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Climax Control Archives / ~*~Rules of Engagement: Fate’s a Fickle Bitch~*~
« Last post by BellaMadison on June 06, 2025, 09:48:40 PM »~*~Homecoming~*~
A few days after Into the Void
The front door clicked open with a soft groan, and the warm scent of home wrapped around them like an old, familiar blanket.
“Home, sweet home…” Malachi muttered, balancing a sleepy Máire on one hip as he used the other hand to shove the door wide open.
Bella followed, her carry-on slung over one shoulder, oversized sunglasses barely hiding the faint circles under her eyes. Behind them, Bodhi Bennett emerged from the kitchen with a grin, a bouncing Luka at his heels and Salem perched smugly on the stair railing.
“Well, well — look who survived Paris,” Bodhi quipped, his voice easy and familiar.
Máire instantly perked up at the sight of him, wriggling in Mal’s arms with a gleeful, “Unca Booo!” that echoed through the entryway.
Bodhi knelt down and opened his arms. “There’s my favorite girl.”
Mal chuckled and handed their daughter over, watching as Máire practically launched herself at her honorary uncle. Luka barked excitedly, tail wagging at light speed, while Salem gave an unimpressed flick of her tail and padded down the stairs.
Bella let her bag fall to the floor with a soft thud, exhaling deeply as she took in the sight of their home — the cozy mess of life they’d built here. The normalcy of it was comforting… and yet, something heavy still clung to her shoulders.
“Place looks good,” she said softly.
“Hey, what can I say? I’m a responsible adult now,” Bodhi teased. “Kept it all standing for ya. Luka missed you like crazy, though. Salem pretended not to care, but, you know, cat.”
Bella gave a faint smile and knelt to greet Luka, who showered her with eager licks. “I missed you too, psycho-mutt.”
Mal exchanged a quick look with Bodhi, reading the unspoken wear in his wife’s posture.
“Babe,” Mal said gently, stepping toward her, “Why don’t you go unwind for a bit? We’ve got this. Bodhi and I’ll get the bags, take care of everything here.”
Bella hesitated for a beat, her fingers idly running through Luka’s fur.
“You sure?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.
Mal brushed a knuckle beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “I’m sure. Go. Take a long bath. Clear your head. We’ll be right here.”
Bodhi chimed in, still holding a babbling Máire. “Yeah, go soak. This one and I have some very important business to attend to. Like snacks. And cartoons.”
That earned a soft laugh from Bella — the first real one since the flight home.
“Alright,” she relented, standing slowly. “But if you teach her more bad words, Bodhi—”
“Me?” he grinned innocently. “Never.”
Mal winked. “Go. I’ll come check on you later.”
Bella nodded, leaning up to kiss his cheek before heading toward the stairs.
As she ascended, her steps grew slower, heavier. The weight of Paris… of that loss… still clung to her skin like smoke.
She made it to the master bath, wordlessly twisting her hair up into a loose knot. The hot water hissed to life, steam soon billowing through the space.
Bella shed the last of her travel clothes and sank into the tub, the heat wrapping around her aching muscles, her bruised pride.
Her eyes drifted shut.
And there, beneath the surface of the water and the haze of exhaustion, her mind began to slip away — the ache giving way to dreams, memories, and the first stirrings of the fight still to come.
And what if she never followed in her mom’s footsteps. What if she never took a chance to meet Malachi.
And...what if she never became a wrestler.
Fate. Fate is simplistic and yet a wild fickle thing.
For instance, in the world of Elizabeth Marie, there were so many roads that she could have taken.
Prime example of this was when sweet Bella took off for Paris, all those years ago, she was over the drama of her family, her extended family and needed her own air. It was there that she met Malachi but
What if Bella decided to not meet Malachi on that one particular night 6 years ago?
The world shimmered. The sound of running water blurred into the low hum of city life.
When Bella opened her eyes, she was sitting at a familiar desk — worn oak, towering bookshelves all around her. The New York Public Library, 5th Avenue branch. The biggest one in the city.
Her name plate read: Elizabeth Madison — Chief Archivist
She blinked in confusion. Her hands… soft and not one nail chipped. No taped knuckles. No lingering bruises. The faintest smell of old books and polished wood surrounded her, instead of sweat, leather, and adrenaline.
She leaned back in the chair, eyes wandering. An old display case near the main reading room caught her attention — a curated exhibit on New York sports history. Tucked among the memorabilia, a faded wrestling poster from the late '90s. Headlining the card was a familiar name: Laura Phoenix.
Bella’s breath caught. The past had a long shadow, even here.
She looked away, heart a little heavier.
Sometimes, though, the past crept in through the cracks. Just yesterday, a young intern had asked if she was related to “that wrestler from the old tapes.” Bella had brushed it off with a polite smile — a reflex by now. But the question still echoed.
‘I took the safe road.’ The thought echoed in her mind, unbidden.
The faces came next — the constants.
Mattie Cormier, still her best friend that she met through her , still running her fashion studio. The designs were more boutique now — elegant, understated. Less about stage gear, more about timeless style.
