up. You fight for it. You’re persistent to a fault.” She squeezed lightly. “But even wrestlers tap out. It doesn't make us weak.”

His shoulders dropped, tension loosening in small degrees, like someone was slowly unwinding him. “I don’t want to disappoint you,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to disappoint my family.”

Alexandra’s heart flickered painfully at that. “Hey.” She tipped his chin up with her finger. “You could never disappoint me. I just don’t want to lose you to this,” she nodded at the books “before you even get where you’re going.”

He swallowed, and the vulnerability in his eyes made her chest ache.

“Come back to bed,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Please. Just a real hour of sleep. Then you can fight the battle against your textbooks again.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “One hour?”

“Maybe two,” she teased. “Maybe more?”

He laced his fingers with hers, letting her help him stand. The blanket slid off his shoulders, landing on the chair behind them. As they walked back toward the bedroom, LJ squeezed her hand. “Thanks for waking me.” He leaned down to kiss her softly.

Alexandra glanced at him with a soft smile.  “Someone’s gotta be your tag partner.” The two disappear into bed.

---

All the Worlds a Stage
Orpheum Theater
Phoenix, Arizona

The Orpheum Theater wasn’t really quiet. It felt more like it was waiting on something, the way a room does right before someone finally says the thing nobody wants to hear. The single work light overhead buzzed faintly, throwing this uneven, almost sickly glow across the stage. It didn’t make her look heroic or dramatic; it was unforgiving. Every little twitch in her expression, the tension in her jaw, that flicker behind her eyes she usually kept buried when people were watching. She didn’t bother hiding any of it tonight. For once, she let it all sit right on the surface.

“Bea.” The name slipped from her lips. “I’ve been thinking about you. Not because you get under my skin the way some do. Not because you run your mouth like you’re auditioning for a trashy reality show.” A tired, disappointed exhale left her, her head tilting slightly. “You’re the kind of unpredictable that makes people sloppy. The kind that mistakes emotional instability for strategy and then gets shocked when everything she touches catches fire. You believe yourself to be untouchable, unpredictable, but in my time here, all I have done when your name is mentioned next to mine, is to say, we already know where this is about to go.”

She walked across the stage, boots over warped hardwood, the sound echoed through the vast empty room like a warning shot. The air had that old-theater smell and for once, she let it pull something honest out of her. “This match? It’s coming at a moment in my life where I actually have a little goddamn peace. No fires to put out. No family crisis waiting to explode. No half-chance that Vincent or anyone else is going to take a shot at me from behind while I’m just trying to get to the damn ring. Do you have any idea how unnatural that feels for me? To breathe without waiting for the barrel to press into the back of your skull? Honestly, do you understand what it feels like?”

Her jaw twitched; pain, anger, relief, all of it living in that one tight line. “That little pocket of quiet; it scares the hell out of me if I’m being honest. It means I can focus. Really focus. You’re the first person standing in my path now that everything else has stopped clawing at me. That’s bad for you. You don’t want this version of me. You don’t want me to be calm. You don’t want me centered. You don’t want me to be well rested.” She looked up into the shadows above the balconies, something cold blooming in her expression. “You want me scattered, distracted, juggling chaos on all sides. You want the version of me that’s stretched thin. But that woman? She’s gone.”

A slow breath dragged out of her, deliberate and steady. “I hear you every damn week. I see how you hold your head high, acting like you’re this walking apocalypse. Then I look at the match history, at the moments that mattered, the nights that shaped this place, and where’s your legacy, Bea? Where’s the moment people replay? Where’s the moment that made the division look different because you walked into it?” She let the silence stretch long enough to sting. “It’s not there.”

Her posture stiffened, not with anger, but truth that hurt even as it landed. “What is there? A trail of almost getting there and being so close. A list of excuses. A pattern.” She shook her head. “You are the queen of empty threats. The master of the unfulfilled prophecy. Every time a champion is crowned, every time an opportunity splits open, it slips right through your fingers. And you stand there, shocked, confused, offended that the spotlight didn’t bow down to you on command.”

She lifted her chin as though looking Bea directly in the eye. “You say you’re dangerous. You say we should fear you. You say you’re ready to take what you’re owed. But if you were half the monster you claim to be, you’d have already carved your name into this place.”

A humorless laugh escaped her, a sound scraped raw from somewhere deep. “Hell, let’s not kid ourselves. If Vincent’s bounty had enough zero's behind it, you’d sprint to the front of the line to take a shot at me. You’d brag about it, too, like it was some master plan you pieced together. Maybe you’re even thinking about it now. Maybe you’re hoping this match is where you get your chance.” Her gaze tightened, sharpened, hardened. “If that’s your plan, if you so much as breathe wrong in my direction for that reason, then you better pray you finish the job. Because I promise you, Bea, I’ll come back for you in ways that will make your ribs ache every time you draw breath.”

The heat in her voice curled into something colder, deeper, conviction forged in pain and perseverance. “I don’t care what this match costs me. I don’t care if I bleed. I don’t care if you drag me through hell. You’re not built to beat me; not now, not when I’m this locked in, not when every instinct in me is screaming that this is the night everything shifts. You’re my obstacle. And I am yours.”

She paused, letting the truth of that settle in the quiet dark. “Victoria Lyons was always my Achilles heel. But you?” Her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’m yours.” She knew the words she spoke would cut deep, to the very depth of Bea’s core. Bea could never beat her.

She stepped closer to the camera, closing that physical and emotional distance with a slow, deliberate ease. Shadows stretched behind her like a warning. “So go ahead. Bring every ounce of ego and anger you can dig up. Bring someone to help you if you’re feeling bold. Bring chaos, bring desperation, bring that wild, frenzied energy you mistake for power.” Her eyes narrowed, unblinking. “The result won’t change.”

She leaned in just slightly, voice lowering into something dangerous enough to chill the air. “When it’s over, you’re going to be staring up at the lights, wondering why your body won’t move, listening to the name Alexandra Calaway echo through the arena while you try to remember what it felt like to believe you had a chance.”

Her expression settled into cold finality, the kind that didn’t need volume or theatrics to hit like a blade. “Welcome to the moment that breaks you, Bea. Welcome to Phoenix.” She let the silence sit for a beat, sharp enough to sting. “You walked into this thinking it was just another match. It isn’t. It’s the point where everything you pretend to be comes crashing headfirst into everything I actually am.” Her tone dropped, low and sure. “When the dust clears, you’re going to understand exactly why this city remembers the ones who fall harder than the ones who rise.”

A faint, wicked smile touched the corner of her mouth, blooming slowly like blood spreading through water. “I hope you like how your blood looks under these lights.” She didn’t blink, didn’t soften the threat with theatrics; she simply let it hang there.

The theater’s breathless silence swallowed everything that came after.

Getting your blood pumping
Universal Studios Hollywood
Universal City, California

Halloween, Alexandra’s favorite time of the year. One of her favorite things to do, Halloween Horror Nights, it promises thrills, chills and a chance to get her blood pumping. This year however was different, she invited LJ Kasey, her brother Damien and his wife her bestie Mika to join her. Normally she went alone every year before the big halloween party at her old estate. However, now that she lived in Las Vegas, she was sure things would change. For now, she would enjoy her time with some of her favorite people. Her daughter had opted to hang out with some friends in the park, which Alexandra agreed to.

Fog rolled over the entrance gates of Universal Studios Hollywood like a living thing. Lights pulsed red and violet against the haze, and the air buzzed with chainsaws, laughter, and the occasional, genuine scream that sliced through the music.

Alexandra Calaway stood just beyond the archway, her dark halloween horror nights themed jacket buttoned tight against the slight chill. The air smelled faintly of kettle corn and fog juice. Beside her, LJ adjusted the hood of his Camp Crystal Lake sweatshirt, the flicker of his phone screen lighting his grin.

“Are you filming everything again?” she asked.

“Evidence,” he said. “In case I die in there.”

Behind them, Damien and Mika emerged through the crowd, arm in arm, drinks in one hand. Mika’s skull-shaped cup glowed neon green; Damien had a churro in each hand and a look of amused caution.

“This is already chaos,” Mika said, taking a long sip. “We haven’t even entered a maze yet.”

“That’s the fun,” Damien said. “Right before the fear hits. Come on, you and Alexandra have been doing this spooky shit long before you drug me into it all.”

“Speak for yourself,” Alexandra murmured, scanning the fog-drenched midway. “Okay. We start with the Jason Universe house. It’s new. It’s brutal. We go hard early.”

LJ’s eyebrows lifted. “Straight to the machete guy? No warm-up?”

“You’ll thank me later.” He didn’t look convinced.

“Anything you want, Angel.” Truthfully LJ needed this break to not think about Law School or his upcoming match, at least for the time they were here.

The group walked towards the line and conversed before too long it was their turn. The moment they stepped inside, the air changed. It was cooler, heavy with the smell of wet wood and moss. The path wound through a mocked up summer camp, rotting cabins, flickering lanterns, the faint rasp of crickets. Water dripped from somewhere unseen.

A scream cut through the stillness, far too close for comfort.

Then Jason Voorhees appeared. Massive, sudden, and silent, machete glinting under the strobe. LJ swore and ducked; Alexandra grabbed his arm, laughing breathlessly. Behind them, Mika shrieked and shoved Damien forward as a second Jason clone stepped from the fog, blood on his mask. They bolted through the cabin corridor, slamming out into open air and the distant roar of the crowd beyond.

LJ was laughing now, wide-eyed and exhilarated. “That really was something, okay, okay, that was actually insane.”

“You screamed first,” Alexandra teased.

“I’ll take that L,” he said, catching his breath. “But it was worth it.”

“Hopefully you are up for what’s next, because I know I’m not.” Mika chimed in, burying her face against Damien’s chest. “Fucking Clowns.”

They crossed into the next section of the park, where smoke and neon painted everything in carnival colors. The Chainsaw Clownz scare zone was bedlam — broken rides spinning lazily under strobe lights, metal barrels burning blue flames, laughter from unseen corners. A clown with a spark-spraying chainsaw lunged, inches from LJ’s legs. He jumped three feet back, clutching Alexandra’s hand.

Mika cackled. “I swear they can smell fear.”

Damien leaned close to her ear. “You first next time.”

She shot him a look. “Not a chance. I don’t do fucking clowns.”

The line for Five Nights at Freddy’s wound through dark hallways, walls plastered with torn pizza posters and flickering monitors. Inside, the air smelled of dust and grease. The set hummed with mechanical life. The animatronics were too real. Freddy’s head turned with a grinding sound. Bonnie’s eyes flashed red. Somewhere, a child’s laughter played on a loop. Alexandra’s pulse quickened. LJ, usually unflappable, was pressed tight against her side, phone forgotten in his pocket. A spotlight flickered. Foxy the Pirate lunged from behind a door, shrieking static. The group bolted through the next hallway, laughing, yelling, unable to tell if they were terrified or delighted.

When they stumbled out into the open again, Alexandra doubled over, laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes. “That was ridiculous. But I fucking loved it.”

“Never trusting a pizza place again,” LJ said, grinning.

“Keep that attitude up and she’ll make you go to Chuck E. Cheese.” Damien laughed.

“Oh HELL no.. that mouse scares me.” Alexandra laughed. “Reminds me too much of my opponent Crystal.”

The Terrifier house was a different breed of fear. The entrance was a cracked circus tent streaked with a red viscous liquid that smelled faintly metallic. Inside, the world was drenched in crimson. Mirrors fractured faces, laughter echoed, and the infamous Art the Clown appeared and vanished in flashes of strobe light. Mika screamed, Damien laughed, and Alexandra shoved LJ forward as the clown stepped out from behind a curtain, tilting his head with eerie calm. They ran for the exit, stumbling into the night with the sound of distorted carnival music chasing them.

“Okay,” Damien gasped. “That one actually got me.”

“Fucking clowns.. I want to get away from here.” A clown came near her and she drew back to prepare to punch it.

“Same,” Alexandra said, shaking her hands out. “Too much red.”

LJ exhaled. “Too much everything.”

They needed a breather, so they went into Poltergeist. It was quieter but somehow worse.
Suburban living rooms gone wrong. Television static filling the air. Furniture that moved when you weren’t looking.

“Don’t blink,” Mika whispered.

