~*~Sometimes You Just Gotta~*~
New York City – Rooftop After the Fashion Show
The city glowed below them like a living constellation, heat rising in soft waves from the streets even though the night had settled. The rooftop bar was warm with laughter and clinking glassware, a curated kind of chaos where artists and models mingled in little orbits of their own self-importance. The kind of place where the drinks cost too much, but no one asked the price.
Bella blended into it effortlessly, though “blended” was the wrong word. She belonged here. Black sheer two-piece, the fabric whisper-thin in the right places, opaque where it needed to be. The soft golden lighting played along the curves of her shoulders and caught on the edges of her tattoos, turning her into something half sculpture, half wildfire.
Mattie Comier stood beside her, triumphant after another show that everyone in that room would pretend to understand more than they did. Her blazer was architectural, sharp in all the places fashion students sketched in their notebooks and never quite executed. She held a champagne flute like she’d been born with it in her hand.
Alanah Russow leaned against the railing nearby, wearing something flowing, tailored, and unmistakably Mattie, elegance with teeth. Her laughter floated effortlessly, her presence grounding in a way that felt like home.
Malachi was the contrast, black shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open, his one tattoo dark against his skin on the inside of his wrist, whiskey glass in hand. He watched Bella with that quiet, steady awareness he always had. He didn’t need to take up space to be seen. He was the space she gravitated toward without thinking.
Mattie tipped her glass toward him, smirking, "God, I miss making gear for you, Mal. You were my favorite mannequin.”
Mal didn’t miss a beat, "Yeah, well, one of us got smart enough to stop getting thrown into steel steps every week.”
Bella snorted into her drink.
Mattie flicked her hand dramatically, "You say that like I’m not still traumatized by Miles’ gear requests. The man dresses like a glitter bomb with abandonment issues.”
Alanah wheezed.
Mal lifted a brow, "Man looks like a peacock hit by the Aurora Borealis."
Bella laughed so hard she had to set her drink down, "He wakes up and chooses sequins.”
The group dissolved into that easy, familiar laughter that comes only from years of shared history, scars, inside jokes, late nights, and the kind of heartbreak you only survive together.
For a moment, just a moment, Bella felt weightless.
Then she heard it.
A High-pitched...piercing screech. The kind of voice that expected the world to rearrange itself around it. At the bar, a girl, early twenties, maybe, in designer everything, was nearly in tears. Not from sadness but from outrage.
“I said I requested the VIP Skyview lounge. This...” she waved a manicured hand at her perfectly fine surroundings, “....is not what I was told. Do you have any idea who my father is?”
The bartender looked like he had survived wars. Like real ones, especially evident by the tattoo on his bicep that Bella recognized as her grandfather has one.
A lot of people were staring, even some rolling their eyes. Some even pretended not to listen. Everyone silently agreeing to just let entitlement run its course.
Bella didn’t move at first but something inside her... shifted. A subtle tightening beneath the ribs and a spark catching on old fuel.
Alanah saw it happen, "Bella,” she warned, soft, almost pleading.
But it was already too late. Bella had already begun to step forward.
She didn’t storm. She didn’t rush. She just walked, the way a storm front rolls in.
The girl noticed her when the room’s attention tilted toward Bella, as if gravitational pull had changed.
The girl blinked at her, defensive by instinct, "Um...can I help you?”
Bella’s voice was calm. Calm in the way a blade lying flat is calm, "Yeah. You need to stop.”
The girl recoiled slightly, confusion flickering, "Excuse me—?”
Bella didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to, "Right now, you are losing your mind over a table. A piece of furniture. A seating arrangement in a bar on a Thursday night.”
The girl opened her mouth, indignant, but Bella didn’t let her speak, "There are people in the world right now deciding whether they can afford groceries. People rationing medication to make it through the month. People working three jobs and sleeping four hours because they don’t get to complain about where they sit.”
The girl’s face began to crack, not in anger, but confusion, as though no one had spoken to her like this in her entire life.
Bella stepped closer, not threatening, just unavoidable, "And you’re here... throwing a tantrum over not being perceived with the exact level of importance you think the world owes you.”
The silence that followed was full and sharp. Bella breathed out once, slowly, "Your privilege isn’t the problem. What you choose to do with it is.”
The girl looked down, embarrassment blooming where indignation had been. She nodded quietly, shrinking even smaller and stepped away.
No scene. No argument. Just understanding. And deep inside Bella had really wished for a moment that there would have been a scene, then maybe she could let out 2 weeks worth of pent up aggression.
But for now it was a lesson learned, sharp, but honest. Bella turned back.
Mattie had her brows raised to her hairline. Alanah’s eyes were soft, proud, but worried. Mal didn’t say anything, but his hand found Bella’s, fingers slipping into hers like he was anchoring her back into her own body.