Alanah Russow — still Alanah O’Connell in Bella’s mind — married to Jack, though Jack had retired after a severe injury. He refused to set foot at wrestling shows anymore. Lachlan and Malachi still wrestled, still fought… though no one quite remembered why they started in the first place. Some old grudge that neither would let go.
The library was quiet, the hum of ceiling fans and the soft click of keyboards the only company. Towering shelves lined with knowledge stretched far into the distance. Bella sat behind the desk at the New York Public Library’s flagship branch, a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, her long dark hair tied up in a messy bun. She wore a name tag that read: Isabella Madison-Richards. Senior Collections Specialist.
She wasn’t unhappy.
But she wasn’t lit up, either.
This life… It was safe. Predictable. Quiet.
And Bella? She lived this quiet life. Books. Coffee. Dinner dates with friends. No titles. No crowds. No ring.
No fire.
Then came the shift.
A familiar bell above the library door rang. She looked up from a stack of restored volumes to see Alanah, her curls bouncing with every frantic step.
"Bells! There you are!" Alanah beamed, a little breathless, hands clutching her phone and purse like they were her lifelines.
“Lanah?”
Alanah Russow practically bounced through the lobby, blonde hair in loose waves, designer sunglasses tucked into the neckline of a casual tee. She looked rushed, like she always did, except this time, her wide eyes were fixed on Bella like she had urgent business.
“I’ve been texting you for days. Why haven’t you answered me?”
Bella looked sheepish. “My phone’s been on silent. You know how it is. Dewey Decimal waits for no one.”
Alanah rolled her eyes and leaned over the desk. “You have got to come with me tonight.”
“Where?”
“A wrestling show. In Brooklyn. Local promotion, but the card is nuts. Lach and Mal are on it.”
Bella’s brow creased. “Jesus. They’re still fighting?”
“Oh yeah. Five almost six years now. They don’t even remember why. Stubborn Irish idiots. But this is the first time they’re on opposite ends of a six-man tag. I can’t miss it.”
Bella folded her arms. “So go.”
“I can’t go alone! Jack won’t come — not since the accident. And you know he hates the idea of being around it. But I miss it. I miss the rush. I want to go. And I want you to come with me.”
“Lanah…” Bella hesitated. “That was Mom’s world. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be pulled back into it.”
“But it’s part of you, whether you like it or not,” Alanah said softly.
Before Bella could respond, another voice chimed in from behind a nearby column.
“She’s right.”
Bella turned as Mattie Cormier stepped out, arms crossed, a lopsided smile on her face.
“You’ve spent years cataloguing stories in here,” she said, nodding to the towering shelves. “Isn’t it time you lived one?”
Bella opened her mouth to argue… but the words never came.
Mattie, leaning in through the side door with a sly smile. "Come on. It'll be fun. I already laid out something for you to wear."
Bella stared at both of them. The pull was there — a strange flutter deep in her stomach.
‘Fate’s a fickle bitch.’
"Okay, FINE!" she finally said. "One night."
Flash forward — the arena lights.
The warehouse venue was packed and gritty. Chain-link fencing. Exposed beams. Raw noise and pure energy pulsed through the air. Bella stayed close to Alanah and Mattie, feeling completely out of her element.
Bella sat beside Alanah, her heart pounding for reasons she couldn’t explain. The roar of the crowd vibrated through her chest.
Then the music hit.
Malachi.
He emerged through the curtain — lean, coiled with energy, eyes blazing.
Bella’s breath caught.
She’d never met him. Had only heard stories through Alanah. But something deep, ancient, undeniable sparked when their eyes locked for the briefest of moments during his entrance.
A tether. Invisible, but unbreakable.
"Why does this feel like I know him?" she whispered.
Alanah didn’t answer. She just smiled knowingly.
Fate didn’t care about safe choices. Fate circled back around — one way or another.
And as Bella’s gaze stayed locked on Mal’s form in the ring, something deep inside her — some dormant fire — flickered to life.
For one dizzying second, the sounds, the lights, the sheer electricity of it all swept her back — to being a little girl, standing on a chair beside her grandmother, watching her mother’s entrance, lights blazing, the roar of the fans washing over her.
It felt just like this.
It was part of her. No matter how far she’d run.
Not if.
When.
Later, she found herself backstage — dragged along by Alanah, who still had all the connections.
Mal was off to the side, nursing a bruised shoulder, laughing at something Lach said before the two parted ways. He looked up as Bella approached — and this time, the eye contact lingered.
“You looked like you belonged out there,” she said, before she could stop herself.
He smiled. “You look like you don’t know if you’re lost or exactly where you’re meant to be.”
“I think it’s both,” she admitted.
He extended a hand. “Mal.”
She shook it.
“Bella.”
And in that moment — just like that — fate circled back.
Back in the Bath
Bella’s eyes snapped open. Water sloshed gently as she sat upright, hand pressed to her chest.
