Fortune's First Blush

[RockRye]

The instant her hand tapped the mat, Avery Merritt felt an unbearable wave of self-loathing crash over her. She wanted nothing more than to reach back in time and snatch her hand away, to erase the sound of that feeble, pitiful tap echoing in her ears. The very act of surrender, however brief, felt like poison in her veins, a taint on her carefully constructed image of dominance and perfection.

She clenched her jaw, biting back the growl of frustration that threatened to spill from her lips. The last thing she wanted was to give Madeline the satisfaction of knowing how deeply the moment grated on her. Yet as Madeline's crushing thighs loosened their grip on her midsection, and her shoulder was finally released from the agonizing stretch, Avery couldn't stop the involuntary wave of relief that flooded her body.

Her chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, her usually composed demeanor momentarily fractured by the physical toll of the hold. She tried to mask her relief, forcing her lips into a thin, dismissive line, but the subtle heaving of her chest betrayed her. Avery, never one to let weakness show for long, shifted her attention to her own body.

She flexed her abs experimentally, testing the ache that radiated through them. A sharp pang ran through her core, but it was manageable. Her shoulder, however, protested as she rolled it gingerly, sending a twinge of discomfort shooting up her arm. She shifted slightly, hoping to coax it back into some semblance of normalcy, but her expression remained impassive, even as her body screamed for reprieve.

To anyone else, it might have looked like she was brushing herself off after a mild inconvenience. To sell the image further, she raised her hand and inspected her nails with faux disinterest, as though she hadn’t just been twisted into a near-defeated pretzel.

And then there was Madeline. Sitting there next to her, poised and collected, as though she were the master of some ancient art form. Her posture irritated Avery more than the hold itself had. Then came her words, delivered with a calmness that only further stoked the flames of Avery's irritation. For a split second, Avery felt the overwhelming urge to mimic her like a petulant child, to mock her with an exaggerated impression of her collected demeanor. But she pushed the temptation down, though it left her biting her tongue so hard she was certain she’d drawn blood.

Instead, she leaned back slightly, propping herself up with one arm as she cast a withering glance at her opponent. “Oh, I see. Who is it, by the way, who died and made you the keeper of all things sacred and holy in wrestling?” she drawled, her tone laced with acidic sarcasm.

She took her time sitting up fully, stifling the urge to wince as her abs protested the motion. The ache in her core was a persistent reminder of her recent humiliation, but she refused to let it show. Instead, she straightened her back, her expression cool and aloof as if to say she was entirely unbothered.

“Is that it?” Avery asked, her voice tinged with mock boredom. She waved a hand dismissively, as though brushing off the entire ordeal. “Because if that’s all you have, there’s a snake charming demonstration I planned to attend, and I’m just dying to see someone else attempt your particular style of wrestling.”

The jab hung in the air, and Avery’s smirk returned, as sharp and cutting as ever.

[Lightman]

Madeline had seen it before. The unseen war wages behind the eyes. Stiff, controlled movements failed to project the intended effortlessness. The way Avery’s jaw set, the way her fingers flexed with forced nonchalance, testing the ache she refused to acknowledge. It was the same struggle she had witnessed in countless wrestlers who had never tasted a loss they couldn’t explain away.

Except Avery wasn’t just any wrestler. She was something rarer—someone who cared too much to admit it.

So Madeline sat. Poised. Collected. Watching the performance unfold with patience that she knew, knew, would only make Avery seethe more. She saw the impulse flare—the urge to mock, to mimic, to tear down what she couldn’t shake. It didn’t come. Avery swallowed it, chewed it down like gristle, and spat something else in its place.

“Keeper of all things sacred?” she echoed softly, her voice feather-light, the barest hint of amusement gliding beneath her words. “The difference between us, darling,” she said smoothly, crossing one leg over the other as if settling in for an afternoon tea, “is that I never claimed to be.”

She let Avery’s jab linger in the air, let the silence wrap around it. Then, lazily, she tilted her head, gaze steady as she watched Avery force herself upright with that almost convincing air of disinterest. She meticulously recorded every breath and subtle shift in posture. The ache, the irritation, the desperate need to reclaim ground.

“A snake charming demonstration.” She echoed, the words rolling off her tongue with quiet amusement. Madeline exhaled softly, shaking her head as though indulging a child’s theatrics. “Well, you are welcome to leave, of course,” Madeline continued, her tone as smooth as glass. “I imagine watching someone else wrestle would give you time to reflect on what actually beat you.”