She exhaled, long, tired, but steadier.
Mal’s thumb brushed her knuckles, "You needed to say it.”
Bella didn’t answer with words, just leaned her shoulder into his. The city glowed, the music picked up and most importantly their laughter returned.
Bella didn’t explode.
She simply reminded the world that she is fire with direction.
After the party, it was time for the long drive home. The city had settled into that hour where everything felt slower, softer, a little unreal. Streetlights washed the pavement in amber, and occasional headlights cut through the dark like passing ghosts. The laughter and neon and rooftop glow were behind them now, replaced by the hush of the night highway.
Mal drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up on the center console. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. Bella’s hand found his automatically, fingers slipping into familiar spaces, fitting like the universe had designed them that way.
The radio hummed quietly, something low and bluesy, the kind of music that knew how to sit with silence without swallowing it.
Bella leaned her head against the window, watching the city blur past. She wasn’t tense. Not exactly. Just... full. Like she hadn’t realized how close to boiling she’d been until the lid finally clattered loose a little.
Mal glanced at her, voice low, "You alright?”
Bella huffed a short, humorless breath, "Define alright.”
Mal didn’t push. He just waited as Bella let the silence stretch before she actually answered.
“She was just... so clueless,” Bella murmured, "Like the world had never told her no and I don’t know why but it just....it pissed me off. Like something in me snapped.”
Mal nodded once, "Yeah. I saw.”
Bella turned to look at him, "You think I overreacted.”
He shook his head, "No. I think you reacted because you care too much.”
Bella blinked, unprepared for that answer.
Mal continued, eyes still on the road, “You carry everything on your back, Bells. You see someone drowning, even if it’s in a puddle they made themselves, you want to pull them out.”
Bella scoffed, "She didn’t look like she was drowning. She looked like she needed someone to knock her ego down three flights of stairs.”
Mal cracked the smallest smile, "Christ I love you but.... Yeah maybe. But you didn’t do it to humiliate her. You did it because you want people to wake up. You always have.”
Bella didn’t respond at first. Her throat was tight. Too tight for how calm she looked on the outside.
Mal squeezed her hand, grounding, "You feel everything at full volume, mo gra. You always have from the day I met you and beyond. That’s your strength. It’s also why you get burned.”
Bella exhaled slowly, voice quieter, "Feels like I’m always burning lately.”
“I know.” His answer was soft and certain.
Bella stared out the window again. The city lights gave way to quieter streets.
“I should be focused on Bea and Cassie at High Stakes. The match. Everything. That’s what’s next. That’s what I need to care about.” Her jaw tightened, "But instead I’m yelling at some rich brat in a designer dress like that’s the war I needed to fight tonight.”
Mal shook his head, "No. That was just the moment that tipped the glass. The match? The pressure? Cassie yapping online? Victoria before that. The whole damn tournament. It all piles up.” He paused, long enough that Bella looked back at him, "You break before you bend. Always have.”
Bella felt the words like a hand pressed against her ribs. Not harsh. Not judgment. Just truth. And love.
Mal continued, voice low, “But you didn’t break tonight. You let some of that fire out instead of letting it eat you from the inside.”
Bella swallowed. Hard. Her voice cracked just a little, “Feels like I’m still burning.”
Mal brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles without breaking eye contact with the road, "Then burn.” The word was quiet but fierce, "Just don’t burn alone.”
Bella’s breath hitched. The highway exit passed under them and home was close now.
She leaned across the console and rested her forehead against his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just let her be there.
No fixing or explaining. Just his presence that was her anchor from completely flying off the handle and torching everything.
The kind of love that didn’t demand anything.
The kind that held steady through fire.
~*~Rules of Engagement: FAFO~*~
The camera found Bella where she liked it best, close enough to see the small crescent scar at the base of her thumb, far enough away that the rest remained private. The lights in the room were low, a single lamp throwing a hard strip of amber across her jaw. She sat on a battered leather chair, one booted foot braced against the rung, knuckles still rimmed with yesterday’s tape. There was no music, no fanfare. Just the quiet before the storm.
She didn’t smile. She let the words come out slow, deliberate, like a blade sliding from its sheath.
“Bea,” she started, voice flat and dangerous, "You get to the microphone and you ask if we’ve calmed down yet. You ask if my pain sensors have been triggered. You come at us like you’re the volume knob on the whole damn room.”
She laughed once, soft, contemptuous, "Here’s what I don’t need from you. Snark. Sarcasm. That little tinny laugh you think is an edge. You can’t intimidate me with condescension, and you definitely can’t scare me with a smug sentence wrapped in a question mark. Because here’s the real truth: I don’t care what you think I am. I care about what I do.”
