Am I? The concept still feels foreign. Twenty-five years with Brad trained me to call my wants selfish and impractical.
But maybe Ava’s right. Maybe I’m allowed to want more than just safety and independence. Maybe I’m allowed to want connection too.
I unpack my suitcase and lay out my clothes for tomorrow’s first training session. Sports bra, moisture-wicking t-shirt, yoga pants that actually fit my body instead of hiding it. Small rebellions that add up to a revolution.
Dinner is in the communal hall, and the atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed. The gladiators eat with everyone else, and while they’re clearly the center of attention, they handle it with grace. Flavius holds court at one table, regaling listeners with what sounds like an epic tale involving considerable embellishment. His audience hangs on every word.
The other gladiators are scattered throughout the room, but my attention keeps drifting back to Flavius’s table, where his animated storytelling has everyone completely captivated.
At another table sits a lean, hard-faced man whose angry vibe makes others give him a wide berth—this must be Sulla, the formerludusmaster people whispered about in online reviews—half gossip, half warning.
“Mind if I sit?”
I look up to find one of my fellow participants—a woman about my daughter’s age with short dark hair and kind eyes. “Please. I’m still processing that this is all real.”
“I’m Jessica. Librarian from Columbia. You?”
“Nicole. I’m working on my nonprofit management degree. Just dropped my youngest at college and decided to do something completely outside my comfort zone.”
“This definitely qualifies.” Jessica nods toward the gladiators’ tables. “I keep expecting someone to yell ‘cut’ and reveal this is all an elaborate movie set.”
But it’s not. These men are real, their stories are real, and somehow I’m sitting in their dining hall about to learn defense techniques that kept them alive in mortal combat.
“Also,” Jessica adds, “is it true they sell fish sauce?”
“Fortuna’s Gold,” I say. “Chefs go wild for it. Between that, workshops, and grants from Dara Hobson’s foundation—this place runs like a community, not a tourist trap.”
Jessica whistles. “Found family,” she says. I find myself nodding.
Halfway through the meal, a hush moves like wind through tall grass. The older man from the stables stands to adjust a buzzing light fixture. He pulls a small screwdriver from his pocket, makes two quick turns, and the hum dies. A few people clap softly; he dips his head and answers a question I can’t hear—his voice carrying warm and steady over the clatter, though I can’t make out what he’s saying. I register the calm in it, unexpected for a man his size, and then look back to my plate.
“Who’s that?” Jessica asks under her breath.
I realize I’m leaning to listen and sit back. “No idea,” I say too briskly, and stab a carrot. “I’m here to train.”
Jessica’s mouth quirks. “Sure.”
Later, in my cabin, I crack the window to hear crickets and the clang of distant steel on a practice post. I set an alarm, set out my translator bud like a talisman, and then meet my own eyes in the mirror as I say, “I belong here.”
Tomorrow I’ll learn where to put my feet and how to hold my hands. I’ll learn to take up space with my body before I can do it with my voice.
I came here to grow stronger, not to flirt. Whatever else happens here, my focus has to stay on me.
Tomorrow, I won’t just learn to fight. I’ll learn why I’m worth fighting for.
Chapter Three
Nicole
One week into the program, and I’m still discovering muscles I’d forgotten I had.
“Better,” Maya calls out as I execute the defensive stance we’ve been drilling for the past hour. The morning sun beats down on the training yard, and sweat drips between my shoulder blades, but I feel stronger than I have in years. “But you’re still apologizing with your body language. Stop shrinking.”
“Sorry, I—” I catch myself mid-apology.
Her eyebrow lifts in warning.
“No apologies. Take up space. You have the right.”