She let the implication hang there, light but undeniable. Avery could dress it up however she wanted—a “little twist-fest,” a meaningless exchange, a dull inconvenience—but both of them knew if there had been a crowd, if there had been people watching, Avery’s frustration would’ve burned ten times hotter.

“And yet,” Madeline said, leaning her weight slightly back on her palms, “I feel you’d rather beat me than pretend you have somewhere more important to be.” No accusation. No condescension—just quiet, measured truth.

She tilted her head slightly, letting a calm smile tug at her lips. “So, Avery Merritt,” she said with that same irritatingly composed cadence, “What’s it going to be? Petty remarks… or a rematch worth your time?”

For the first time, Madeline’s eyes flashed with something faintly playful—an unspoken challenge cloaked in civility. Her gaze didn’t waver. She’d called the bluff. The next move, as always, was Avery’s.

[RockRye]

Avery quipped, her voice light but sharp, “Oh, we both know that claims aren’t always verbal, dear Madeline.” Her words danced on the edge of mockery.

In her mind, Avery toyed with the notion of claims and status. She had spent enough time in high society to recognize that prestige, whether earned or otherwise, was rarely portrayed through words alone. No, it came from actions, from the ways one carried themselves. And Madeline’s every action bled that insufferable air of self-assured superiority. Her deliberate calm, her precisely chosen words, her demure yet commanding presence. All of it screamed, I am better than you.

Madeline could continue this dignified act all she wanted, Avery thought. The woman clearly believed wrestling was her domain, a pure art form where only her style mattered. Technical skill, twists, and calculated turns? Avery scoffed at the very idea. That type of wrestling was for the boring, for the tedious socialites she had gladly cast aside who could lose an entire afternoon trophy fishing. It wasn’t her style. And if this pompous pantomime of wrestling was the only way Madeline wanted to engage, Avery was ready to take the proverbial highway.

Still, Madeline's cool confidence pricked at her pride. Rising to her feet with a languid grace, Avery flicked her hand dismissively, her nails catching the light in a show of nonchalance. “Time is money, I'm afraid,” she said, her voice honeyed with disdain. "Take LAW your little report."

She turned partially away, brushing some imagined muck from her hands, her sharp gaze momentarily drifting toward her bag. And then Madeline said something. an offer thinly veiled as a challenge. Avery didn’t react immediately, not outwardly. Instead, she let the silence stretch, her fingers absently sweeping sweat off her toned arms. But her mind raced.

A challenge she couldn’t ignore.

Casting a glance back over her shoulder, her blue eyes snapped sharp as a blade to meet Madeline’s. They lingered there, cold and calculating, as Avery told herself to just walk away. She had other things to do. She didn’t need to humor this woman or her inflated sense of superiority.

And yet, Avery stayed.

Finally, she spoke, her tone cool but weighted. “Fine. But as a novel idea, let's engage in actual wrestling.” A smirk teased at the corners of her lips as she stepped closer, looming with just the right touch of intimidation. “If we wrestle? The beating will come naturally.”

[Lightman]

Madeline didn't flinch. Not when Avery’s tone curled like smoke around the word claims, nor when she turned her back with that aristocratic little flick of her wrist. She had expected this. Avery wielded disdain like a blade, refined and sharpened in country clubs and gala circuits, where jabs were tossed over champagne flutes and hierarchies shifted with the raise of an eyebrow.

But the ring wasn’t a ballroom. And Madeline wasn’t here to curtsy.

As Avery’s gaze darted toward her bag, Madeline remained seated, legs tucked neatly beneath her, spine straight as ever, the picture of poise amid tension. She’d seen enough exits like that—graceful retreats disguised as disinterest. It was always the same. Pride bruised, dignity intact, and a door left slightly ajar. But then the line landed. That little smirk. That last flicker of challenge. “If we wrestle…”

There it was.

Madeline’s lashes lowered just a touch as she took in the deliberate closeness. The posture meant to loom, to unsettle. A lesser woman might have backed up. Madeline didn’t move an inch.

“Wrestling,” she repeated softly, as though tasting the word, then smiled—warm, maddeningly pleasant. “By all means, define it for me. I'm quite interested in how you interpret the term.”

Her voice remained even, her composure intact, but her gaze cut clean through the theatrics. She met Avery’s icy stare with something cooler still understanding. Not of what Avery said, but of what she needed. The insult was a veil, the superiority a shield. Madeline saw it for what it was—an edge she wasn’t yet willing to relinquish.

