The gym Margaret Evans had reserved was tucked away in a quiet corner of the city — a private training space with padded floors, punching bags, and enough silence to hear your own breath. It was nothing like Emily had expected. No polished walls or pristine equipment. Just space. Honest, gritty space to grow stronger.
Emily stood near the entrance, her palms damp, heart racing faster than she liked. She had never been in a place like this before — never needed to be.
Until now.
Margaret stepped onto the mat in sleek black workout gear, her ponytail tight, her expression serious but not unkind. "You showed up," she said, a hint of approval in her voice.
"I said I would."
"That's step one. Most people talk about taking control of their life but never leave their comfort zone. But you're here." Margaret tossed Emily a pair of gloves. "Let's see what you've got."
Emily caught them awkwardly, her movements unsure. "I've never done this before."
"Good. That means you're a blank slate. No bad habits to unlearn."
Margaret led her through the basics: stance, balance, how to breathe while moving. Her voice was calm, clipped, and clear — every instruction purposeful. She didn't coddle, but she didn't intimidate either.
"This isn't about beating someone to the ground," Margaret explained. "It's about not freezing. Not flinching. When you look a bully in the eye, they can't own you. When you stand tall, you take your power back."
Emily listened, her brow furrowed in concentration. With each movement, her arms trembled, her feet stumbled, and her muscles burned. But she didn't stop.
After a while, Margaret raised the padded mitts and nodded. "Try hitting."
Emily hesitated.
"Don't think of them," Margaret said, reading her mind. "Don't picture Vanessa or your past. Picture your fear. Hit that."
With trembling fists, Emily struck. Lightly. Then again. Stronger.
And again.
By the fifth strike, something inside her snapped into place — a memory, maybe, of being held down, of laughter at her expense, of curling irons pressed to skin. Rage and fear collided into momentum, and she hit harder.
Margaret didn't flinch. "Good. Let it out."
Emily kept going — fists flying, breath ragged, tears stinging her eyes. She didn't stop until her arms gave out and she crumpled to her knees on the mat, panting, trembling.
Margaret knelt beside her. "That," she said quietly, "was power. Not because of how hard you hit. But because you faced what made you weak — and didn't run."
Emily blinked through the tears. "I don't want to be afraid of her anymore."
"You won't be. But that's not just about fists. It's about mind and heart. We'll train them all."
Margaret offered her a bottle of water and sat beside her on the mat. "Vanessa isn't your endgame. She's just a chapter. You're writing something much bigger. This? This is just the beginning of you reclaiming it."
For the first time since arriving at HopeBridge, Emily didn't just feel safe — she felt strong.
Not because she'd learned how to throw a punch, but because she'd stopped bracing for one.