The dream still clung to her like mist. It hadn’t been scary. It hadn’t even been bad.
But it wasn’t right.
No matter how many roads she could have taken...Her story always led here.
To him. To the fight. To wrestling.
Because fate? Fate’s a fickle bitch.
But sometimes...
She brings you exactly where you were always meant to be.
The bathwater had long since cooled, skin wrinkled and pink from her unintended soak. Bella stirred, groggy, dragging in a deep breath. Her heart was still racing faintly from the dream — no, the vision — that had taken her under.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Bells?”
The familiar lilt of Malachi’s voice drifted through. Concern, warmth… and the barest undercurrent of that mischievous charm that never quite left him.
She blinked the haze from her eyes. “I’m up,” she croaked.
The door cracked open. Mal poked his head in, dark hair tousled, grey t-shirt hanging loose over gym shorts. One brow arched as he took in the sight of her still sitting in the tub, dazed and damp.
“Well, well,” he teased gently. “Ya know, I usually have to bribe you with champagne and scented candles to catch you like this.”
Bella gave a small, weary smile, leaning on her arms on the side of the tub with a tired smirk. “Guess you lucked out.”
Mal stepped inside, bare feet quiet on the tile. He grabbed a fluffy towel from the warmer, unfurling it with a practiced flick.
“Come on, love. You’ll turn into a prune if you stay in there much longer.”
She let him pull her up — water sluicing off her skin, the towel cocooning her in warmth. For a moment, he simply held her there, strong arms wrapped around her, chin resting atop her damp hair.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
Bella exhaled, her voice small against his chest. “Maybe a little jet lagged but...I had a dream… or something. Saw what life would’ve been like if I’d never taken that chance. If I’d stayed safe.”
Mal kissed the crown of her head. “Well it goes without saying but safe is overrated.”
She tilted her face up, meeting his gaze — blue eyes twinkling, lips curved in that signature half-grin. God, she loved him.
“I wouldn’t have met you,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t have this life. Wouldn’t have Máire.”
Mal smirked. “A tragic loss for the world, really. Imagine — no me.”
Bella snorted, swatting his chest lightly. “You’re such an ass sometimes.”
“Ya married me, mo chroí. Your choice.”
Her smile faded, replaced by something more solemn. She rested her palm against his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble just above his full beard there.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For taking that chance on me. For seeing me… when I didn’t even know who I was meant to be yet.”
Mal’s eyes softened, mischief giving way to something deeper. “I’d do it a thousand times over. You never had to be anyone but yourself, Bells. And you’ve always been more than enough.”
A long pause settled between them, thick with unspoken truths.
Then Bella drew in a steadying breath. “Also, I’ve made a decision.”
Mal tilted his head, watching her carefully.
“As much as I want to give Máire a little brother or sister… as much as that’s still in my heart…” Her voice grew steadier, conviction rising. “I need to go back. To the ring. To this fight. It’s who I am, Mal. And I can’t walk away from it. Not yet.”
For a beat, Mal said nothing — simply searching her gaze. Then a slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.
“I know.” He cupped her face in both hands, leaning his forehead to hers. “And I’ll be with you every step of the way. Just like always.”
Bella’s eyes glistened. “You sure you want to deal with this crazy life again?”
Mal chuckled. “Love, I live for it. And I live for you. Go light the world on fire — I’ll be right there to cheer ya on… and to catch ya when ye need it.”
She surged up, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss — gratitude, love, and promise all tangled in that single moment.
When they finally parted, breathless, Mal grinned wickedly. “Now — since I did catch you in the tub lookin’ like a goddess…” He waggled his brows. “How ‘bout I carry you to bed and we start makin’ those future tag-team partners?”
Bella laughed, swatting him again — though her cheeks flushed deliciously pink.
“Down, O’Connell.”
He scooped her up anyway, bridal style, towel and all.
“No promises, love. But I’ll follow your lead.”
Their laughter echoed through the house as Mal carried her out of the bathroom — toward whatever fate had in store next.
"And where I’m meant to be…...is standing over the broken ego of Mercedes Vargas, Internet Championship in my hands — again."
~*~Rules of Engagement: "Fate’s a Fickle Bitch"~*~
It all fades in — Bella Madison, damp hair, hoodie on, sitting on the edge of the tub in their master bathroom. Face calm, eyes sharp — no smile, no softness. Voice cold.
"You know what the funny thing is about fate?"
"She gives you just enough rope to hang yourself. She lets you think there are other roads you could’ve taken — safer ones, quieter ones. Ones where you stay behind a desk and let the world pass you by."
"But here’s what I realized — no matter what road I could’ve chosen? They all lead me right back to this fight. Right back to this ring. Right back to this moment."
Her gaze lifts into the camera, eyes steady as stone.
"And thanks to our glorious Queen Alexandra...I come right back to you, Mercedes Vargas."
"Let’s not waste any time here."
"You took the Bombshell Internet Championship from me. That part’s true. But the story you’ve been telling ever since? That’s where the fiction starts."