A child’s voice echoed from the next room. Then a chair slid across the carpet, causing Alexandra to shriek. There were no strings visible. LJ grabbed Alexandra’s hand. She felt his pulse racing against hers, and she squeezed back until the lights flickered off, plunging them into blackness. When they finally escaped into the cool air again, none of them spoke for a moment. Just the sounds of the park, the music, screams, laughter, washing over them. A brea before the long nights to come.

Later, they boarded the Terror Tram. The old movie sets stretched ahead like a ghost town under floodlights. As they walked through the backlot, scenes from M3GAN, The Black Phone, and The Exorcist: Believer came alive around them, possessed dolls dancing, masked figures whispering, phones ringing in the dark with no one on the other end.

Mika and Damien stayed close, half laughing, half holding their breath. LJ’s arm was looped around Alexandra’s shoulders, the weight of it grounding her. A scare actor dressed as M3GAN tilted her head unnaturally and whispered, “Smile for me.” Alexandra nearly did. They boarded the tram again, adrenaline still thrumming, the ride rumbling back through the fog.

Once the screams were over it was time to relax and they ended up at a snack cart near the exit, paper trays of churros and butterbeer between them. The night had cooled. The fog hung heavier now, turning the lights above them into soft halos.

“That was,” LJ started, shaking his head. “I don’t even have words.”

“Perfect,” Alexandra said. “Terrifying, exhausting, perfect.”

Mika stretched her arms. “I screamed enough for a lifetime.”

Damien smiled, brushing powdered sugar from his shirt. “We survived Jason, Freddy, Art the Clown, and demons. I’d call that a success.”

They fell quiet for a moment, the night breathing around them. The park was still alive, screams in the distance, bass from a stage show vibrating faintly underfoot. Alexandra glanced at LJ, who was watching her instead of his phone for once. His grin was smaller now, softer. She reached for his hand.

“Ready for one last scare zone?” she asked.

He groaned. “You’re insatiable.”

“Always.” Alexandra gave a laugh.

“Anything for you Angel.” LJ leaned down and kissed Alexandra, in front of her family.

Mika laughed and Damien stood, offering his hand to her. Together, the four of them disappeared once more into the fog and sound, the laughter and the screams blending into something like joy.

---

The Hard Truth
Undisclosed Location
Santa Clara, California

Alexandra found herself thinking about everything that had led her to this, another chance to get her hands on Gold. It’s true, she had been focused on everything except that, but now that her life was calming down once again, she knew she could focus, there was no crime there, nothing to worry about. Yes, she was concerned that someone would try to pull the trigger on Vincent's offer on Alexandra’s head. For now though, she could only focus on what was in front of her currently, that being Crystal Caldwell. Again, she was facing off against a woman she had won over repeatedly. And there was always the possibility that Mercedes Vargas would get involved to help her “client” win. The camera clicked on and she began to speak.

“Crystal, you and I have done this song and dance before. It’s getting to the point where I am seeing you more and more every week. Great, that’s good. When you actually can do something on your own. Every week, I see you talk about how you are willing to step on whoever you can to get ahead. Including your own wife. So that proves you are nothing more than another narcissistic bitch. But honestly, I saw that in you LONG before your poor wife became the victim of your own bullshit.”

She took a deep breath. Crystal really got under her fingernails. She knew if she let her get too deeply under her skin, that everything could come crashing down around her. She wouldn’t allow that to happen.

“Here we are in California, Hollywood land. The place where dreams are made and broken. Okay big shot, isn’t this the land of the stars? So tell me Crystal, if you are such a big name and the woman who should be at the top of the food chain here in Sin City Wrestling, why is it that every time a new champion is crowned, it’s not your name that’s called? Huh? What’s with that babydoll? Look at what I’ve accomplished in my time here, look at the nominations, whose name is there more than yours? Oh wait, that’s right, it’s mine. You aren’t the name you seem to think you are. You are letting people like Mercedes fill your head with bullshit. I can’t wait until she gets tired of her back hurting from carrying you to victory and she drops you on your head.”

She gave a moment to let that sink in. The thought that Mercedes could screw Crystal over made her smile. Hell, even Harper could screw Mercedes this time around, after all, she had made quite a stir against Harper lately.

“You know, you had my attention last week, all that talk about Harper. I’ve lost to Harper, I find no shame in that. You had to have help to beat her. Between the way you trashed Harper, get Mercedes help to win matches and betrayed your wife for a spot at the glory is, well, it’s utter fucking bullshit. But go ahead darling, step on everyone you need to and you’ll find out that it’s cold at the top. The past two shows, I’ve done what I’ve always done, protected the people who are important to me. That pissed off Vincent Lyons, someone who is trying to do the same thing you do, step on people to get to the top. I stood up to him, just like I will you.”

Another deep breath and Alexandra’s mind continued to swirl at the thoughts of what she was walking into. A proverbial Lions Den, where either woman who will be out there, could be the one to answer Vincent's call.

“And it’s very possible you could attempt to be the one to collect the bounty on my head. But remember just what it’s been like in the ring with me every single time. If you think that I’m going to allow you to steal my shot to High Stakes you are dumber than you look. I don’t care if I have to spill every bit of your blood or my own, I will. That shot is mine. And when it comes down to next week, I’ll fight like I always do. Everything has been building up to this moment, since I lost the Bombshell Roulette Title, every shot I’ve taken and lost, the nights I’ve sat up telling myself I’d get another chance, that I could get back on track. It brought me here. The only thing I have left to do now is get through you. And I will. Just like Victoria Lyons has always been my achilles heel, I’m yours. Your shot ends here.”

With that Alexandra shook her head and took a deep breath, time to wrap this up and get back for some rest and relaxation, before she had to prove her words by punching this bitch in the face.

“Crystal, bring your best, hell bring Mercedes. I can’t wait to see what chaos you two will attempt to use on me. I can’t wait to see just how badly Harper makes you pay for what you have done to her. And when the match is over and you lay down on the mat, looking up at the lights, you’ll hear the name Alexandra Calaway is your winner and advancing for a chance at World Bombshell Championship. Then I can get my chance to once again face Victoria and dash her chances of advancing to the top.”

She turns away from the camera and then turns back to say one last phrase.

“Welcome to Primetime BITCH, see you in Hell.”

With a chuckle she fades into the darkness and fog.

Early Mornings In Vegas
LJs Apartment
Las Vegas, Nevada

The sun had started to brush through the windows of LJ’s bedroom. Bathing Alexandra in the warmth of the morning sunlight, she rolled over and kissed LJ’s head, before slipping from the bed. Slipping into her slippers and wrapping a robe around her body she made her way to the kitchen. She had slipped out the day before to grab some groceries, wanting to have a full breakfast prepared for them before they headed out.  LJ to Law School and Ash to her first day at The Meadows School. Getting to work she quickly made them breakfast and before she could finish plating the food, she felt an arm slip around her waist. 

“Good morning Angel,” LJ’s lips brushed across her jawline and she turned slightly to look up at him.

“Good morning darling,” Alexandra laughed and leaned against him. “Breakfast is almost ready and I’m sure Ash will be down soon.”

“I smell bacon,” came a voice from behind her.  Ashlynn padded into the room, a book bag slung over her shoulder, which was quickly discarded on the floor.

“I took the liberty of making you guys some breakfast. I know it’s not always this big of a thing, but I wanted to do something nice for you both.” A bright smile crossed Alexandra’s face.

Alexandra finished plating their food and putting it on the island counter so that they could eat. She watched as Ashlynn poured herself some juice and sat it down next to her food and sat down. Alexandra handed LJ a cup of coffee and sat down to join them.

Ashlynn dug into her bacon with a grin. “You spoil me mom. Most mornings, I’m lucky if I grab a granola bar before running out the door.”

Alexandra arched her brow. “That’s exactly why I wanted to slow things down today. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends lately, homework, SAT prep.”

“Don’t forget late night FaceTiming with her friends,” LJ teased, earning a dramatic sigh from Ashlynn.

“Seriously, Mom, Da" she quickly catches herself. "LJ,” she said, trying to hide the almost slip up, hoping he hadn’t caught it. Her tone was more playful than defensive. “Junior year’s no joke. Half the time it feels like every teacher thinks their class is the only one I have.”

Alexandra reached across and touched her daughter’s hand. “I know, sweetheart. But you’re managing it beautifully. You just have to remember to take care of yourself in between all of it.”

Ashlynn softened at that, her smile less guarded. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll survive. It’s just,” a sigh escaped her lips “a lot.”

Alexandra looked over at LJ, noticing his interest in the conversation. She knew Ashlynn liked having LJ around someone else to be the buffer between them sometimes. It also helped to have a second person around in moments like this.

LJ nodded, sipping his coffee. “That’s what this home is for, to be your place to breathe when the world feels like too much. I want you to feel comfortable here. It’s your home too.”

For a moment, Ashlynn let the words sink in before returning to her plate. The hum of everyday life, the scrape of chairs, the clink of silverware, the smell of coffee and bacon, settled over them like a comfort they didn’t take for granted. They all finished their meal and Alexandra moved over to take the plates to the sink, getting everything ready to clean up.

Ashlynn grabbed her bag and made her way over to her mother kissing her cheek. “I need to go now if I plan on catching my bus. The Meadows School waits for no one.”

“Have a good day sweetheart and be safe,” Alexandra smiled a little. The fear of her daughter alone in a new city still crept over her.

“Mom, it’s not that far, I’ll be fine,” with that Ashlynn was gone for the door before another word could be said.

“That’s my cue as well. I need to get to the campus.” LJ stood and moved towards Alexandra, turning her away from the sink and capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. “Have a good day Angel and don’t work too hard. We got the show this weekend.”

“I won’t” Alexandra nodded and tried so hard to not let go of him. “I’d tell you not to work hard, but it’s law school.” A chuckle left her lips.

“I’ll be home before you know it.” he pulled away and put his blazer on, before kissing her again a bit longer this time. “I love you, Alexandra.”

“I love you too LJ,” she watched as he smiled and pulled away, disappearing out the door.

Turning back to the sink she takes her time to clean the dishes, making sure to get everything handled up and put away, before moving to look at the articles for the show. She knew nothing of her opponents and yet she didn’t fear the unknown. She trusted what she and LJ could do together in that ring; they had proven it against Logan and Brooke as well as against Justin Smith and Song. Anthrax and Twisted Sister may be a different breed altogether but still nothing to fear.

---

Barbed Wire and Roses
Lost Weekend Staircase
Miami Beach, Florida

The flight to Miami from Las Vegas hadn’t been hard on them at all. Finding their hotel rooms, the two headed out for Alexandra’s filming place. Lost Weekend club, after speaking with the manager for about thirty minutes, they had access to the club before hours. The camera was set up and there was no time left to waste.

“Let’s do this,” Alexandra looked up at LJ with a smile.

“Right behind you Angel, this is your time.”

Alexandra sat down on the step, on the step behind her sat LJ, sunglasses on, even though it was indoors in the middle of the day. She took a moment to lick her polished lips before speaking.

“So it seems either myself or LJ, or both of us, have managed to garner the attention and ire of Anthrax and Twisted Sister. Personally I don’t think I know either of these two individuals, but as I’ve said all along. There’s always someone else out there who thinks they are crazier or darker than YOU think you are. I mean, just look at Victoria Lyons.”

She gave a quick moment of pause, knowing that this match wasn’t going to be easy. From what she could find about these two, they were as crazy as crazy could be. Even crazier than she had ever pretended to be. That was the thing most people forgot about the industry. Crazy is a common gimmick around it, but violence, the kind that comes from Funhouse matches, Alexandra had made a career on.

“It’s Violent Conduct everyone. And would you know it, they put the hottest new couple as the opening match for the banger show of the year. LJ and I, we’ve torn through several other mixed tag teams and shown time and time again both in the ring together and apart that we are willing to push the limits, to do whatever must be done to win. Weapons or no weapons.”

She looks up at LJ who lowers his sunglasses for a moment letting her talk, but nodding in agreement.

“You see Anthrax, I’m not going to waste my valuable time on addressing you directly, LJ more than had that covered. But I will say this, you don’t scare me. I don’t scare as easily as some of these other women. I used to fight men like you, before coming here. However, since I cannot fight you in the ring, sadly, it’s against the rules, I’ll just say this, Twisted Sister will experience what it’s like to be in there with me, and she can fill you in.”

Leaning back she kissed LJ’s cheek and then sat back up.

“Twisted Sister, let me address you directly my dear little doll. I’ve seen people like you, faced them, countless times over and it’s ended the same way. With their clown paint washed away, mingling with the blood we spilled and guess what, they wound up flat on their backs with me pinning them for the three count. You’ll be no different.”

