[Chelsea]

 â€œHere we are again, Sam and I standing across from one another in a ring only this time, there are no weapons. I don’t have to make her bleed. I just have to pin her to the mat.”

Chelsea holds up a poster board in front of her. On it is pasted a full colour photo of Sam Merlowe with her face busted open and bleeding after their grudge match a few months ago. The background seems to be just a standard white photography screen.

“Now, I don't have much to prove here. Before it was me proving I deserved to be at the top and now it’s Sam in my shoes.  Its funny how things turn around right? But honestly Sam... I no longer have anything against you. You seemed to take your punishment in stride and you proved everything I said about you, that you needed to find that spark you had when you were winning titles. And look at you now? Getting to the near top of the BFTP tournament. I would not be scoffing at how far you got, I mean you got farther than I did. Although I did have a shitty partner.”

She rolls her eyes and curls her lip with a disgusted scowl

“I see that spark in your eyes again. And believe it or not, that’s what I was pushing you too. This point. Honestly, there needs to be more people who want to pull this company back from the nasty clutches of the skank patrol and you are capable of that... in your own weird eccentric way.”

Her eyes light up amused at the thought.

“Now that I am done with all that shit, let's get down to the nitty gritty. What if you win? Well if you win, obviously they are going to put you in contention for the roulette title. That's what this is about. Christian is scrambling to find girls he thinks can take the title off me and fix the mistake he thinks Mark made. And that’s fine. I’m not going to deny anyone a shot at me. I like a challenge. Are you the challenge I need Sam? That remains to be seen. I am fully expecting you to still be butthurt over what happened. Good. Bring that fire to the ring. Show Christian that you deserve to do more than hand out beer to slobs and trailer trash. Come out there and show me why people stereotypically call redheads firecrackers.”

She still appears amused at her own thought, as though she is low-key mocking her.

“You are probably wondering why I am not yelling or getting angry on camera. Or being cocky like usual. Well, it's like this. You fell off my radar once I beat you. Its nothing personal, it's just usually once I beat someone, I don't have anything left to prove against them. You could have been like Mercedes, constantly subtweeting me to try and keep the corpse that is Mean Girls shuffling around but you didn't. You put on your big girl panties and did what you had to do to get yourself up the ladder. Gotta say I appreciate that. However...”

She taps her chin.

“That is not going to change the fact that you are not winning this match. You may have decided not to give up and prove to your “kids” that you aren't a washed up loser but fact remains... You are still the same wrestler now that you were when we last fought. You haven't reinvented yourself. You haven't changed your moves or gotten a makeover. You are not edgier. You are still the little sparkle pinky princess who tried so hard to burn me with Shakespeare. So for that reason, I am still prepared for anything you bring me. Not that I am underestimating you in any way, every dog has its day, but sometimes people, like you, refuse to break the mould. They want to force feed you everything they are about until you literally are gagging on it. Who am I to tell you it's wrong, I’m just saying it's not going to help you in this situation.  You bring me any quotes you like. You can demean my win. You can try to say I don't deserve this title. I don't know, with you it's a little unpredictable.”

She gives a shrug.

“but despite that, everything else is the same. And that being said, the result will be too. Honestly, I hope you can prove Christian wrong too but it’s not going to be at my expense. I am at a point where I willingly accept everything people throw at me so it can fuel my desire to smash it back in their faces. “

“The lingering question is though... what if you do win? What if you become the little come back kid who took down the big mean Chelsea? If you think that is going to get you off the forgotten list... well...”

She can’t even finish the sentence, she chuckles.

“Can’t wait for your next lesson on another great work of fiction. Because in case you didn't notice, beating me isn't an accomplishment that gets you places. Hope it's relevant this time.  Tootles “

She uses a mockingly sweet voice before blowing a kiss to the camera.

***
***Off Camera***

“Who gets married on a Thursday?”

My brother Mateo, looking debonair in his tux, actually looks uncomfortable in it. Which is funny considering he wears a suit everyday at Winslow Foundations. His skin is the same mocha colour as my own. His features very much spanish like our father but the peculiar part about Mateo is his grey-green eyes that almost look like contacts. My father’s explanation for them was that his Great-Great Grandfather married a British woman who was blonde and blue-eyed so the gene must have passed down.

My father had aspirations of becoming a doctor or biologist growing up but his parents were poor and he didn't beat out others for scholarships. But I digress.

“Our mother does. She didn't want the hassle of weekend traffic on her wedding day.”

I reach forward to adjust his tie.

“This is not going to end well you know. They will end going down in an epic fiery battle that will cost Gramps a couple million to settle.”

I shush him.

“Don’t jinx it. I don't agree either but I want mom to be happy and if this is what does it then so be it.”

He raises a dark eyebrow at me as if to say, ‘really?’

“If she is busy taking care of a husband, then she doesn't have time to meddle in our affairs...”

A light bulb seems to go off in Mateo’s head and his eyes light up.

“I like the way you think Chels.”

There is a knock on the door and it opens to reveal a tall, red haired man. This dashing older man has been the bane of my existence since birth. He doesn't smile. In fact I haven’t seen this man smile for a reason other than a non-family one in 22 years. In case you're wondering, that's my entire life.

I hadn't seen him since I moved in with Coby in LA and as limited as his facial expressions are, it's easy to see he is still not happy with me. He nods his head at Mateo who gives me a look before leaving my grandfather and I alone.

Jonathan Marcus Winslow was not a man you wanted to piss off and I had managed to do it several times over the last year.

“Chelsea-Grace.”

His voice is cold and void of any kind of love a grandfather should have to his granddaughter, but it actually wasn't personal. He treated all women like they were objects to be won and displayed rather that living breathing human beings. Heaven forgive me for being born with ovaries instead of testicles.

“Grandfather.”

He takes a seat in what I assumed to be a very uncomfortable wingback chair, judging by how stiff the material was stretched over the frame. He crosses one ankle over his knee and appraises me silently for a few minutes.

“I briefly met your... Friend, Samuel. He is a... Good interim partner for a...”

I chuckle. Did I mention that my grandfather is also a prejudice racist bigot? No? Where now you know. So not only was his first grandchild a girl... But also a half hispanic girl who looked hispanic. Karma really is a bitch, right?

“He is not an interim.”

“Has he proposed you getting married? Have you discussed your futures together? Financial responsibilities? Children?” Although he shutters since any children Coby and I had together would be very unique.

“We’re only 22 Grandfather. There is plenty of time.”

“And your trust fund?”

A red eyebrow raises up over his watery blue eyes.

“Still invested and tripled my money.”

He nods. “If you change your mind about this,” he stands. It's as though the man could never sit longer than a minute or two at a time. “I have a business associate with a son in need of a wife. 5 year arrangement and 1 child.”

My nose scrunches up. “Eww gross. Herman Holtz again? No. He’s pushing 40, but age and belt size. I am happy with my legitimate arrangements. But thanks for the talk gramps. Maybe next time we can chat longer.”

He’s already turned by the time I have rejected his offer. By the end of the sentence he is already out the door.

Anyone that says growing up privileged is a gift has never know true privilege.