Chapter 2

The coach looked me up and down, his gaze lingering for three seconds on my skinny arms and legs. He snorted with laughter.

"Punch someone's head off? With that tiny frame of yours, one slap would send you flying."

I didn't say a word. I just pulled out a stack of cash from my bag and slapped it on the table.

Fifty thousand dollars. My savings from two years of secret stashing.

The coach contemptuously pushed the money back.

"I don't need this pocket change."

But when I rolled up my sleeve to show him the bruises from when Holt had drunkenly beaten me, the coach simply picked up the liability waiver on his desk and pushed it toward me.

"Sign this. The facility takes no responsibility for any accidents during training."

"Including but not limited to fractures, concussions, and internal bleeding!"

I grabbed the pen and quickly signed my name.

The coach put away the agreement, and the smirk on his face instantly vanished.

"Alright, starting today, I'll train you at the intensity of a professional Sanda athlete before retirement."

"I don't know if you'll be able to punch someone's head off after a month, but you'll definitely want to punch your own head off after I'm done with you."

On the first day, my sparring partner threw me forty-seven times.

Every time my back slammed into the mat, scenes from my past life flashed before my eyes.

Chelsea's roundhouse kick had knocked me unconscious.

When I woke up, I was paralyzed in a hospital bed, tubes running through my entire body.

Holt stood at the foot of the bed holding Chelsea's hand, a troubled expression on his face.

"Lynette, the guests sent so many gifts. The wedding can't be without a bride. Chelsea is willing to take care of me in your place. You're so kind—I'm sure you won't mind, right?"

Would I not mind?

He got a marriage license with Chelsea on the third day of my paralysis.

Using my money, living in my house.

Everyone praised Holt for being loyal and devoted, praised Chelsea for being kind and virtuous.

Not a single person asked whether a bride who'd been kicked into a severe concussion and paralyzed from the waist down could even survive.

Thinking of this, I climbed up from the mat and waved at my sparring partner.

"Again."

The sparring partner glanced at the coach.

The coach nodded.

"Go."

That night I lay on the hard bed in the facility dorm, covered in bruises.

My phone screen lit up.

Holt sent me a message on SnapChat.

"Lynette, just finished working overtime and eating. I'm keeping an eye on everything with the wedding planner. You just relax and wait to be the most beautiful bride."

I stared at the words "working overtime," then swiped to open Ins.

Chelsea had posted three minutes ago.

A selfie in a wedding dress. In the background, draped over the arm of a sofa, was a deep blue Hermès tie—the birthday gift I'd given Holt last month.

The caption was just one line: "Only the favored one gets the privilege of trying on dresses."

I gripped my phone and opened SnapChat, sending Holt a voice message.

"Honey, you've worked so hard. I'm leaving everything with the wedding planner to you. I have complete faith in you."

Then I typed.

"By the way, honey, I found this limited edition haute couture wedding dress. There are only three in the world. The deposit is two hundred thousand. What do you think?"

"Isn't that a bit expensive? A regular wedding dress would look just as good."

"But I'm only getting married once in my life. And didn't you say you'd give me the most spectacular wedding in the city?"

Silence on the other end for nearly two minutes.

Finally, one word came back: "Fine."

The corner of my mouth twitched. I turned off my phone and rolled over to face the wall.

This wedding dress was a trendy short style—perfect for throwing punches!

Holt, oh Holt.

In my last life, you took my money, my house, and tried to take my life.

This time, I'll drain you dry first.