The camera holds on Alexandra for a few moments before panning up to LJ who smirks and gives that air of confidence he always has.

“They say for every rise, there is a fall. Much like this staircase we are on, climbing ever upwards in this industry is what we all do. It doesn’t matter if you win or lose, upwards is always the goal. We all know too well what’s at stake here, what can happen in this type of match. Hell I’ll even admit it. Matches like this, they take years off a person's career and I’ve been in a lot of them.”

The camera pans out to posters from past shows at the Lost Weekend, it zooms in on one entitled Funhouse, with the picture of a creepy carnival and some deadly looking clowns on it. Alexandra looks up at it and laughs.

“If you think the grease paint and ominous vibes scare either of us. You have no clue who you are going up against. Look, we've both taken our lumps and proven that this company needs us, win or lose, our names are mentioned in meetings, we are pushed into some of the highest caliber matches, hell we put asses in the seats week in and week out.”

A soft laugh leaves her and she see’s LJ’s hand come out for hers.

“And at Violent Conduct Twisted Sister, Anthrax, you two get to see just what we do to people who stand against us. Hell, maybe go pull Logan out of whatever bottle he’s in the bottom of and ask him, ask his little baby doll Brooke, then meet us in the Funhouse, I’ll be glad to make you bleed.”

With that, LJ pulls her into a kiss and the camera fades to black.

A lot to consider, before leaving for Ibiza
Calaway Estate
Dallas, Texas

“But if I stay here… I don’t want to keep doing the long-distance shuffle. Not just for me but for you and in a way for Ashlynn.”

“I’m not trying to rush anything,”

"It’s just...the idea of waking up next to you, not having to count days or flights or FaceTimes...it sounds like something real. Something we could build. Together.”

Alexandra had LJ had just hung up after a very deep phone call. She hadn’t expected him to ask something so big. It’s true, they had just crossed the year mark a few weeks ago. His need for them to be there with him, to build something real together.

She sat in the quiet after, her fingers loosely wrapped around the phone, heart still echoing his words. They filled the corners of the room like sunlight trying to reach her, but they didn’t quite warm her completely. There was love there, deep and steady. She felt it every time he said her name like it mattered. And the way he talked about a future, their future, not just some vague dream, but a life he wanted to create with her. With Ashlynn.
But that’s what made it harder.

Ashlynn. Her whole world wrapped up in a sixteen-year-old who was already balancing on the edge of adulthood. Confident. Bright. Guarded in ways only teenage girls could be. She had roots here, friends she’d grown up with, teachers who understood her, a social circle she trusted, and a rhythm to her life that Alexandra had worked hard to protect. Taking her away from all that? From everything she knew? It felt like tossing a stone into still water and bracing for the ripple.

Still, the memory of LJ’s voice lingered, warm, steady, full of hope. And God, she wanted that too. Waking up to someone who chose her every day. Building something with hands that wouldn’t let go. She could see it: Sunday mornings with quiet coffee, Ashlynn rolling her eyes at their stolen kisses in the kitchen, a life full of ordinary moments that didn’t have to be packed into weekend visits or countdown clocks.

But love came with risk. And being a mother meant holding two hearts in her chest, not just one.
She rubbed her temple, torn between longing and responsibility. Was it fair to even consider asking Ashlynn to start over at sixteen? To leave the place where she’d kissed her first boyfriend, bombed her math midterm, cried on the bathroom floor after a fight with her best friend?

Alexandra leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closed. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full of possibilities, each one asking her to be brave in a different way. What if Ashlynn hated her for this? What if she pulled away? What if this love, this rare, hard-earned, beautiful thing, unraveled under the weight of reality?

And yet... wasn’t that the gamble of love? That sometimes it asked you to leap, not because it promised a perfect landing, but because the person waiting on the other side was worth the fall?

She sighed and stood slowly, glancing down the hallway where Ashlynn’s door was closed, music leaking faintly from behind it. Her daughter, her world. This conversation, when it came,  would matter more than any she’d had with LJ. Because if they went, they’d go as a we, or not at all.

One conversation at a time, she told herself.

And maybe... just maybe... the rest would follow. For now she needed to focus, she needed to prepare for her match. Bella and Victoria wouldn’t be easy on her. But no one could be harder on her than she herself was at this moment.

---

Short and Simple
Hotel
Monaco

A panoramic drone shot glides over the glittering Monaco coastline. The moonlight shimmers on the water, the yachts are lit like floating palaces, and the distant hum of music from the casinos fills the air. The camera slowly pushes in on the balcony of the Hôtel de Paris. Alexandra Calaway stands there, black silk robe over her exquisite frame, long hair flowing in the breeze, a champagne flute in her hand. She stares out at the city with the calm confidence of someone who already believes she owns it.

"Monaco, The crown jewel of the Riviera. A place where fortunes change hands over the spin of a wheel, where billionaires and movie stars mingle in champagne lounges, where every balcony hides a story worth telling. And tonight, this balcony, this view, this story, belongs to me.”

She takes a moment to look over the railing at the view below. The bright lights of the city, the roar of the nightlife below.

“Look down there, the streets are alive. Laughter, music, the shuffle of chips, the clink of glasses. They came here for a taste of luxury but me? I didn’t come to taste it. I came to take it.”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and soaking in the night time air, the sound around her. Breathing it all in she continues.

“And in just a matter of hours, luxury won’t be measured in diamonds or bank accounts. It’ll be measured in blood spilled under velvet ropes. It’ll be measured in broken bottles and shattered egos. Because tomorrow night, in the main event, it’s a VIP Lounge Brawl. Boy do I pity Christian when this is over. Bella Madison. Victoria Lyons. And Alexandra Calaway. One winner. One ticket punched straight to Mykonos, where Kayla Richards and her precious title will be waiting for one of us lucky women."

She swirls the champagne, eyes locked on the glittering coastline.

"You know, I’ve wrestled all over the world. Tokyo. London. Vegas. But there’s something about Monaco that feels somehow fitting. This city understands status. It understands power. It understands that not all women are created equal. Some of us are born to rule and some are born to kneel. Tomorrow night, I will remind the world which category I belong to. But before we get to the fight, let’s talk about my opponents, shall we?"

She leans against the balcony rail, her voice softening but her smirk sharp.

"Bella Madison. Let’s start with you. Because unlike the other name on that list, you’ve earned a certain level of respect from me. You’re a fighter. You don’t hide behind excuses. You don’t need to stab someone in the back to get ahead. You’ve been in wars and you’ve walked away stronger. And I respect that. Truly. In a business full of pretenders, you’re one of the few who can look me in the eye and mean it when you say you’re coming to fight. But here’s the thing about respect, Bella, we both know, respect doesn’t mean mercy. It doesn’t mean I’ll pull my punches. If anything, it means I’ll give you the very best version of Alexandra Calaway and that is not a gift, it’s a death sentence. We both know this.”

She hated that she had to go up against Bella, because she did have quite a bit of respect from Alexandra. That wouldn’t change things in the end though. She would go hard on Bella if it meant the win.

“When that bell rings, the velvet ropes in that VIP section won’t be for keeping people out, they’ll be there to trap you in with me. And when I drive your head through a glass drink tray, when I wrap that hookah hose around your neck and squeeze, it won’t be out of spite, it’ll be out of necessity. Because I’m not stepping into that ring to make friends. I’m stepping in to win. And if I have to break you to do it, Bella, I will."

Her smile fades. The champagne glass lowers. There’s a flicker of heat in her eyes now.

"And then there’s you. Victoria Lyons. You and I we’ve danced this dance before, haven’t we? You’ve been a thorn in my side for too long. You’re like a shadow that lingers just long enough to make me want to burn the whole room down. Everywhere I turn, there you are. Whispering. Plotting. Clinging to whatever scraps of relevance you can get your claws on. And you’ve tried,  oh, you’ve tried, to make me stumble. You’ve tried to make me doubt myself. You’ve tried to make yourself my equal. But you’re not my equal, Victoria. You never have been. And the thing is,  I think you know that. I think that’s why you’re so desperate to make my life hell. Because deep down, you understand the truth: No matter how hard you claw you’ll never reach the throne again."

She sets the champagne down on the balcony railing, her voice hardening.

"I’ve never beaten you before. I’ve never embarrassed you before. But tomorrow night, it’s not just about beating you. It’s about ending this. I’m going to take that leather couch in the VIP lounge, lay you across it, and drive my knee into your skull until you stop moving. I’m going to make you wish you’d never signed the contract for this match. And when it’s over, when the champagne is mixed with your blood on that floor, you’ll finally understand… there’s no room for you in my world."

She picks the champagne glass back up, but doesn’t drink. She turns, facing the camera fully for the first time.

"The VIP Lounge Brawl, what a beautiful concept. Velvet ropes, strobe lights, champagne bottles, hookah hoses, DJ headphones, it’s like they designed it just for me. See, some wrestlers panic when you put them in a chaotic environment like that. They get distracted. They lose focus. Me? I thrive in it. Chaos is my natural habitat. When that bell rings, I’m not just going to use the weapons they hand me. I’m going to turn that VIP section into a masterpiece. Every bottle, every tray, every rope, I’ll use them all. And when I’m done, people won’t just remember the fight, they’ll remember the artwork I left behind."

She sets the glass down completely now. The wind picks up slightly. Her voice lowers, dripping with venom.

"Victoria, I’ve been patient. I’ve been composed. I've listened to every slight you have thrown in my direction and took it with class and poise. But the truth is every time I think about you, my hands itch to tear you apart. You’ve cost me matches. You’ve cost me moments. And tomorrow night, I’m going to take everything from you in return. I want you to feel it. I want you to hear the sound of the glass breaking under your body. I want to see the panic in your eyes when you realize you’re trapped. I want you to understand that when I said I was going to end you, I meant it.”

That was the truth of it. She would make sure to deal with Victoria, however she needed to. By the end of the night, that Bombshell World Title shot would be hers.

“Bella, you’ll get caught in the crossfire. And I’m sorry for that. But you knew the risk the moment you signed your name. Tomorrow night isn’t about who wants it most. It’s about who’s willing to go the farthest. And I’ve been to the darkest corners of this business, ladies. I’ve done things you wouldn’t even whisper about. And tomorrow night in Monaco, you’ll see all of it."

Her tone shifts again, calmer but still deadly.

"And when it’s over, when I’m standing there, hand raised, the winner of the VIP Lounge Brawl,  I’ll get on a plane. I’ll fly to Mykonos. And Kayla Richards, I hope you’re watching. Because I’m not coming to Greece for the sunshine. I’m coming for your title. Climax Control is just the beginning. Mykonos is the destination. And when I get there, I’ll do to you what I did to them. This is the year Alexandra Calaway takes everything."

She picks up the champagne, finishes it in one smooth motion, and sets the empty glass down with a quiet click. She leans forward, eyes locked on the lens, and delivers her final words with icy precision.

"Monaco, enjoy the show. I know I will. Because tomorrow night, the streets run gold and red."

The camera slowly fades to black, with LJ coming out to the balcony and wrapping his arms around Alexandra’s midsection and kissing the back of her head.

---

Its a simple answer Angel
Hotel
Monaco

The scene opens where the promo left off. The champagne glass is still on the balcony railing, the moonlight dancing across the water. Alexandra stands with her back to the sliding doors, her eyes scanning the horizon. The glass door behind her slides open quietly, and LJ steps out, dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He closes the door gently behind him.

“You’re out here alone again. Let me guess, running through the match in your head?”

Alexandra doesn’t turn right away. She smirks faintly, still staring at the city lights.

“Always. You know me, I can’t shut it off. Especially not now. Monaco tonight. Mykonos next week. Everything I’ve been fighting for could be decided in the next seven days.”

LJ walks up beside her, resting his elbows on the railing. For a moment, they just stand together, listening to the faint sounds of the city below.

“I get it. I do. But I also know, when you’re chasing the next big thing, everything else starts fading into the background. But there are bigger things that we need to discuss, certain questions that have been asked.”

That makes Alexandra turn her head, her eyes narrowing slightly, not in anger, but in that sharp, analytical way she does in the ring.

“Don’t. You know Ashlynn and you are my whole world. You both are. But right now, I’m—”

“—Right now, you’re Alexandra Calaway, wrestler, Bombshell, contender. But what happens when you’re not in fight mode? What happens when the match is over? Have you given any more thought to what I asked you last week? About you and Ashlynn moving to Vegas with me?”