"You didn’t outwrestle me. You didn’t expose me. You didn’t ‘put an end to my reign of terror’ — or whatever bullshit you’re peddling this week."
"You caught me on a night where I was off. A night where the weight of the division sat heavy on my shoulders. And now? You’ve made the mistake of thinking that one match defines who I am."
"That one match defines this fight."
Her voice tightens — ice creeping in.
"It doesn’t."
"Because since then, you’ve been really comfortable. Real loud. Real smug behind your keyboard — spitting out the same tired catchphrases and one-liners you’ve been using for the past decade."
*"‘Legend.’"
*"‘Hall of Famer.’"
"‘Record holder.’"
Bella smirks, the expression sharp and bitter.
"Do you know what those words sound like now, Vargas?"
"They sound like excuses."
"They sound like the armor you wear so no one asks the real questions."
"Like: what have you done lately that matters?"
"What have you done in this division that means something, other than collecting belts like trinkets in a dying career?"
"You talk about the Bombshell Internet Championship like it’s your throne. Like you own this place now. But deep down? You and I both know you needed me having a bad night to make that happen."
"You needed the perfect storm to drag that title off my waist — because when I’m sharp? When I’m dialed in? You can’t fucking touch me."
"That’s why you talk so much now. Because you’re scared. Because you know I’m coming. And this time? I’m coming with nothing left to lose — and everything to take back."
She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping lower — venom in every word.
"And let’s talk about the little game you’ve been playing on Twitter/X/Whatever the fuck you call that cesspool. The constant jabs. The passive-aggressive bullshit. The constant need to remind everyone who you used to be, instead of showing who you are now."
"You spend more time clinging to the past than building the future. You think you’re keeping yourself relevant, Vargas. You’re not. You’re just proving how desperate you are to matter."
"See, the real ones in this division? We don’t have to remind anyone what we’ve done — because we’re too busy doing it again."
"We’re too busy building legacies that can’t be torn down by one fluke win. And that’s where you and I are different."
"You can have your hashtags. Your highlight reels. Your record book stats. And honestly you can fucking shove them up your tight ass. Because when the lights go up and that bell rings? None of that’s going to stop me from dropping you flat on your back. None of that’s going to stop me from taking that title back.”
"I want you to get used to the term “Transitional Champion” because that’s exactly what you are about to be. And here’s the part that should really keep you up at night: I don’t even care about padding my own résumé anymore."
"I don’t care about the number of reigns. About what some Hall of Fame plaque will say someday."
"I care about shutting people like you the fuck up."
"I care about fighting for this division — so that it’s not run by bitter veterans clinging to faded glory, but by wrestlers who are hungry, who are driven, who are still building something real."
"Because make no mistake — you are not the future of this division. You’re the ghost of a past that needs to be put to rest."
"And I’m the one holding the shovel."
Her hands flex, eyes burning now.
"You should’ve known better, Vargas. You should’ve known that running your mouth the way you have was only going to piss me off. You should’ve known that giving me a reason to focus this fire? To lock in and come after you with everything I’ve got left? Was signing your own damn death warrant."
"Because now?"
"This isn’t about winning a belt."
"It’s about proving a point."
"It’s about ripping away every excuse you’ve been hiding behind — and leaving you with nothing but the harsh truth staring back at you."
"That you’re not the measuring stick anymore. You’re just a stepping stone on my way to the top. Again."
She leans in — tone pure ice.
"And when I’m standing over you with that title back around my waist?"
"I want you to remember every smug tweet. Every backhanded comment. Every time you thought your legacy made you untouchable."
"Because none of it will matter."
"Because you? You’ll just be another broken name on my list."
"And me? I’ll be standing right where fate always meant me to be — holding that championship high."
"And Vargas — when that moment comes? I don’t want your respect. I don’t want your handshake. I don’t even want your apology. I want you to look me in the eyes… and know that I was the one who ended this little fantasy run of yours."
"I want you to know that I didn’t come back to reclaim my spot — I came back to bury you under it."
"I’m here to walk into that ring and tear the Bombshell Internet Championship out of your hands."
"I’m here to become a three-time Internet Champion — not because I need some God damn validation, but because I’m done letting greedy caddy bitches like you prop themselves up on MY name."
"You have no idea what’s coming for you, Mercedes. Because I have absolutely fucking had it with the noise. With the so-called ‘legends’ who treat this division like their personal playground while the rest of us are out here fighting for every inch."
"You’ve coasted long enough. You got your spotlight off my back — now it’s time for me to take everything from you."
Leaning in — voice a low, cold growl now.
"And when I’m standing over you with that title raised, when you’re left lying in the middle of that ring with nothing but excuses and empty words to cling to? I want you to remember this, Vargas — fate put me here. Right where I’m meant to be — DIRECTLY in your path. Dead in my sights."
Pause. One last look, unwavering.
"And you should’ve stayed the hell out of mine. Because this time? I’m not leaving empty-handed. And you? You’re not walking out at all."
"Because fate? She’s a fickle bitch."