Bella leaned forward until her elbows were on her knees, eyes hard enough to cut.
“You say we’re whining. You say we’re moaning. Cute. Real cute. You want to gaslight two hungry women who are coming for a match that actually matters. You want to call us fragile because you can’t see how ferocious we’re being. You want to reduce our fire to a flicker with a snotty tweet and a sip of something cold. That’s you at your best, small, cheap, theatrical.”
She spat the next words like they burned her tongue, "But you? You’re the one who’s got a problem. You’re convinced you’re a measuring stick, a yardline, the bar everyone else needs to clear. Newsflash, you’re more like a rusted fence. You look pretty until someone leans on you. And at High Stakes on November 2, I’m going to lean.”
Her voice dropped lower. The room felt smaller.
“Cassie,” she said, and the name came out like a strike, "You had the audacity to bring my family into this like you were quoting a footnote. You said Christian took my backbone, nah sweetness, my backbone is about to make your whiny bitch ass your worst fucking nightmare. BUT before we talk about that....You dragged my mother's name through your half-baked grievance like it’s a prop in your pity play. Let me be perfectly fucking clear.”
Bella’s hand cracked against her thigh, a hard punctuation.
“Leave Laura Phoenix out of your fucking mouths.”
She didn’t whisper it. She nailed it like a verdict, "My mother is not a weapon your lazy, entitled words get to pick up when you don’t like the outcome. You want to fight me? Fine. Drag my name through the mud if that’s the cheap costume you want to throw on. But drag the family through the gutter and I’ll burn the whole thing to the ground.”
She paused only long enough to let the warning settle, then smiled without warmth.
“Cassie, you want to posture about busted asses and missed anniversaries? You want to claim you earned a spot because the world is cruel to you? Sweetheart, hunger doesn’t look like you. Hunger looks like me. Hunger looks like the woman who’s been punched into the dirt more times than you’ve had outfits. I don’t need sympathy. I don’t need leverage. I don’t need a fucking pity parade and go bitching to the entire world the shortcomings. I need a target and you volunteered when you decided to be an absolute raging CUNT to anyone who would actually give you the time of fucking day.”
Bella’s voice shifted into a clinical whisper, razor-thin: “You made this about your ego. I made this about your education.”
She stood then, like a coiled thing, and the angle of the light changed and the room filled with a kind of predatory motion. She slid her hands into her hoodie pockets and studied the lens like it was a person she could measure.
“Bea, you talk about triggering pain sensors. Here’s one you didn’t foresee: I like it when it hurts, sweetness. I like the way pain sharpens me. I like the way it forces the rest of the world to pay attention. And Barnhart, you’ve had your time. You’ve had some sort of sniff at the throne. You’ve rubbed your damn fingers raw polishing it with every insincere smile. That throne? It’s filthy. It’s heavy and I’m not politely asking for a turn. I’m taking it.”
Her mouth went hard, "You two think we’re playing a game of lost-and-found. I don’t plan to look for anything. I plan to take what’s mine.”
Bella moved closer to the camera as if she could step through it into the faces that had been smirking at her online. Her voice dropped into a low, intimate growl.
“On Sunday, November 9th, at High Stakes, and in that Triple Threat where no fucking rules apply? That’s where the scoreboard gets honest. That’s where your histories stop being cute anecdotes and start being maps of how I’m going to beat the BOTH of you. Cassie, Bea, bring your bravado, your angles, your best little lines and the 2 brain cells combined that are in the running for third place. Bring your ‘I deserve this’ memes, your entourage of keyboards and clapping seals. Bring whatever you’ve got. Bring your husband if you want Bea. And whatever the fuck you have Cassie. Bring your legacies. Bring your ‘yes’ men. Hell, bring the whole circus.”
She let the sentence hang, then finished it clean.
“Because when the bell rings, there’s only one thing that counts. I’m not here to make a point. I’m not here to lecture you two about humility. I’m here to make you hurt and I’m here to leave you with nothing but the memory of my hands on your throat and the knowledge that you lost to the better woman. I’m here to make everyone who thought I was done swallow that pride right back down and shit themselves because now...I’m done being the stepping stone.”
Bella’s eyes narrowed, "And one final thing, you will keep my family out of your mouths. You will keep your petty accusations, your desperate tweets, and your stage-managed victimhood between you and your mirrors. You will look me in the eye, and you will earn every single line on your damn resume. Or you will be erased.”
She let out a breath that sounded almost like laughter. Not light. Not joking.
“You want to know how this ends? You’ll both learn it the hard way. You’ll both learn because I won’t stop until I’m standing where I’ve always been meant to be. I’ll see you twats in the ring. Bring everything. I’ll bring the wreckage.”
She stepped back. The camera trembled for a beat, then cut to black.