Alexandra looks away, back out over the harbor. She grips the railing a little tighter, her nails tapping lightly against the metal.

“I’ve thought about it. Believe me, I have. Vegas is tempting. I mean, you’ve built a life there. And Ashlynn would love the change, new schools, new energy. But LJ, you know what that move would mean. Vegas would be home base, and home base means commitment. It means, less running, less chasing every booking around the globe. And I’m not sure I’m ready to slow you down. Not yet. You are young, but I know that this, us, is real.”

LJ turns toward her fully, his expression gentle but firm.

“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are. Lord knows I’m not, hell I’m here too. I’m asking you to give yourself and us a foundation. You’ve been living out of suitcases for years and long flights home to Dallas, Angel. Always on the move, always somewhere else. Vegas could be the one place you come back to. A place where Ashlynn knows her bedroom’s always waiting for her. A place where I’m always with you. No more long flights and scheduled facetimes.”

Alexandra exhales slowly, her gaze drifting down to the empty champagne glass.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is as simple as breath love. You just have to decide what matters more chasing the gold every second of every day, or having something solid to come home to when the chase is over.”

A beat of silence. The waves crash softly below.

“Let me get through this VIP Lounge Brawl. Let me get through Mykonos. If I win that title shot, everything changes. I just, I can’t divide my head right now. Not when Victoria’s in that match. Not when Bella’s in it. But after, I promise. We’ll talk. And I’ll give you an answer.”

LJ studies her for a moment, then nods. He leans in, kisses her temple, and rests his forehead against hers briefly.

"Fair enough Angel. Just, don’t take too long to decide, okay? Because I’m all in on this. On us.”

Alexandra finally turns fully toward him, a small but genuine smile tugging at her lips.

“Me too.”

They stand together for a long moment, the city lights reflecting in their eyes. Then, from somewhere down on the streets of Monaco, the distant sound of music swells, a reminder of the world still moving around them. The camera slowly pulls back from the balcony as the scene fades to black.

Preparing for the Trip
LJs Place
Las Vegas, Nevada

The last of Alexandra’s gear was packed, the suitcase zipped, and her boots resting on top like a final piece of armor. The soft hum of Las Vegas nightlife filtered through the window as she stood in the middle of her bedroom, mentally checking off everything for the trip. It was strange, in a way, how much calmer she felt this year compared to last. Experience had softened the edges of uncertainty. She knew what was waiting on that ship. The chaos. The fans. The long days and wild nights. But this time, she wasn’t walking into it with that same heavy weight on her chest. Across the room, LJ sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone absently before setting it down. His duffel bag sat mostly empty at his feet.

“Are you sure you’re packed enough?” she asked, glancing at the bare bag with a teasing smile.

He looked up and smirked. “I’m not the one stepping into the ring in the middle of the ocean. I figured out a few shirts, a pair of shorts, and one dress outfit in case they try to get fancy.”

“You’ll need more than that. It’s Summer XXXtreme. There's sun, saltwater, and the kind of mayhem that eats clean clothes alive.”

LJ chuckled and stood, walking over to her. “Yeah, but I’m not on the card. I’m not working. I’m just... yours this time. Bodyguard, emotional support, maybe a glorified luggage handler.”

Alexandra’s smile faded into something warmer, softer. “You’re more than that. Just having you there makes everything feel more grounded.”

He shrugged, but the faint pink in his cheeks gave away how much that meant to him. “Still feels weird, though. Not being booked. Not being part of the show. I’ve spent so much time fighting for a spot that stepping away, even for a week, messes with my head.”

She nodded in understanding. “It messed with mine last year. I wasn’t sure I even belonged on that cruise. I kept second-guessing everything, Ashlynn, the matches, the fans, being out at sea with no safety net. But it ended up being one of the best things for me. Because I stopped trying to be perfect and just... showed up. Did my thing. And people noticed.”

“You got everyone talking,” he said. “And now they’re expecting you to outdo yourself.”

“I’m not worried about that,” she said, stepping closer and slipping her arms around his waist. “What I care about is being focused, being me. And this year, I get to have my partner there. Not as a tag team, not as an act, just as someone who has my back.”

LJ rested his chin on top of her head. “Always. Even if I’m the guy in the crowd with the overpriced drink yelling too loud.”

She laughed against his chest. “You’d be the best part of the crowd.”

For a few moments, they stood there in silence, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them. This trip wasn’t just about the cruise or the matches—it was about taking a step forward, together. With Ashlynn staying with Cassandra and Dhillon for the week, there was finally room for Alexandra and LJ to breathe as a couple.

“I think I needed this more than I realized,” she said quietly.

“The cruise?”

“No,” she replied, lifting her eyes to meet his. “This time. With you. Without everything pulling us in five different directions. I’ve been going non-stop for so long, I forgot what it feels like to just be with someone.”

“You haven’t really let yourself slow down,” LJ agreed. “Even when we first got together, you were still wearing your armor.”

“I had to,” she said, her voice soft. “For Ashlynn. For survival. For my own sanity. But I’m tired of carrying that weight all the time.”

He nodded. “Then don’t. Let me carry some of it with you.”

Her eyes glistened for just a second before she looked away, blinking it back. “You say things like that and I remember why I let you in.”

“I didn’t knock gently,” he said with a small grin.

“No, you didn’t. You walked in like you belonged here. And maybe, you do.”

They sat on the bed, her hand resting over his. The bags were packed, the plans set. Tomorrow, they’d board the ship. Alexandra would step back into the spotlight, the ring, the madness of a wrestling cruise. And LJ would be right there, not as a wrestler, not as her man in the corner while she was in a match, but as her anchor.

“You nervous?” he asked, glancing at her sideways.

“Not about the match,” she said. “That’s the easy part. It’s the stuff between the matches that gets tricky.”

“Like what?”

“Like trying to remember who I am when I’m not being the performer. Like making space for us in a world that doesn’t stop moving. Last year, I felt like I was surviving. This year, I want to live in it.”

LJ leaned back on his elbows. “So we do that. You work. I support you. We steal moments in between. Breakfast on the balcony. Watching the sunset. Making fun of people in the pool.”

Alexandra laughed again, brighter this time. “God, that sounds perfect.”

“It will be,” he said. “You fight. I’ll be there. And when the lights go out, it’s just you and me. That’s what I’m looking forward to most.”

She turned, curling into his side, her head resting on his shoulder. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“When we get back, when the cruise is over, and real life crashes back in, don’t let me shut down again. Remind me of this. What it feels like to let someone stay.”

He kissed her forehead gently. “I’ll remind you every damn day if I have to.”

The air between them settled into something steady, calm. Tomorrow would bring the roar of the ocean and the madness of fans. Alexandra would face whatever challenge the cruise had in store. But tonight, she had something far more powerful than momentum, she had LJ. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t walking in Summer XXXtreme alone.

---

Let’s Talky Talk
The Strip
Las Vegas, NV

The camera opened on the glimmering chaos of the Las Vegas Strip. Neon signs buzzed above packed sidewalks. Tourists shouted, music blared from open doors, and slot machines chirped from every direction. In the middle of it all, walking with slow, measured steps through the chaos, was Alexandra. She was dressed in a sharp leather jacket, sunglasses covering eyes that burned with purpose, her boots striking the pavement with deliberate weight.

She didn’t glance at the noise or the spectacle. All of it faded behind her focus. The camera followed as she walked past the Bellagio fountains, the spray catching the city lights in bursts of color. She finally came to a stop beneath the glowing canopy of the Flamingo, turned to face the camera, and pulled off her sunglasses.

Her eyes locked onto the lens, cold, sharp, and surgical.

"Let’s talk," she said, voice low but firm enough to cut through the roar of the Strip.

Amelia: "The Unknown Equation"

Alexandra tilted her head, a small smirk curling at the edge of her mouth. "Amelia. The one I haven’t touched yet. The enigma. The one the fans like to call a mystery. You know what mysteries are to me? Just problems waiting to be solved."

She took a few steps down the sidewalk, weaving between a group of partygoers without breaking her stride. "We’ve never faced each other, and I know that’s been eating away at you. They’ve been protecting you. They’ve been crafting your journey like it’s a fairy tale. But here’s the thing, sweetheart, fairy tales end in horror when reality hits. And I am that reality."

She stopped again, just in front of a luxury store, her reflection staring back from the glass. "You’ve never had to bleed for your momentum, Amelia. You’ve never felt what it’s like to be broken in front of a crowd that expected more from you. You dance, you fly, you smile—and they eat it up like it’s gourmet. But when you step into the ring with me, none of that’s going to save you."

Alexandra leaned closer to the glass, staring into her own eyes before looking back at the camera. "You’re fast, you’re clean, you’ve got technique. But I’ve made careers end for less. What you’ve built for yourself—your potential, your precious image—I’m going to drag it all into the street like garbage and show the world what happens when smoke and mirrors meet substance."

The Strip pulsed behind her, but her tone never wavered. "So go ahead, Amelia. Be their rising star. Be their future. Because when the time comes, I’ll be the one who introduces you to your ceiling. And I promise, it’s going to hurt."

Joanne: "The Broken Record"

Alexandra turned a corner, walking past Caesar’s Palace, the grandeur behind her a stark contrast to the venom in her voice. "Joanne. Poor, stubborn, beautifully deluded Joanne. We’ve been here before, haven’t we? And every single time, I’ve beaten you into the floor like it’s tradition."

She rolled her shoulders, brushing past a performer on stilts without a second glance. "What amazes me isn’t that you lost. It’s that you keep coming back like something’s going to change. Like this time, things will be different. Like you’ve somehow evolved past the woman I already exposed."

She scoffed, glancing sideways as if picturing Joanne’s face. "You’re not evolving, Joanne. You’re decorating failure. You put up a fresh coat of paint every time I destroy you and try to convince yourself the cracks aren’t there. But I see them. Every twitch in your eye when my name is brought up. Every forced breath you take when they ask about your losses to me. You’re not fighting to win. You’re fighting to survive. And I’ve got bad news, survival isn’t enough anymore."

Alexandra stopped beneath a massive LED billboard flashing championship belts and highlight reels. She didn’t even look up. "I don’t hate you, Joanne. You’re not worth that. What I feel is pity. Because no matter how many times you crawl back into that ring, hoping this time you’ll rise. I’ll be there to remind you that some stories end the same way, every time."

She looked into the camera with icy finality. "And your story? It ends with me."

Andrea: "The Thorn in My Side"

Now Alexandra’s walk had slowed. Her pace was deliberate. There was weight behind her steps as she passed the Mirage. The lights flickered above her, like sparks trying to find fuel. "Andrea," she said, the name alone carrying tension. "You’re the one that stays with me. The one who got through."

She stopped, folding her arms. The tension in her jaw said everything. "You’ve beaten me. Not often. But enough. Enough to leave a scar. And that’s why I don’t take you lightly. I don’t dismiss you. I respect you, but that respect comes with a price. Because every single time I’ve tasted defeat by your hand, I’ve carved a new weapon out of it. I’ve built new armor. You sharpened me without realizing it."

She stepped off the main sidewalk and onto a quieter stretch of pavement, where the Strip’s noise dulled just slightly. Her voice dropped. "But here’s where we differ, Andrea. You were satisfied with the win. You wanted the moment. I wanted domination. You got the applause. I want the silence that comes after I leave my opponent broken."

Alexandra turned her head slightly, her profile lit by the passing glow of LED lights. "You’re dangerous. But now I’m smarter. Meaner. Colder. You won’t find the same Alexandra you beat before. She’s dead. I buried her myself."

She looked back into the camera, the storm behind her eyes ready to break. "And when we meet again, Andrea... I’m not walking away with a win. I’m walking away with you. Shattered. Humbled. And finally... beneath me."

Kate: "The Identity Crisis"

Further down the Strip, Alexandra came to a halt near a street performer dressed like a living statue. She stared at it for a moment, blank, unmoving, artificial. Then turned back to the camera.

"Kate. You know, I’ve faced chaos, I’ve faced strategy, I’ve faced rage—but you? You’re not even a finished thought. You’re half of a character sketch, barely colored in, and every week you show up with a new coat of confusion like that’s going to make you interesting."

She stepped forward, slicing through the crowd with presence alone. "You think being mysterious is the same as being compelling. It’s not. It’s exhausting. No one knows who you are not even you. You spend more time reinventing your image than refining your craft. And while you're out there figuring yourself out, I’m going to crack your ribs one by one."