"And this time? She’s standing in my corner."
"See you soon, legend."
"Try not to choke on it."
Fade to black.
A few days after Into the Void
The front door clicked open with a soft groan, and the warm scent of home wrapped around them like an old, familiar blanket.
“Home, sweet home…” Malachi muttered, balancing a sleepy Máire on one hip as he used the other hand to shove the door wide open.
Bella followed, her carry-on slung over one shoulder, oversized sunglasses barely hiding the faint circles under her eyes. Behind them, Bodhi Bennett emerged from the kitchen with a grin, a bouncing Luka at his heels and Salem perched smugly on the stair railing.
“Well, well — look who survived Paris,” Bodhi quipped, his voice easy and familiar.
Máire instantly perked up at the sight of him, wriggling in Mal’s arms with a gleeful, “Unca Booo!” that echoed through the entryway.
Bodhi knelt down and opened his arms. “There’s my favorite girl.”
Mal chuckled and handed their daughter over, watching as Máire practically launched herself at her honorary uncle. Luka barked excitedly, tail wagging at light speed, while Salem gave an unimpressed flick of her tail and padded down the stairs.
Bella let her bag fall to the floor with a soft thud, exhaling deeply as she took in the sight of their home — the cozy mess of life they’d built here. The normalcy of it was comforting… and yet, something heavy still clung to her shoulders.
“Place looks good,” she said softly.
“Hey, what can I say? I’m a responsible adult now,” Bodhi teased. “Kept it all standing for ya. Luka missed you like crazy, though. Salem pretended not to care, but, you know, cat.”
Bella gave a faint smile and knelt to greet Luka, who showered her with eager licks. “I missed you too, psycho-mutt.”
Mal exchanged a quick look with Bodhi, reading the unspoken wear in his wife’s posture.
“Babe,” Mal said gently, stepping toward her, “Why don’t you go unwind for a bit? We’ve got this. Bodhi and I’ll get the bags, take care of everything here.”
Bella hesitated for a beat, her fingers idly running through Luka’s fur.
“You sure?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.
Mal brushed a knuckle beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “I’m sure. Go. Take a long bath. Clear your head. We’ll be right here.”
Bodhi chimed in, still holding a babbling Máire. “Yeah, go soak. This one and I have some very important business to attend to. Like snacks. And cartoons.”
That earned a soft laugh from Bella — the first real one since the flight home.
“Alright,” she relented, standing slowly. “But if you teach her more bad words, Bodhi—”
“Me?” he grinned innocently. “Never.”
Mal winked. “Go. I’ll come check on you later.”
Bella nodded, leaning up to kiss his cheek before heading toward the stairs.
As she ascended, her steps grew slower, heavier. The weight of Paris… of that loss… still clung to her skin like smoke.
She made it to the master bath, wordlessly twisting her hair up into a loose knot. The hot water hissed to life, steam soon billowing through the space.
Bella shed the last of her travel clothes and sank into the tub, the heat wrapping around her aching muscles, her bruised pride.
Her eyes drifted shut.
And there, beneath the surface of the water and the haze of exhaustion, her mind began to slip away — the ache giving way to dreams, memories, and the first stirrings of the fight still to come.
And what if she never followed in her mom’s footsteps. What if she never took a chance to meet Malachi.
And...what if she never became a wrestler.
Fate. Fate is simplistic and yet a wild fickle thing.
For instance, in the world of Elizabeth Marie, there were so many roads that she could have taken.
Prime example of this was when sweet Bella took off for Paris, all those years ago, she was over the drama of her family, her extended family and needed her own air. It was there that she met Malachi but
What if Bella decided to not meet Malachi on that one particular night 6 years ago?
The world shimmered. The sound of running water blurred into the low hum of city life.
When Bella opened her eyes, she was sitting at a familiar desk — worn oak, towering bookshelves all around her. The New York Public Library, 5th Avenue branch. The biggest one in the city.
Her name plate read: Elizabeth Madison — Chief Archivist
She blinked in confusion. Her hands… soft and not one nail chipped. No taped knuckles. No lingering bruises. The faintest smell of old books and polished wood surrounded her, instead of sweat, leather, and adrenaline.
She leaned back in the chair, eyes wandering. An old display case near the main reading room caught her attention — a curated exhibit on New York sports history. Tucked among the memorabilia, a faded wrestling poster from the late '90s. Headlining the card was a familiar name: Laura Phoenix.
Bella’s breath caught. The past had a long shadow, even here.
She looked away, heart a little heavier.
Sometimes, though, the past crept in through the cracks. Just yesterday, a young intern had asked if she was related to “that wrestler from the old tapes.” Bella had brushed it off with a polite smile — a reflex by now. But the question still echoed.
‘I took the safe road.’ The thought echoed in her mind, unbidden.
The faces came next — the constants.
Mattie Cormier, still her best friend that she met through her , still running her fashion studio. The designs were more boutique now — elegant, understated. Less about stage gear, more about timeless style.
