Chapter 1Trained to KO My Bridesmaid

When I walked into my own wedding reception wearing a custom silk gown, the first thing I noticed was the professional octagon MMA cage sitting dead center on the ballroom stage.

My fiancé, Garrett, was standing beside it, holding the hand of his “female bestie,” Sabrina. He grinned, walking over to slip a pair of heavily padded leather gloves into my hands.

“Flora, babe, it’s a little tradition from my family’s side of the state,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “The bride is supposed to do a quick, playful spar with someone from the bridal party to bring good luck to the marriage. I asked Sabrina to step in so you wouldn’t have to deal with any of the guys. Just play along for the crowd.”

I looked at Sabrina. She was standing there in her maid-of-honor dress, looking as fragile and sickly as she always did. I didn’t think twice before stepping through the cage door.

But the moment the referee signaled the start, Sabrina’s weak demeanor vanished. She pivoted on her heel and unleashed a professional, devastating spinning heel kick. The blow caught me squarely on the temple, fracturing my skull and knocking me into a severe, hemorrhaging concussion before I even hit the canvas.

When I finally woke up in the ICU, my body was a useless weight beneath the sterile sheets. Garrett was standing at the foot of my bed, holding Sabrina’s hand.

“The guests flew in from all over, Flora, and the registry was incredibly expensive,” he said, his face twisted into a mask of performative sorrow. “We couldn’t just cancel the wedding. Sabrina offered to stand in for you so we didn’t lose the venue or the gifts. You’re so kind and understanding—you don’t mind, right?”

Under the crushing weight of utter humiliation and severe, postpartum-like clinical depression, I eventually rolled my wheelchair to the edge of our high-rise balcony and threw myself off.

But instead of the pavement, I woke up in my old bed.

One month before the wedding.

I didn't waste a second. I got dressed, drove across town, and knocked on the heavy metal door of the state’s elite combat training center.

“Coach,” I said, looking the head trainer in the eye. “Can you teach me how to shatter someone’s skull in thirty days?”

* * *

The coach looked me up and down. His gaze lingered on my slender arms and pale wrists for three painful seconds before he let out a dry, dismissive chuckle.

“Shatter someone’s skull? Sweetheart, with a frame like yours, a stiff breeze could snap you in half.”

I didn’t argue. I reached into my bag, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and slammed them onto the metal desk. Five thousand dollars. Every cent of the emergency cash I’d spent two years scraping together.

The coach barely glanced at it before pushing it back toward me. “I don’t need the pocket change, kid.”

Without a word, I reached over and pulled up my left sleeve, exposing the dark, mottled yellow-and-purple bruises Garrett had left on my arm after a drunken rage the weekend before.

The coach’s eyes hardened. He stared at the marks for a long moment, then reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a standard liability waiver, sliding it across the table.

“Sign this,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “The gym is not responsible for any injuries sustained during training. This includes, but is not limited to, fractures, concussions, and internal bleeding.”

I grabbed the pen and signed my name without hesitating.

The coach took the paper, filed it away, and the casual, dismissive look on his face vanished completely.

“Alright. Starting today, I’m going to train you with the same intensity I use for professional fighters preparing for a title bout. I don’t know if you’ll be able to shatter anyone’s head in a month, but by the end of this, you’ll definitely want to shatter your own.”

That first day, the sparring partners threw me to the mat forty-seven times.

Every single time my back slammed into the vinyl padding, the air leaving my lungs in a ragged gasp, the memories of my past life flashed behind my eyelids.

I saw Sabrina’s heel coming toward my face.

I felt the sterile, cold hospital air, the tubes running down my throat, the weight of a body that would never walk again.

I saw Garrett standing there, looking so incredibly burdened by my tragedy while holding the hand of the woman who had crippled me. “Sabrina offered to stand in for you… you don’t mind, right?”

Did I mind?

He had legally married Sabrina three days after I was paralyzed. They used my savings. They lived in the brownstone my parents had bought for me. Everyone in our social circle praised Garrett for his deep loyalty, calling Sabrina a saint for helping him navigate the tragedy of his "brain-damaged ex-fiancée."

Not a single soul asked how the girl who had been kicked into a wheelchair was supposed to keep living.

The memory burned like acid in my throat. I pushed myself up from the mat, ignoring the screaming pain in my shoulders, and raised my gloved hands toward the sparring partner.

“Again,” I rasped.

The partner looked over at the coach.

The coach nodded slowly. “Take her down.”

That night, I lay on the thin, hard mattress in the gym’s dorm room, my skin covered in ice packs. My phone vibrated on the nightstand.

A text from Garrett: “Babe, just got out of a late meeting and finally grabbing dinner. I’ve been keeping the planners in line so everything is perfect. Just focus on being the most beautiful bride in the world.”

I stared at the words “late meeting” for a moment, then opened Instagram.

Sabrina had posted a story three minutes ago. It was a mirror selfie of her trying on a white lace wedding dress. In the background, draped carelessly over the arm of a velvet sofa, was the navy silk Hermès tie I had bought Garrett for his birthday last month.

Her caption was short: “The favorite always gets the privilege of the first fitting.”

My fingers tightened around the phone. I opened our text thread and sent Garrett a voice note, keeping my tone sweet, light, and perfectly trusting.

“You’re working so hard, sweetie. I don’t know what I’d do without you handling the venue stuff. I trust you completely.”

Then, I typed out a follow-up:

“By the way, babe, I just saw a bespoke designer gown online. Apparently, there are only three of them in the country, but the deposit is twenty grand. What do you think?”

A long, agonizing two minutes passed before the typing bubbles appeared.

“Isn’t that a bit excessive? The off-the-rack ones look amazing on you anyway.”

I replied instantly: “But we’re only doing this once, Garrett. And you promised me we’d have the most talked-about wedding in the city. I want everyone to see how much you cherish me.”

Another silence.

Finally, a single word: “Fine.”

I let out a cold, quiet laugh, locked the phone, and turned to face the wall.

Garrett, my love.

In my past life, you wanted my money, my home, and my very survival. This time around, I’m going to drain you until you have nothing left to give.