The sign for The LINQ blinked erratically behind her. "You're a walking question mark hoping the world doesn’t notice you’ve got no answer. But I noticed. I see the cracks. I see the fear. You’re not dangerous. You’re desperate. Desperate to matter. Desperate to be something other than a filler name on someone else’s win column."

She looked into the camera again, deadly calm. "You’re not a mystery, Kate. You’re a delay. A pause before something real. And I’m going to press play... and erase you."

Diamond: "The Forgotten Victory"

Alexandra now neared the end of the Strip, where the lights grew thinner and the tourists scarcer. She paused at the base of a blinking casino marquee, her silhouette sharp against the fading neon.

"Diamond. Ah, Diamond... the one I’ve already beaten. And yet, here we are again. Trying to shine like you weren’t already dulled. You want another shot? Fine. I’ll remind you what it felt like when I shattered your illusion the first time."

She brushed her hair back, the Vegas wind teasing it loose. "They say diamonds are forever. But you? You cracked. Under pressure, under fists, under me. You fought like you were precious. But I saw through the sparkle. I saw the fracture. You’re costume jewelry, Diamond. All flash, no foundation."

Alexandra began walking again, slower now, like delivering the final eulogy. "There’s no revenge story here. No grand comeback. You can train all you want, bleed all you need to, but when you step into that ring again, nothing will have changed. I’ll put you back in your place like muscle memory."

She stopped, turning toward the camera one last time. "So bring your shine. Bring the defiance. Bring the hope. I’ll crush it again. Not because I need to, but because I can."

She slipped her sunglasses back on, the city lights gleaming in the lenses.

"Vegas is all illusions. But I’m the only truth walking this Strip. Remember that."

With that, Alexandra turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“Same Stage, Different Fire: A Birthday on the Road to Summer XXXTreme XIII”
Alexandra’s Blog
Denver, Colorado

Here we are on another stage, another place and another time. It’s my birthday weekend and I’m spending it here, typing out this blog for whoever happens to read it. It’s strange what your mind decides to latch onto when the clock turns over on your birthday. Some people look for balloons, gifts, the occasional half-hearted hug from people they pretend not to resent. Me? I woke up this morning with a sharp sense of clarity, the kind that only comes with age, pain, and a long string of victories that still don’t seem to satisfy. I didn’t want cake. I didn’t want candles. Even though I know I’d get them. They aren’t the most important things in my life, that’s the people I choose to have in it. Hell, I didn’t even want peace. I wanted confrontation. I wanted to feel something real, because the truth is... peace has never really looked good on me.

I think that’s the biggest thing about all of this.. The unknown.. The unexpected. I feel like this match is a gift. One I can’t take for granted. I refuse to do that. I got a stroke of luck when I won the Queen for a day match. It reminded me of what I need to do, of what I must continue to do. It gave me a new perspective.  A new sense of purpose. A Goal.

And wouldn’t you know it? Life — or the universe, or fate, or maybe just a lazy booking committee — delivered the perfect gift: a rematch against someone I’ve already beaten so many times, I’ve lost count. Her name doesn’t even sting anymore. It doesn’t inspire rage or respect. It doesn’t shake me. It just... lingers. She’s like a ghost that refuses to understand it’s already dead. I keep sending her back into the dark, and she keeps crawling back into the light thinking the ending’s going to change this time. And now, in Denver, Colorado, on the mile-high stretch of this blood-stained road to Summer XXXTreme XIII, I get to bury her one more time. How poetic. How exhausting.

Little Miss I think I’m Hollywood and you are trash. I think I’m the main event, the be all and end all. When really, let’s just call her what she is — a repeat. A rerun. Someone I should've left behind in last season’s storyline, and yet somehow, she’s still crawling into my path like she matters. And maybe to someone, she does. Maybe there’s a fan out there who sees her as the underdog — the phoenix trying to rise. But me? I see her for what she really is. Not a threat. Not a rival. Just a necessary evil, a checkpoint on my route to something that actually means something. Still, she’s not the same as before. That much is obvious. She’s trained harder. She’s got that wide-eyed desperation now, that wild energy that makes someone believe their failure is a setup for redemption. Cute. Dangerous, maybe, in the hands of someone with purpose. But not here. Not with me. Not on this path.

Because the thing people forget about me — the thing she forgot — is that I’m not interested in playing the game the way it’s supposed to be played. I don’t align with the fan favorites, and I don’t dance with the devils just to wear their crown. I don’t owe the world a villain, and I sure as hell don’t care about being a hero. I exist to tear down the narrative. I live in the chaos between the lines. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep control of my story — even if that means becoming the monster no one sees coming. The monster she likes to play me off to me. The Queen who overlooked the self proclaimed Golden Goose. I hate to say it, if I have my way, she won’t make it out of there tonight as the winning party. But hell it’s anyone's game right? However, let’s look at the past to detect the future.

I’ve beaten her before. That’s not up for debate. Check the tapes. The record books are stained with her failures against me. I’ve left her broken on canvas, clutching her ribs, gasping for answers I never bothered to give. I’ve heard the excuses. “She wasn’t focused.” “She’s evolved now.” “She’s not the same competitor.” None of that matters. The truth is, I could walk into Denver on zero sleep, bruised, pissed off, and emotionally bankrupt, and I’d still have her number. Because when she sees me across that ring, something inside her knows. We all know this doesn’t end well for her. Knows the outcome before the first strike. Some people call that intimidation. Others call it dominance. I call it history — and history doesn’t lie.

But let me be clear. This isn’t a promo. It’s not some monologue I’m cutting into a mirror with fake bravado. This is personal. Not because she’s earned that level of intimacy, but because the timing is just too perfect to ignore. A birthday is a moment. A pause in the chaos. A checkpoint on the highway of whatever this life is supposed to be. And while most people use it to reflect on their achievements and mistakes, I use it to sharpen my perspective. To remind myself who I am — and more importantly, who I’m not.

I’m not here to make friends, though I’ve met and made some of the best friends a girl could ever ask for. I’m not here to give anyone a push, though I’ve helped others achieve greatness. I’m not the measuring stick; I’m the executioner. And on this particular birthday, the only candle I’ll be blowing out is the spark she still thinks she carries. That flicker of hope. That belief that maybe — maybe — this time she’ll break the cycle. But the thing about cycles is... they don’t break. Not for people like her. They repeat — endlessly, painfully, until you finally accept that the ceiling you keep trying to shatter is actually just the bottom of my boot.

Denver is a strange city for this chapter, I’ll admit. The air is thinner. The lights are brighter. The fans are louder, maybe. But none of that changes the fact that I walk in as the storm and she walks in trying to find her footing. That ring — that sacred six sided square where fates are rewritten and careers are ended — doesn’t care about effort. It doesn’t care how many times you’ve practiced your entrance or how tightly your boots are laced. It only cares about impact. About who leaves standing and who doesn’t. And let’s be honest: we already know how this ends.

Still, I welcome it. Not because I’m underestimating her, but because I understand the role she plays in my story. Every queen needs a few skulls to decorate the throne. Every road to greatness is paved with familiar faces who didn’t know when to stay down. She’ll bring her fire, and I’ll bring my storm. She’ll think she’s found a new level, and I’ll remind her that even at my worst, I’m the cliff she always falls from.

I don’t fear being tested. I invite it. But there’s a difference between a test and a rerun. There’s a difference between being pushed and being pestered. And as I stand on the edge of Summer XXXTreme XIII, eyes locked on something bigger, something worthy — I know I can’t afford distractions. I can’t afford sentimentality. I can’t let a ghost from the past pull me out of alignment. But I’ll give her the fight she’s hoping for. Not because she’s earned it. But because I like to remind people what reality feels like when you strip away the fantasy.

And fantasy is all she has left. She fantasizes that this is her time. That all the training, all the losses, all the quiet humiliations were just setups for the big redemption. That narrative works in movies. Maybe even in books. But in this world — in my world — there are no fairy tale endings. Just final chapters written in blood and steel. And if she thinks for one second that my birthday is going to soften me? That sentimentality is going to slow me down or open the door to mercy?

She’s already lost.

I don’t do mercy. I don’t do grace. What I do is walk into arenas, steal the oxygen out of the room, and make sure the only thing the audience remembers is the name Alexandra Calaway — burned into their memories like smoke in their lungs. And if I have to remind her of that one more time in Denver, so be it. Because when the lights hit, and that bell rings, and she’s staring at me from across that ring, all that “growth” she’s been clinging to will vanish. All that bravado? Gone. What she’ll see is a force she can’t tame, a chaos she can’t outthink, and a woman who doesn’t give a damn about underdog stories or redemption arcs.

She’ll see the same thing she saw every other time I put her down. She’ll see the truth. And the truth is... I’m still here. Unchanged. Unbroken. Unapologetically cruel when I need to be, indifferent when I want to be, and untouchable no matter what version of herself she brings to that ring.

So happy birthday to me. I get to make another statement. I get to send another message to the roster, to the fans, to the whole damn industry: Alexandra Calaway isn’t going anywhere. I don’t fade. I don’t stumble. I don’t get caught up in drama or desperation.

I endure. I thrive.

And on this mile-high stop on the way to Summer XXXTreme XIII, I won’t just win. I’ll remind you. I’ll remind her. I’ll remind them. I’ll remind myself.

That this isn’t just my story. It’s a storm. And everyone who steps in the path of Alexandra Calaway?

Eventually, they drown.

---

A Love Letter in Real Time
The Ramble Hotel, Rooftop private area
RiNo District
Denver, Colorado

The night sky over Denver glowed with a velvet hush, the city lights flickering like earthbound stars below. On the rooftop of The Ramble Hotel, nestled in the heart of RiNo, two figures sat under a canopy of strung café lights, wrapped in an unlikely cocoon of blankets, half-eaten takeout containers, and the soft, flickering glow of a projected movie against a makeshift screen. The air was crisp, early summer brushing the skin with the breath of memory and promise.

Alexandra Calaway, Former Queen for a Day in Sin City Wrestling and relentless storm outside of it, lay with her legs draped over LJ Kasey’s lap. Her black hoodie was two sizes too big, sleeves swallowed over her fists, and her hair was piled in a messy bun that had long surrendered its structure. She held a fry between her fingers like a weapon, staring suspiciously at the scene playing on the wall beside them. "Seriously?" she asked, smirking as the heroine of 13 Going on 30 broke into tears in the rain. "You picked this out of every rom-com the internet could throw at us?"

LJ laughed, pulling a soda can from the cooler and handing it to her. "It’s iconic. She dances to Thriller at a corporate party. There’s something beautifully unhinged about that level of commitment."

Alexandra rolled her eyes, but the laughter on her lips betrayed her. She raised the can like a toast. "To chaos, then."

"To owning it."

The cans clinked, fizzling slightly, the sound muffled by the wind. Down below, Denver pulsed with its usual rhythm—the chatter of patios, the distant thump of bar music, the occasional rumble of a train—but up here, on their private stage above the world, the noise became ambiance.

The movie continued, dancing into its next montage, but Alexandra’s eyes stayed on LJ. Her fingers toyed absently with the fraying edge of the blanket around her shoulders. "You ever think about how weird this is?" he asked after a beat. "How all of this started in a hotel room with cold pizza and Saturday morning cartoons, and now you’re up here plotting vengeance with a view of the skyline?"

She smirked, sipping her drink. "Plotting vengeance is what I do. The skyline’s just a bonus."

"But that night," he said, "you weren’t 'Queen of Chaos.' You were just... there. Quiet. Present. A little scared, I think."

Alexandra didn’t answer immediately. The wind pulled at her hair and her silence. Finally, she shrugged. "I wasn’t supposed to be anyone that night. Just a friend. A body to fill the space. Your brother’s partner was in the hospital. You were unraveling. I didn’t have a plan."

"You brought junk food and cartoons."

"I panicked. Food and Bugs Bunny seemed safer than emotions."

LJ chuckled and ran his thumb over her knee, a soft gesture that she pretended not to notice. "You could’ve said nothing and it still would’ve meant more than anything else anyone did that week."

Her eyes lifted to meet his. "You didn’t look at me like I was chaos."

"You weren’t," he said simply. "You were comfort." He smiled, running the backs of his fingers down her jawline.
 