Alanah Russow — still Alanah O’Connell in Bella’s mind — married to Jack, though Jack had retired after a severe injury. He refused to set foot at wrestling shows anymore. Lachlan and Malachi still wrestled, still fought… though no one quite remembered why they started in the first place. Some old grudge that neither would let go.
The library was quiet, the hum of ceiling fans and the soft click of keyboards the only company. Towering shelves lined with knowledge stretched far into the distance. Bella sat behind the desk at the New York Public Library’s flagship branch, a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, her long dark hair tied up in a messy bun. She wore a name tag that read: Isabella Madison-Richards. Senior Collections Specialist.
She wasn’t unhappy.
But she wasn’t lit up, either.
This life… It was safe. Predictable. Quiet.
And Bella? She lived this quiet life. Books. Coffee. Dinner dates with friends. No titles. No crowds. No ring.
No fire.
Then came the shift.
A familiar bell above the library door rang. She looked up from a stack of restored volumes to see Alanah, her curls bouncing with every frantic step.
"Bells! There you are!" Alanah beamed, a little breathless, hands clutching her phone and purse like they were her lifelines.
“Lanah?”
Alanah Russow practically bounced through the lobby, blonde hair in loose waves, designer sunglasses tucked into the neckline of a casual tee. She looked rushed, like she always did, except this time, her wide eyes were fixed on Bella like she had urgent business.
“I’ve been texting you for days. Why haven’t you answered me?”
Bella looked sheepish. “My phone’s been on silent. You know how it is. Dewey Decimal waits for no one.”
Alanah rolled her eyes and leaned over the desk. “You have got to come with me tonight.”
“Where?”
“A wrestling show. In Brooklyn. Local promotion, but the card is nuts. Lach and Mal are on it.”
Bella’s brow creased. “Jesus. They’re still fighting?”
“Oh yeah. Five almost six years now. They don’t even remember why. Stubborn Irish idiots. But this is the first time they’re on opposite ends of a six-man tag. I can’t miss it.”
Bella folded her arms. “So go.”
“I can’t go alone! Jack won’t come — not since the accident. And you know he hates the idea of being around it. But I miss it. I miss the rush. I want to go. And I want you to come with me.”
“Lanah…” Bella hesitated. “That was Mom’s world. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be pulled back into it.”
“But it’s part of you, whether you like it or not,” Alanah said softly.
Before Bella could respond, another voice chimed in from behind a nearby column.
“She’s right.”
Bella turned as Mattie Cormier stepped out, arms crossed, a lopsided smile on her face.
“You’ve spent years cataloguing stories in here,” she said, nodding to the towering shelves. “Isn’t it time you lived one?”
Bella opened her mouth to argue… but the words never came.
Mattie, leaning in through the side door with a sly smile. "Come on. It'll be fun. I already laid out something for you to wear."
Bella stared at both of them. The pull was there — a strange flutter deep in her stomach.
‘Fate’s a fickle bitch.’
"Okay, FINE!" she finally said. "One night."
Flash forward — the arena lights.
The warehouse venue was packed and gritty. Chain-link fencing. Exposed beams. Raw noise and pure energy pulsed through the air. Bella stayed close to Alanah and Mattie, feeling completely out of her element.
Bella sat beside Alanah, her heart pounding for reasons she couldn’t explain. The roar of the crowd vibrated through her chest.
Then the music hit.
Malachi.
He emerged through the curtain — lean, coiled with energy, eyes blazing.
Bella’s breath caught.
She’d never met him. Had only heard stories through Alanah. But something deep, ancient, undeniable sparked when their eyes locked for the briefest of moments during his entrance.
A tether. Invisible, but unbreakable.
"Why does this feel like I know him?" she whispered.
Alanah didn’t answer. She just smiled knowingly.
Fate didn’t care about safe choices. Fate circled back around — one way or another.
And as Bella’s gaze stayed locked on Mal’s form in the ring, something deep inside her — some dormant fire — flickered to life.
For one dizzying second, the sounds, the lights, the sheer electricity of it all swept her back — to being a little girl, standing on a chair beside her grandmother, watching her mother’s entrance, lights blazing, the roar of the fans washing over her.
It felt just like this.
It was part of her. No matter how far she’d run.
Not if.
When.
Later, she found herself backstage — dragged along by Alanah, who still had all the connections.
Mal was off to the side, nursing a bruised shoulder, laughing at something Lach said before the two parted ways. He looked up as Bella approached — and this time, the eye contact lingered.
“You looked like you belonged out there,” she said, before she could stop herself.
He smiled. “You look like you don’t know if you’re lost or exactly where you’re meant to be.”
“I think it’s both,” she admitted.
He extended a hand. “Mal.”
She shook it.
“Bella.”
And in that moment — just like that — fate circled back.
Back in the Bath
Bella’s eyes snapped open. Water sloshed gently as she sat upright, hand pressed to her chest.
The dream still clung to her like mist. It hadn’t been scary. It hadn’t even been bad.
But it wasn’t right.
No matter how many roads she could have taken...Her story always led here.
