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.