"I didn’t know how to be comfort. I didn’t even know how to be in moments like that without trying to fight something." She took a deep breath, her mind had been a storm that night. Seeing how Miles was over Carter. It was the same way she felt watching Miles and LJ go at it last week, unable to do anything to stop it.

"You didn’t need to fight. You just needed to be there. And you were." He gave her one of his signature smirks.

They paused, the gravity of the memory stitching a quiet peace between them. Onscreen, Jennifer Garner twirled in a pink dress, reliving her thirteenth birthday wish with wide-eyed innocence. Alexandra scoffed lightly. "Okay, but seriously—rain epiphanies? Always with the dramatic weather."

LJ grinned. "It’s metaphorical."

"It’s impractical." She giggled, but secretly enjoyed it. “We would be soaked..”

"Maybe, but... if you danced in the rain, I’d still be the idiot standing next to you trying not to slip." He leaned closer.

She tilted her head. "You’d kiss me in the rain?"

He leaned in, slow and close, his nose brushing hers. "I’d kiss you through a hurricane, Luv."

The kiss was soft. Not staged, not perfect—just real. The kind of kiss that happened when the world’s edges faded. The kind that spoke of quiet loyalty and long nights. When they pulled apart, the wind had shifted slightly. It carried something more now—the anticipation of change, of what lay beyond this still night.

Alexandra stood, stretching the stiffness from her legs, her hoodie rising to reveal a line of ink along her hip. She turned to him with a smirk. "You know... if I hit a moonwalk during my match at Summer XXXTreme, I’m blaming you."

"I’d pay to see it," LJ said, rising beside her. "You’d still make it terrifying."

"I am terrifying." She shook her head with a chuckle

"Not right now you aren’t." He gave her a sweet wink.

"Don’t ruin my brand, Kasey." She held out a hand. "Come on. Let’s give Red Rocks a preview."

He took it, and together they shuffled awkwardly into a half-dance, half-mock routine as Thriller started to play. She moved with exaggerated drama, socked feet skimming across the rooftop, arms flailing in mock-zombie rhythm. LJ mirrored her, the two of them laughing uncontrollably. There was no crowd, no judgment—only the sound of music, wind, and laughter echoing into the night.

Eventually, Alexandra paused, catching her breath, her expression softening as she looked at him. "Tomorrow I will fight a ghost," she said, quietly. "Someone who thinks she deserved a spot on my card just because she showed up a few times."

"And tonight, Angel?" LJ smiled at her.

"Tonight, I remind myself who and what I fight for." She smiled in response to him.

LJ brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "And what’s that?"

"Moments like this. Where I’m not Alexandra Calaway, Former Queen for a day. Where I’m just me and that’s enough. For you. For my daughter. For myself." She took a deep breath

They held each other then. No big declarations. No sweeping cinematic swell. Just a steady heartbeat between them. Above, the stars blinked their approval. The movie fades into the credits. The food had long gone cold. But none of that mattered. Because this—this moment, this rooftop, this accidental romance born from cartoons and crisis—was where she had rediscovered the part of herself that didn’t need to roar to be heard. Here, in the quiet heart of Denver, beneath a sky that promised storms and stars alike, Alexandra Calaway wasn’t just preparing for war. She was remembering why she fought at all.

---

The Overlooked always Overreach
Red Rocks Amphitheatre
Denver, Colorado

Scene opens at dusk atop the legendary Red Rocks Amphitheatre, the red sandstone formations glowing in the fading Colorado light. Alexandra Calaway stands center stage, her figure silhouetted against the sprawling Colorado skyline. The wind brushes her leather coat as the sky bleeds orange into deepening blue. She takes a slow breath, surveying the horizon like a queen overlooking her domain. Her eyes glint with quiet fire.

“You see this place? Red Rocks. Symbol of power. Symbol of rebellion. A space where the earth itself begs you to stand tall, to scream louder, to make your presence known. That’s exactly why I chose it — because this moment with Crystal isn’t happening in a ring, or backstage, or under some predictable spotlight. It’s opening in a space built for giants. Built for chaos. And trust me... I plan on making this venue remember my name tonight.”

She begins to walk slowly across the open stage, boots striking the stone beneath her. Her fingers graze the microphone clipped to her collar, but her voice remains raw and unfiltered.

“Let’s be honest — all this tension between us? It never boiled down to wins and losses. No, it began way before the bell sounded. It began when Crystal realized she wasn’t booked on my show — Queen for a Day. She came running, begging, insisting she deserved the spotlight I built. She wanted an invite. A pass. A hand‑me‑down moment in my kingdom. But when the message came back: “You’re not on the card,” she cracked.”

She stops center stage again, chin lifted slightly. The wind shifts, and her dark hair lashes across her cheek. She doesn’t flinch.

“She couldn’t handle not being booked. And here’s the thing — it wasn’t about punishment. It was selection. I gave opportunity to those who matched my vision. To those who understood what power looked like when it stared back at you. Crystal didn’t. She couldn’t. So she spiraled. That’s where this all began — with a whimper. Not a war cry.”

Alexandra steps to the edge of the amphitheater, gazing down over the empty stone seating, each row like a ripple in the earth’s skin.

“You think I didn’t notice her little digs on social media? The veiled jabs in interviews? The crocodile tears disguised as “passion”? But I stayed quiet. I let her simmer in her self-made stew of bitterness, because I knew — eventually — we’d end up here. And she’d have nowhere to run. Crystal calls herself a veteran. I call her a footnote. She wants to pretend we’re equals — that we’ve shared similar battles, that we’ve carried the same weight. But no. She’s someone who’s survived long enough to become her own punchline. This match, in her mind, is retribution. Redemption. A way to show the world she still matters. But you know what it is to me? An inconvenience. A waste. But still, I’ll do it. To prove the point.”

She crouches down and runs her fingers across the rocky stage floor, the grit gathering under her nails.

“I’m not looking for closure. I’m not searching for resolution. I’m here to remind her why the crown never touched her head. Why the throne never bent to her shape. Why she was never — and will never be — Queen. Let’s talk about that, shall we? Queen for a Day. My concepts. My Card. My execution. My empire.”

She rises again, standing taller now. Behind her, the last sliver of sunlight disappears. Floodlights hum to life, casting eerie shadows.

“I didn’t just create that night to hand out accolades or favors. I crafted it as a tribute to power — to ruthless brilliance. Every match was calculated. Every performer? Selected with the precision of a scalpel. I wanted the kind of night that left echoes in people’s bones. The kind that carved fear into the hearts of anyone watching. And Crystal thought she was owed a spot. Owed. Entitlement is such a rotten stench. And Crystal wears it like cheap perfume. See, real royalty doesn’t beg. Real royalty doesn’t demand a spotlight — it harnesses it, it becomes the light. I didn’t just host Queen for a Day, I embodied it. Every moment, every beat, every entrance down that ramp — I was the crown, the fire, and the fury.”

She paces now, the rhythm of her steps matching the rising tension in her voice.

“So when Crystal was told she wasn’t on the card? That was the cleanest mercy she ever received. And she turned it into a grudge. Now she wants to rewrite that moment — repaint it as injustice. But here's the truth, Crystal. That wasn't an injustice. That was a decision. That was me looking through the lens of destiny and seeing no reason to include you. That wasn’t personal. I overlooked you, because you haven’t shown you want it bad enough. Prove to us ALL that you do. That was professional. But now? It is personal. Because you made it so. You are right though, I could have put you on the card. But against whom, if I had known you wanted to face me so badly, I would have booked us in a match. Speak up more next time. Sweetie.”

She stops. Her head turns slightly, as if hearing the whisper of ghosts in the wind. The night around her grows colder.

“You made your absence a tantrum. You made your disappointment a narrative. You decided to take your bitterness and poison everything around you. And now you’re here — thinking this match, this venue, this moment, gives you back what you think you lost. It doesn’t. This match isn’t your redemption. It’s your reckoning. You think you’ve been wronged. I think you’ve been warned. And let’s be clear — this isn’t just a match in Denver. This is the prologue to Summer XXXTreme XIII. The road ends there. But it burns here. Red Rocks isn’t just a venue tonight. It’s an altar. And I’m the storm that consecrates it.”

Thunder rumbles faintly in the distance. Her hands slowly rise, arms outstretched to the sky.

“Feel that wind? That electric pulse in the air? That’s not nerves. That’s inevitability. This stage is soaked in history. In echoes of the gods. U2. The Beatles. Stevie Nicks. All voices that shook these rocks to life. And tonight — it’s mine that will echo. Not in song. In declaration. I’ve been called a lot of things. Dangerous. Relentless. Unpredictable. But tonight? I’m adding unforgiving to the list. You see, Crystal thinks this is a rivalry. It’s not. You can’t rival something you don’t understand. Chaos isn’t something you challenge — it’s something you survive. If you’re lucky. She’s walking into this with delusions of grandeur. But I’m not here to wrestle her ego. I’m here to crush it.”

She turns slowly, facing the horizon again. Lightning flashes far in the distance — a silent warning.

“I didn’t climb Red Rocks for the view. I came here to claim the storm. I came here to send a message — not just to her, but to every name on that roster who thinks they can coast on legacy and call it greatness. Legacy is earned. Not inherited. It’s not about how long you’ve been in the game. It’s about what you leave behind. And Crystal? She’ll leave behind this match. This memory. This echo of a scream lost in the canyons of Colorado. A last gasp before silence. While I? I’ll leave behind myth. I’ll leave behind prophecy.”

She steps forward once more, her voice dropping to a near whisper — as if confiding in the mountains themselves.

“Because I’m not done. Here in Denver, Colorado, The Red Rocks is the beginning. But Summer XXXTreme XIII? That’s where the thunder cracks. I plan on being there, booked or not, to make a fucking statement. That’s where the sky splits wide open. So Crystal, if you came here hoping for redemption — prepare to be disappointed. If you came here hoping to be remembered — you will be. But not for the reasons you want. Because after tonight, when people speak of Red Rocks, they won’t talk about the lights or the music. They’ll talk about the night Alexandra Calaway brought the storm. And buried a ghost.”

Final lightning flash. Fade out.

Homeward Bound
The Ramble Hotel, Alexandra & LJ’s Suite
RiNo District
Denver, Colorado

The late summer sun cast golden streaks across the vintage-style windows of the Ramble Hotel in Denver, where Alexandra sat in a quiet corner of her suite. Her hair was still damp from a shower, braided loosely over her shoulder, and she wore a faded tee and joggers — comfort after chaos. The glow from her laptop screen lit her face as it connected. Ashlynn’s smiling image appeared almost instantly, curled up on the couch at home, barefoot and dressed in a tank top and shorts, summer break in full swing.

“Hey, baby girl,” Alexandra said, voice warm but tired. “How’s home?”

Ashlynn grinned. “Loud. Damien and Mika are arguing over who gets the last ice cream bar.” She leaned closer to the camera. “You look wiped, Mom. Long day?”

Alexandra gave a small laugh, running a hand over her face. “Long few weeks, honestly. Everything’s changing faster than I thought it would.” She paused, leaning back in the chair. “PWS is shutting down. It’s official now. And my contract with EPW… it’s officially up.”

Ashlynn blinked, the smile fading into something more thoughtful. “So… that’s it? You’re done?”

“No,” Alexandra said quickly, shaking her head. “Not done. Not yet Just... shifting gears. For once, I’m not going to be everywhere at once. No more juggling three promotions. I’ve given so much of myself to all these places, but now... it’s time I focus on what really matters. That’s you. That’s LJ. That’s home.” She paused again, her voice softening. “And if I’m going to keep fighting, it’s going to be where I want to, not where I feel like I have to.”

Ashlynn tilted her head. “So you’re staying in Sin City Wrestling?”

Alexandra nodded. “Yeah. That’s where I’m putting everything now. My energy, my attention, what’s left of this fight in me. I still love this business — I always will — but I’ve realized I don’t need to be everywhere to be heard. SCW is where I belong right now.”

There was a quiet beat between them, the kind filled with unspoken understanding. Ashlynn finally smiled again. “Good. You deserve to have one lane to run in. And... I just want you to be happy.”

Alexandra’s heart swelled as she looked at her daughter’s face. “I am. Or at least... I’m getting there.” She gave a half-smile. “You know, I used to think walking away from anything meant weakness. But this? This is strength. Choosing peace. Choosing family. Choosing to fight with purpose instead of pressure.”

Ashlynn’s voice came through softly. “You’re still my hero, Mom. You always will be.”

Alexandra’s eyes misted over, but she smiled through it. “That’s all I’ve ever tried to be.”