To him. To the fight. To wrestling.
Because fate? Fate’s a fickle bitch.
But sometimes...
She brings you exactly where you were always meant to be.
The bathwater had long since cooled, skin wrinkled and pink from her unintended soak. Bella stirred, groggy, dragging in a deep breath. Her heart was still racing faintly from the dream — no, the vision — that had taken her under.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Bells?”
The familiar lilt of Malachi’s voice drifted through. Concern, warmth… and the barest undercurrent of that mischievous charm that never quite left him.
She blinked the haze from her eyes. “I’m up,” she croaked.
The door cracked open. Mal poked his head in, dark hair tousled, grey t-shirt hanging loose over gym shorts. One brow arched as he took in the sight of her still sitting in the tub, dazed and damp.
“Well, well,” he teased gently. “Ya know, I usually have to bribe you with champagne and scented candles to catch you like this.”
Bella gave a small, weary smile, leaning on her arms on the side of the tub with a tired smirk. “Guess you lucked out.”
Mal stepped inside, bare feet quiet on the tile. He grabbed a fluffy towel from the warmer, unfurling it with a practiced flick.
“Come on, love. You’ll turn into a prune if you stay in there much longer.”
She let him pull her up — water sluicing off her skin, the towel cocooning her in warmth. For a moment, he simply held her there, strong arms wrapped around her, chin resting atop her damp hair.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
Bella exhaled, her voice small against his chest. “Maybe a little jet lagged but...I had a dream… or something. Saw what life would’ve been like if I’d never taken that chance. If I’d stayed safe.”
Mal kissed the crown of her head. “Well it goes without saying but safe is overrated.”
She tilted her face up, meeting his gaze — blue eyes twinkling, lips curved in that signature half-grin. God, she loved him.
“I wouldn’t have met you,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t have this life. Wouldn’t have Máire.”
Mal smirked. “A tragic loss for the world, really. Imagine — no me.”
Bella snorted, swatting his chest lightly. “You’re such an ass sometimes.”
“Ya married me, mo chroí. Your choice.”
Her smile faded, replaced by something more solemn. She rested her palm against his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble just above his full beard there.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For taking that chance on me. For seeing me… when I didn’t even know who I was meant to be yet.”
Mal’s eyes softened, mischief giving way to something deeper. “I’d do it a thousand times over. You never had to be anyone but yourself, Bells. And you’ve always been more than enough.”
A long pause settled between them, thick with unspoken truths.
Then Bella drew in a steadying breath. “Also, I’ve made a decision.”
Mal tilted his head, watching her carefully.
“As much as I want to give Máire a little brother or sister… as much as that’s still in my heart…” Her voice grew steadier, conviction rising. “I need to go back. To the ring. To this fight. It’s who I am, Mal. And I can’t walk away from it. Not yet.”
For a beat, Mal said nothing — simply searching her gaze. Then a slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.
“I know.” He cupped her face in both hands, leaning his forehead to hers. “And I’ll be with you every step of the way. Just like always.”
Bella’s eyes glistened. “You sure you want to deal with this crazy life again?”
Mal chuckled. “Love, I live for it. And I live for you. Go light the world on fire — I’ll be right there to cheer ya on… and to catch ya when ye need it.”
She surged up, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss — gratitude, love, and promise all tangled in that single moment.
When they finally parted, breathless, Mal grinned wickedly. “Now — since I did catch you in the tub lookin’ like a goddess…” He waggled his brows. “How ‘bout I carry you to bed and we start makin’ those future tag-team partners?”
Bella laughed, swatting him again — though her cheeks flushed deliciously pink.
“Down, O’Connell.”
He scooped her up anyway, bridal style, towel and all.
“No promises, love. But I’ll follow your lead.”
Their laughter echoed through the house as Mal carried her out of the bathroom — toward whatever fate had in store next.
"And where I’m meant to be…...is standing over the broken ego of Mercedes Vargas, Internet Championship in my hands — again."
~*~Rules of Engagement: "Fate’s a Fickle Bitch"~*~
It all fades in — Bella Madison, damp hair, hoodie on, sitting on the edge of the tub in their master bathroom. Face calm, eyes sharp — no smile, no softness. Voice cold.
"You know what the funny thing is about fate?"
"She gives you just enough rope to hang yourself. She lets you think there are other roads you could’ve taken — safer ones, quieter ones. Ones where you stay behind a desk and let the world pass you by."
"But here’s what I realized — no matter what road I could’ve chosen? They all lead me right back to this fight. Right back to this ring. Right back to this moment."
Her gaze lifts into the camera, eyes steady as stone.
"And thanks to our glorious Queen Alexandra...I come right back to you, Mercedes Vargas."
"Let’s not waste any time here."
"You took the Bombshell Internet Championship from me. That part’s true. But the story you’ve been telling ever since? That’s where the fiction starts."
"You didn’t outwrestle me. You didn’t expose me. You didn’t ‘put an end to my reign of terror’ — or whatever bullshit you’re peddling this week."