Outside, the Denver skyline shimmered in the heat of the setting sun. Inside, Alexandra felt something rare — clarity. The scene fades out on the video call as LJ enters the room.

Before the Storm
Hotel Terrace
Paris, France

The Eiffel Tower twinkles in the near distance. A gentle wind cuts across the terrace. The rain hasn’t started yet, but the clouds hang low and heavy. Alexandra Calaway leans against the stone railing, dressed in black leather and lace, her dark makeup flawless, but her jaw tense. She stares at the horizon like it insulted her. She hated that she was going to be here alone, without him. She lets her thoughts wander to her daughter, who just celebrated her sixteenth birthday. And to him, to LJ. She hated that they couldn’t be here.

“I don’t know if I can do this alone.” Her eyes look up at the sky. They had been traveling together for so long that it was almost like second nature for them. She had already been here two days without him. “I have to.. I must carry on. It’s what he’d want.”

LJ slips in silently, making sure he’s not heard. He watches her — not just her body, but the weight she carries in her posture, her breathing, the quiet storm behind her eyes.

“Hello Angel..” He looks at her.

She shook her head as she jumped and turned around.  “LJ.. you.. You’re..”  She took a deep breath, but her gaze was millions of miles away.

“You’re somewhere else right now.” the words come out softly, a knowing smirk crosses LJ’s features.

Alexandra smiles weakly and keeps her gaze on him. “I’m five steps up a ladder… with blood on my hands and five women clawing at my ankles.” Her fingers play with the hem of her shirt.

LJ steps forward, speaking calmly. “You’ve already beaten most of them. And the ones you didn’t? You’re going to break.”

Alexandra gives him a half smirk. “That’s the plan.” She brings her gaze up, finally meeting his eyes. The hardness doesn’t leave her face, but her voice softens just slightly. “Do you think I’m obsessed?”

LJ cocks his head, rising to his feet. “With what? The match? The crown? Revenge?”

“All of it.” her hand reaching out for his, as if he was her lifeline.

He pauses, then moves to join her at the edge of the balcony. “No Angel, I don’t. I think you’re doing exactly what you were born to do. People confuse obsession with purpose. You just know what your war looks like.”

She exhales through her nose, looking down at the streets below. “I don’t just want to win. I want to make them feel it. Cassie. Julianna. The Zdunich Dynasty,  And Kat Jones. All of them. I want their ears to ring with my name long after I’ve climbed down that ladder.”

His voice is quiet and firm, his arms slipping around her waist. “And they will, luv.”

She finally leans against him slightly, her body relaxing just an inch, but that edge remains. “I don’t know how to switch it off, LJ. I don’t know how to be soft when the blood’s still fresh.”

He smiles as he grabs her chin, making her look up at him. “You don’t have to be soft with me. You just have to be real. Honestly, I kind of like it when you are rough.”

Alexandra closes her eyes. “I’m genuinely scared of what I’ll become if I keep going like this.”

LJ turns her gently to face him fully. His hands rested on her shoulders, before dropping down to her waist again. “Then become it. Whatever ‘it’ is. Queen. Queenslayer. Legend. I’ll still be here. Paris, Tokyo, hell… even Vegas. You won’t lose yourself. Not with me holding the map.”

She finally gives him a real smile, small but sharp, like a flicker of sunlight on a blade. “You always know what to say.”

He leans in, brushing his lips against hers. “Then go say yours. Go take the crown. Burn the kingdom down if you have to.”

She kisses him, quick but charged. Then she turns toward the rooftop exit, her long coat trailing behind her like war banners. She speaks to the emptiness of the night. “It’s time.”

She walks off into the night. The clouds rumble above. And LJ stays behind, watching the woman he loves vanish into the storm, knowing exactly what kind of legend she’s about to carve across Paris and Sin City Wrestling. Rain hadn’t yet begun, but the wind whispered it's warning through the narrow alleys of Paris. Even after Alexandra vanished into the stairwell, LJ didn’t move. He stood on the rooftop terrace alone, staring at the place where she’d stood — still feeling the fire she left behind.

Eventually, he moved.

He picked up her coat, black leather and still warm, and made his way down the narrow stairs. His footsteps echoed against old iron as the scent of the city crept in through the open corridors: wet stone, jasmine, and the electric promise of a storm. He found her at street level, just outside the alley that led from their building. She stood under the glow of a flickering street lamp, her arms crossed, back pressed to the cool stone wall. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shaking. But her jaw was tight and her breathing deep — the kind that came from trying not to explode.

He whispered softly. "You left this."

He held out her coat. Alexandra looked over at him but said nothing as he draped it over her shoulders. She tugged the lapels closer to her throat, the gesture more armor than warmth.

"I just needed air." She shrugged.

LJ shook his head, his eyes fixed on hers. "That’s not all you needed."

She didn’t argue. Instead, she turned and looked up at the glowing tower behind them. The Eiffel Tower sparkled every hour on the hour — a tradition, a spectacle. But to her, it looked like a crown wrapped in a thousand tiny lies. She didn’t say that, though. Not yet.

"Do you ever wonder what it’s like? To not be like this?" She took a deep breath.

LJ he tilted his head looking at her. "Like what?"

"This… consumed. Always plotting. Always thinking about the next fight. The next step. The next name I have to rip apart before they rewrite the story without me in it." She sighed softly.

LJ stepped closer but gave her space, hands in his jacket pockets. She wasn’t asking for comfort. She was asking for honesty. "Sometimes. But I think people like us? We’re not made to sit still. We’re made to break the glass before it cuts us first."

Alexandra laughed softly under her breath — sharp, bitter. "I can’t remember the last time I won something and didn’t immediately wonder who would try to take it away."

LJ moved closer to her, leaning against the wall. "That’s not paranoia. That’s clarity. You’ve built yourself into something they can’t ignore anymore. And that scares them."

She glanced at him. "I don’t just want to beat them. I want them to remember me when they fail. I want Cassie to dream about me every time she tries to rise. I want Julianna to feel me in the bruise I leave behind. I want the Zdunichs to question every part of their legacy because they couldn’t stop me. I want Kat screaming in anger." Her voice didn’t rise. The conviction in it was enough to quiet the street around them. "I want to leave them with doubt. Because once that seed takes root, it grows like poison."

LJ smirked softly. "And the crown?"

She smiled — the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes, but came from a place far deeper. Hungrier. "The crown is proof. Not of power… but of victory. Of intention. Of dominance."

LJ stepped in front of her now, taking her hands in his. "You’re not obsessed, Angel. You’re evolving. You’ve been through hell — and you didn’t just survive, you built a legacy in the ashes."

Alexandra took a deep breath. "And now?"

LJ shrugged and held her close. "Now you burn the rest down."

Her body trembled slightly — not from fear, not from weakness — but from sheer restraint. Alexandra looked up at him. "I don’t know if I’m coming back the same."

LJ smirked and shook his head. "Then don’t. Come back as whatever you need to be. Just know I’ll still be here. In Paris. In Vegas. Wherever the next war takes you."

She looked up at him then, eyes gleaming. "You make it sound romantic."

LJ smirked and kissed her nose. "Isn’t it? You, out there turning ladders into altars. Me, waiting at the edge of the battlefield with open arms and a bandage."

Alexandra laughed, shaking her head. "You’re ridiculous."

LJ nuzzled against her neck, laughing softly. "And you love it."

He leaned in and kissed her — slow and full of quiet promises. Her hands slid up to his face, holding him there for a moment longer before they broke apart. "This city is going to remember me."

LJ nodded in agreement with her. "So will they. Every. Single. One."

She turned then, walking back toward the alley’s entrance with a fire in her stride that dared the night to try and stop her. Before she stepped out of view, she turned her head slightly.

"Sometimes… to destroy queens—"

LJ smiled at her and spoke. "You must become one."

The rain started as the final word left his mouth. Alexandra didn’t flinch. She walked into it like it was a coronation. And LJ stood in the shadows, watching his queen go carve her legacy out of bone and gold.

---

Midnight Strolls
Tour Eiffel
Paris, France

A thunderstorm looms just beyond the skyline. Alexandra Calaway stalks across the edge of a cathedral rooftop in the Latin Quarter. The Eiffel Tower glows defiantly behind her. Lightning flashes over the River Seine. Her boots click against aged stone as she paces beneath stone gargoyles. A ladder leans ominously near the edge, its shadow stretching like a blade. The wind picks up her dark hair. She turns to face the camera. Alexandra’s voice is calm but laced with venom.

“Paris... the city of lights, of dreams, of crowns once forged in fire and sharpened with blood. Seems fitting, doesn’t it? That we’re all coming here to fight for the right to call ourselves ‘Queen.’ And yet—one of the women I’m supposed to share a ring with? She’s already been playing royalty her whole damn life.”

She smirks, stepping toward the edge of the rooftop where a rusted gargoyle snarls out toward the city.

“Crystal Zdunich. Or Christina. Or Christina Rose. Or Crystal Hilton. Or Crystal Whatever-the-Hell-she’s-calling-herself-this-week. And her pretty little wifey Seleana.”

“You wear identities like dresses in your closet. Glittery, dramatic, outdated. You show up under the lights like you’re still the main attraction… but the truth is, ladies? Neither of you are the headliner anymore. You’re a walking fucking parody.” She walks slowly across the roof, trailing her fingers across a rusted iron ladder leaning against the stone wall.

“I’ve stood across from both of you before. And I broke the illusion. Beneath all that glitz, all that promo talk about championships, marriages, red carpets and star power — are two women desperate to still be relevant in a world that’s long since passed them by.” She stops, looking up at the full moon.

“Neither of you could beat me. You couldn’t. Because when we fought, you brought flash and I brought fire. You brought a performance… and I brought war. And when it ended? You were the one staring up at the lights. Reality hit hard. Didn’t it?” She takes a step back, breathing in deeply, the Parisian air thick with anticipation.

“You’re not the worst in that ring. Not by far. But you are the most exhausted. You’ve run so many laps around your own gimmick, you don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re not here for the fight. You’re here to preserve a legacy that’s already cracked down the middle.” She crouches beside the edge, fingers brushing a crown-shaped scorch mark painted on the stone.

“And you cling to your accolades like armor. ‘I’ve been world champion. I’ve headlined. I’ve BEEN the Queen.’ That’s your mantra. But here’s the problem with people like you two ladies. You think legacy is supposed to protect you. You think your past wins are shields. But they’re anchors. Dead weight.” She stands, turning sharply, voice rising.

“This match isn’t about who you WERE. It’s about who you are RIGHT NOW. And right now? You’re the weakest link in this chain of wolves.” She walks back toward the center of the rooftop where a single ladder stands upright, silhouetted by lightning.

“You married Seleana, dragged her into your spotlight, and now you’re both in this match together. I don’t care how much you two smile in public or what pretty little picture you paint — the second that crown starts to swing above that ring, you’ll cut her throat if it gets you ten feet higher. That’s who you two are. You don’t believe in love in that ring. You don’t believe in legacy. You believe in the image, the spotlight.” She grabs the ladder, slamming a boot against its base.

“But I’m not here to entertain. I’m not here to pose for pictures. I’m here to climb this ladder, tear the crown from the sky, and put it on my bloodied head while every woman in that ring watches their chance at glory die.” She shook her head. “And when you look up, from the mat — your face caked in glitter, sweat, and the shattered glass of your own self-image — you’ll realize something you should’ve known a long time ago…”

She climbs halfway up the ladder, standing still.

“There is no room for old royalty in the new era. You had your precious chance. You danced in the spotlight long enough. But the house lights are going down. The curtain’s falling ladies.” She glares into the camera. “And this time, you won’t get a standing ovation. You’ll get trampled under a steel ladder and a legacy that means nothing when the bell rings.”

She ascends the final rungs of the ladder until she’s at the top. She reaches up to the night sky as if claiming the crown itself. “The show’s over for you two ladies.” She looks down. Her voice drops to a near whisper.

“Time for the execution of your pathetic dynasty.”

Rain sizzles as it hits the hot stone beneath Alexandra’s boots. Thunder rolls across the Paris skyline. The Eiffel Tower glows faintly now, as clouds crawl across the moon. Alexandra steps down from the ladder, her long coat trailing behind her like a shadow pulled by gravity. She walks across the rooftop, stopping near a crumbling angel statue, its wings chipped, its face eroded by time and neglect. Her eyes lift to the storm, and her voice cuts clean through the wind.

“Kat Jones.”

She says it with no venom. No mockery. Just a deliberate, quiet certainty — like reading a name carved into a gravestone.

“You’ve been in this game for a hot minute. You’ve earned your scars. You’ve survived fires that would’ve burned others to ash. I’ve seen the work. I’ve seen the legacy. You’re not a poser. You’re not someone who stumbled into this moment by luck.”

She kneels at the rooftop’s edge. Rain collects on her gloves.

“But that’s the thing about legacy — it’s past tense. What you’ve done doesn’t matter when you’re standing under a ladder, staring up at the future.” She presses two fingers to the stone ledge, almost like she’s testing the weight of her words. “I don’t deny what you are, Kat. You’re strong. You’re focused. You’re dangerous. And that’s exactly why I’m looking at you first.”

Alexandra rises slowly, turning toward the camera. The storm behind her pulses like a heartbeat.

“You’re not walking into this like a rookie. You’re not starstruck, and you’re not soft. But what you are... is in my way.” She walks again, boots splashing gently in puddles gathering across the rooftop, each step calm, unhurried — like she already knows how this ends.

“See, everyone in this match has something to prove. A reason. An angle. A ghost chasing them. Some want redemption. Some want revenge. Some want to be seen. But me?” She stops, tilting her head slightly. “I just want the crown. I want the chance to rule this company for one whole show.”

She pauses in front of a rusted weathervane shaped like a crown, spinning wildly in the storm. Her hand grips the base, stilling it with ease. “And I don’t care who I have to break to get it.” She steps around the statue now, circling it like a predator.

“Kat, I know your type. I’ve fought your type. The battle-hardened vet. The strategist. The one who keeps her cool while others burn out. That’s your armor. You’ve made a living out of being composed while chaos unfolds around you.” She leans against the stone, rain running off her coat.

“But what happens when the chaos isn’t around you — it’s coming for you? What is it that you fight for huh? Because whatever it is, it should be ashamed of you. Because I look at you and I see a failure. A Woman who isn’t worth the time.”

She begins to walk again, her pace a little faster now, the thunder above growing louder.

“This isn’t a normal match. There’s no count-outs, no sanctuary in the ropes. It’s not about who can chain wrestle. It’s about who’s willing to shove a woman’s face into steel and climb over her bones to grab gold.” She stops again, looking up at the ladder now towering behind her. “You think being calm gives you control. But control doesn’t win wars. Violence does. Desperation does. Knowing when to throw grace out the window and become the monster.”

She turns slowly, eyes narrowed. “I’m already that monster, Kat.” She climbs up onto the parapet, her balance effortless despite the wind whipping around her.

“I’m not carrying friendships into that ring. I’m not weighed down by alliances or promises. I don’t need to play politics. I’m free. And that freedom? It makes me lethal.” She extends her hand toward the camera — fingers steady.

“You want to climb, Kat? Climb. But know this — if we meet at the top, and both our hands are on that crown, I won’t hesitate. I won’t blink. I won’t breathe before I throw you off that ladder so hard your past glories shatter with your spine.” She drops her hand.

“I don’t care if this match makes me a villain. I’m not here to play a role. I’m here to win.” She jumps down from the parapet, landing in a crouch as lightning flashes behind her. “Kat Jones... you’ll still be talked about after this. But not because of what you accomplished.”

She walks to the ladder and grips the lowest rung.

“They’ll remember the fall.”

The skyline grows darker now, the thunderstorm creeping closer. The Eiffel Tower flickers in the distance like a dying beacon. Alexandra stands near the edge of the roof again, this time framed by twin gargoyles. Her coat whips in the wind, rain running in thin rivers down her arms. She’s no longer smirking. Her eyes are focused. Cold. A fire beneath the surface. The moment is quiet but intense.

“Cassie Wolfe. The sweetheart. The prodigy. The ‘can’t miss.’”

She leans against the stone ledge, one boot pressed up behind her, casually confident.

“You got one over on me. Let’s not sugarcoat it. You walked into a ring with me and you walked out with the win. That’s the truth. And I know you’ve held that moment in your heart ever since, like a trophy no one else could see.”

She looks down at the cobblestone streets below, then turns to the camera.

“But here’s the thing about beating someone like me, Cassie — you better make damn sure I don’t get back up.” She pushes off the wall, eyes now piercing. “You didn’t end me. You didn’t break me. You just pissed me off.”

Alexandra walks toward the ladder again, placing a single hand on its side.

“You remind me of every overhyped rookie I’ve ever stepped in the ring with. So much promise. So much potential. So much talk. But the minute things get gritty, the moment your game plan falls apart — you crumble.” She starts circling the ladder, her voice picking up momentum. “You’re fast. You’re gifted. But you’re not ready to lead. You’re not ready to be Queen. You think this crown is some fairytale coronation, that all you have to do is fight hard and believe in yourself and you’ll ascend.”

She stops, slowly shaking her head.

“But this isn’t a movie. This is war. This is betrayal. This is steel on bone and clawing teeth and desperation. You think you’re climbing a ladder to glory, but baby, you’re climbing into a cage with wolves. You know.. Those same wolves you claim to be hungry like. Please pup.. That line is so old now.” She lifts a gloved hand and taps one of the metal rungs. “You beat me once. I didn’t forget. I watched the tape. I remember every second of it. And that loss? It didn’t break me. It sharpened me. Refined me. Molded me into something colder. Deadlier. And more dangerous than you’ve ever seen.”

She steps up onto the ladder, one boot at a time, slowly ascending.

“And I’ve watched you since then. You’ve grown since you arrived, sure. You’ve gotten tougher. Hungrier. But Cassie — I’ve grown into something that cannot be destroyed. Many have tried before you and many will try after..” She stops halfway up again, wind battering her as lightning forks behind her silhouette.

“You’re a spark. But I’m a wildfire.” She climbs a few more rungs, then drops back down to the roof with a metallic slam. “You beat Alexandra Calaway once. But you forge, I've got two up on you. The one who remembered. The one who studied you. Who saw every weakness in that saccharine little smile of yours. The one who’s ready to rip your legacy out from under you and snap it across her knee.”

She stalks across the rooftop again, her expression no longer calm.

“See, you still want to belong, Cassie. You want people to like you. Cheer for you. Remember you. But I already accepted the truth a long time ago — I’m not here to be liked. I’m here to be feared. Revered. And obeyed.”

She steps onto the slick ledge of the roof, facing the tower in the distance.

“You’re walking into this match thinking it’s your moment. Your rise. Your storybook climb. And you’re not even seeing the pit of knives beneath your feet.” She turns her head just slightly, voice low. “I’ll show you how this fairytale ends.”

She jumps down, boots crunching on the rooftop again. Her breathing steadies. That deadly calm returns.

“You’ve never had to make a choice like this, Cassie. You’ve never had to throw a body off a ladder just to survive. You’ve never had to betray someone mid-climb, or wrap your hands around a crown with your fingers bleeding from steel.” She picks up a loose chain from the rooftop — part of a rusted maintenance fixture — and wraps it slowly around her palm. “But I have.”

She holds the chain up to the camera.

“And when that crown dangles above us, when every Bombshell in that ring is fighting for their life — I’ll make sure you remember one thing forever.”

She tosses the chain to the ground. It hits with a metallic thud.

“Lightning never strikes twice. But I do.”

The thunderstorm is nearly overhead now. The rain has intensified, falling in sheets across the rooftop. Thunder rips through the air, echoing off the stone. Alexandra stands drenched, her coat soaked and clinging to her frame, yet she’s unmoved. The Eiffel Tower is barely visible behind sheets of rain. She’s perched at the edge of a sloped parapet now, her silhouette cast in flashes of lightning. There’s tension in her body — like a panther waiting to pounce.

“Julianna DiMaria. The name burns a little extra, doesn’t it?”

She doesn’t move, staring straight ahead into the storm, hair soaked and clinging to her face.

“You’re one of the few who’s beaten me... and had the nerve to grin about it like you’d just killed God.” She turns, slowly, lightning flashing across her face. “But you didn’t kill me, Julianna. You poked the sleeping monster underneath. And I’ve been sharpening my claws ever since.”

She begins walking across the slick stone, slow, measured, eyes locked on the ladder in the distance like a target.

“There’s something about you that’s always rubbed people the wrong way — that smirk, that dismissiveness, that ‘I’m better than all of you’ energy that you wear like a designer dress. But you know what pisses people off the most about you?”

She stops, hands at her sides.

“You’re usually right.” She gives a ghost of a smile — not admiration, but grim acknowledgment. “You’re good, Julianna. You don’t just win. You dissect. You manipulate. You know how to find the crack in a person’s armor and pry it wide open.”

She walks again, now circling the ladder like it’s prey.

“And that night you beat me? You found the crack. Exploited it. Used your arrogance like a blade and cut through me with precision. I hated every second of it.” She stops and tilts her head, her voice now rising with intensity. “But hate is a powerful motivator. And I used that loss as fuel. Because while you were busy parading around like the second coming of Sin City royalty, I was learning. Evolving. Preparing for the next time our paths crossed.”

She slams her hand against the side of the ladder, metal echoing across the rooftop.

“And now? Here we are. No more hiding. No excuses. Just six women, one crown, and nothing between us but violence and resolve.” She begins climbing slowly. “I know how you operate, Julianna. You won’t hesitate to throw anyone off this ladder — not Cassie, not Kat, not Zdunichs... and sure as hell not me.”

She pauses halfway up, gripping the ladder with both hands.

“But here’s where your plan fails — you think you’ve already won. You think your mental warfare will keep me off balance. You think the past is your weapon.” She leans her forehead against the top rung for a second, then looks into the camera. “But I’m not the same woman you beat.” She climbs another rung, her voice sharpened to a blade.

“I’m colder. I'm cruel. And I’ve been saving every ounce of that loss for this moment — the moment I bury it under your broken body at the base of this ladder. The moment I finally get to prove that I am better than you.”

She reaches the top, standing tall now, arms outstretched into the rain.

“You might be the smartest woman in that ring. The most cunning. But this match doesn’t reward strategy — it rewards pain tolerance. Risk. Sacrifice.” She tilts her head to the side. “And let’s be honest, Julianna... you’re great when you’re on top. But how well do you climb when your ribs are broken and your teeth are loose?”

She crouches down at the top, voice lower again.

“You want to be Queen because you believe you already are. But real queens bleed for the throne. And I’m ready to bleed.” She reaches upward toward the rain. “So bring your smirk. Bring your condescension. Bring that smug, sneering confidence you hide behind like a mask.”

She looks down into the camera.

“Because I’m not just coming to beat you this time, Julianna... I’m coming to humble you.” She descends the ladder, boots ringing against the steel, every step echoing like a countdown. “You built your kingdom on strategy and bravado. I’ll tear it down with brutality.”

She plants both feet on the rooftop again, breathing steady.

“I’m not the woman you embarrassed. I’m the reckoning you didn’t plan for.”

The Paris rooftop is chaotic now. Wind shrieks like ghosts between stone and steel. The rain pounds the rooftop in waves. Alexandra stands alone beside the ladder, now fully soaked, her coat billowing like wings behind her. The Eiffel Tower behind her flashes with distant lightning. Her hair sticks to her face. Her eyes burn like torches in the storm. Alexandra Calaway speaks, her voice low, controlled, every syllable laced with venom and vision

“Each of you sees that crown as a symbol of triumph. Power. Legacy. A title that cements you in history. And maybe for some of you… it’s a shiny piece of validation. A way to finally be seen. To be worshipped. To rule.”

She runs her gloved hand along the metal of the ladder, like it’s an old friend.

“But me? I don’t want the crown to wear it. I want the crown to burn it.” She looks up into the storm, rain dripping from her lashes. “I’m not climbing for celebration. I’m climbing to punish. To remind every single woman in that ring that this isn’t a fairy tale. This isn’t a coronation. This is a bloodletting. And when it’s done…”

She turns back toward the camera, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

“You’ll all look up from the floor, broken, breathless, battered — and you’ll see me above you, holding your kingdom in my hands like a goddamn guillotine.” She takes the first step up the ladder, voice calm now. Almost reverent.

“Because sometimes… to destroy queens…” She climbs another rung. “You must become one.”

She stares straight into the camera. No smile now. Just certainty. The storm rages around her violently. And Alexandra Calaway — she stands tall, unmoved, unyielding. Already wearing the crown in her mind.

Blackout.