"You caught me on a night where I was off. A night where the weight of the division sat heavy on my shoulders. And now? You’ve made the mistake of thinking that one match defines who I am."
"That one match defines this fight."
Her voice tightens — ice creeping in.
"It doesn’t."
"Because since then, you’ve been really comfortable. Real loud. Real smug behind your keyboard — spitting out the same tired catchphrases and one-liners you’ve been using for the past decade."
*"‘Legend.’"
*"‘Hall of Famer.’"
"‘Record holder.’"
Bella smirks, the expression sharp and bitter.
"Do you know what those words sound like now, Vargas?"
"They sound like excuses."
"They sound like the armor you wear so no one asks the real questions."
"Like: what have you done lately that matters?"
"What have you done in this division that means something, other than collecting belts like trinkets in a dying career?"
"You talk about the Bombshell Internet Championship like it’s your throne. Like you own this place now. But deep down? You and I both know you needed me having a bad night to make that happen."
"You needed the perfect storm to drag that title off my waist — because when I’m sharp? When I’m dialed in? You can’t fucking touch me."
"That’s why you talk so much now. Because you’re scared. Because you know I’m coming. And this time? I’m coming with nothing left to lose — and everything to take back."
She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping lower — venom in every word.
"And let’s talk about the little game you’ve been playing on Twitter/X/Whatever the fuck you call that cesspool. The constant jabs. The passive-aggressive bullshit. The constant need to remind everyone who you used to be, instead of showing who you are now."
"You spend more time clinging to the past than building the future. You think you’re keeping yourself relevant, Vargas. You’re not. You’re just proving how desperate you are to matter."
"See, the real ones in this division? We don’t have to remind anyone what we’ve done — because we’re too busy doing it again."
"We’re too busy building legacies that can’t be torn down by one fluke win. And that’s where you and I are different."
"You can have your hashtags. Your highlight reels. Your record book stats. And honestly you can fucking shove them up your tight ass. Because when the lights go up and that bell rings? None of that’s going to stop me from dropping you flat on your back. None of that’s going to stop me from taking that title back.”
"I want you to get used to the term “Transitional Champion” because that’s exactly what you are about to be. And here’s the part that should really keep you up at night: I don’t even care about padding my own résumé anymore."
"I don’t care about the number of reigns. About what some Hall of Fame plaque will say someday."
"I care about shutting people like you the fuck up."
"I care about fighting for this division — so that it’s not run by bitter veterans clinging to faded glory, but by wrestlers who are hungry, who are driven, who are still building something real."
"Because make no mistake — you are not the future of this division. You’re the ghost of a past that needs to be put to rest."
"And I’m the one holding the shovel."
Her hands flex, eyes burning now.
"You should’ve known better, Vargas. You should’ve known that running your mouth the way you have was only going to piss me off. You should’ve known that giving me a reason to focus this fire? To lock in and come after you with everything I’ve got left? Was signing your own damn death warrant."
"Because now?"
"This isn’t about winning a belt."
"It’s about proving a point."
"It’s about ripping away every excuse you’ve been hiding behind — and leaving you with nothing but the harsh truth staring back at you."
"That you’re not the measuring stick anymore. You’re just a stepping stone on my way to the top. Again."
She leans in — tone pure ice.
"And when I’m standing over you with that title back around my waist?"
"I want you to remember every smug tweet. Every backhanded comment. Every time you thought your legacy made you untouchable."
"Because none of it will matter."
"Because you? You’ll just be another broken name on my list."
"And me? I’ll be standing right where fate always meant me to be — holding that championship high."
"And Vargas — when that moment comes? I don’t want your respect. I don’t want your handshake. I don’t even want your apology. I want you to look me in the eyes… and know that I was the one who ended this little fantasy run of yours."
"I want you to know that I didn’t come back to reclaim my spot — I came back to bury you under it."
"I’m here to walk into that ring and tear the Bombshell Internet Championship out of your hands."
"I’m here to become a three-time Internet Champion — not because I need some God damn validation, but because I’m done letting greedy caddy bitches like you prop themselves up on MY name."
"You have no idea what’s coming for you, Mercedes. Because I have absolutely fucking had it with the noise. With the so-called ‘legends’ who treat this division like their personal playground while the rest of us are out here fighting for every inch."
"You’ve coasted long enough. You got your spotlight off my back — now it’s time for me to take everything from you."
Leaning in — voice a low, cold growl now.
"And when I’m standing over you with that title raised, when you’re left lying in the middle of that ring with nothing but excuses and empty words to cling to? I want you to remember this, Vargas — fate put me here. Right where I’m meant to be — DIRECTLY in your path. Dead in my sights."
Pause. One last look, unwavering.
"And you should’ve stayed the hell out of mine. Because this time? I’m not leaving empty-handed. And you? You’re not walking out at all."
"Because fate? She’s a fickle bitch."
"And this time? She’s standing in my corner."
"See you soon, legend."
"Try not to choke on it."
Fade to black.