“So let’s do it your way,” Madeline continued, brushing an invisible crease from the knee of her tights as she stood with quiet elegance. She didn’t bother to match Avery’s intimidating air; she didn’t need to. The confidence came not from looming—but from never needing to. “You choose the pace, the style, the tone. The rules, or lack thereof. Within reason, of course.”

A pause. A glance up, deliberate and composed.

“I’ll wrestle how you wrestle,” she said, her voice steady and sure, “and I’ll beat you there, too.”

[RockRye]

Perhaps Avery should have left. The thought crossed her mind more than once. After all, what better way to underline her superiority than to dismiss Madeline entirely? To ignore her was to make her feel insignificant, a sting that could linger far longer than a mere scuffle. Avery prided herself on being someone no one dared overlook, a towering figure both in stature and reputation. People could not ignore her, for better or worse. She was their obstacle, and she reveled in that feeling. So to simply walk away after that pointless, writhing exchange would have sent a clear message: Madeline wasn’t worth her time.

But then, smashing her would be far more satisfying.

As Avery assessed her options, the idea of leaving became increasingly unappealing. Crushing Madeline under a set of rules she dictated? That was irresistible. The glimmer of satisfaction in Avery’s eyes betrayed her thoughts, though she kept her tone composed. She couldn't help but relish the opportunity to demonstrate her superiority, especially now, when Madeline had all but handed her the reins.

Taking a measured breath, Avery tilted her head slightly, her voice smooth and authoritative. She thought and spoke quickly, making it sound as if she clearly knew what true wrestling involved. "Alright, I’ll indulge you." She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in, clarifying that she was doing Madeline a favor. "We’ll keep it simple. Mats only. Strikes allowed." She smiled faintly, almost amused. She hadn't seen Madeline truly take a swing at her yet. Perhaps she hardly knew how.

Her confidence was palpable as she continued. "Taps won’t break holds. I don’t want you thinking you can tap out of trouble too quickly." She leaned slightly forward, her gaze unwavering. "And let’s make it interesting. You win by knocking your opponent out… or by begging. Though begging’s only valid if the other person accepts it."

[Lightman]

Avery’s voice washed over her like so much smoke—elegantly phrased, carefully wielded, each word chosen for its weight. She spoke with the ease of someone used to making demands and expecting them to be met. Madeline listened without interruption, her face unreadable save for the subtle arch of an eyebrow at Avery’s final stipulation. Knockout or accepted verbal submission. It was bold, theatrical—exactly the flair she expected from women who prized control over craft. But what intrigued her wasn’t the bravado. It was the subtext: Avery wasn’t walking away. She couldn’t.

That was the tell.

Madeline didn’t reply. Not at first. Without a word, Madeline turned on her heel with the quiet confidence of someone who’d just won a different match. Her feet made no sound on the mat as she walked across the room, calm and composed, the perfect foil to Avery’s ever-present hunger to be seen. She knelt at the edge of the bag without fanfare and reached inside, retrieving her phone. The soft click of the screen unlocking broke the silence, followed by the tap-tap of her thumb setting something up.

A countdown.

She rose with the same ease and turned, her eyes meeting Avery’s as she placed the phone gently on the edge of the mat, the screen angled upward, and the timer visible. Only then did she speak, turning her head just enough to let her voice carry, low and deliberate.

“Five minutes,” she said. “For the next five, I will not strike. I will not submit you. I’ll only resist and defend.” She tilted her head slightly, her tone measured, faintly indulgent with a teasing inflection that never quite tipped into mockery. “I considered ten, but I wouldn’t want to keep you from your snake charming demonstration.”

Then she stepped back onto the mat, settling into a low, poised stance—one knee slightly bent, weight evenly distributed, hands loose and open. Ready, but not aggressive. Madeline didn’t posture. She didn’t goad. She simply waited, calm and unmovable.

“Let’s see if five minutes is enough,” she said quietly. “Impress me.”

[RockRye]

Avery’s gaze sharpened like a honed blade as she watched Madeline retreat, phone in hand. Oh, truly, what was this now? Avery could feel the sting of her patience being tested, a dull throb beneath her flawless exterior. She didn’t let it show, of course. That wouldn’t do. Instead, she stood perfectly poised, her hand resting on the curve of her hip, her long fingers lightly tapping against her taut skin as though keeping time with her boredom.

She allowed Madeline several moments of this charade, her lips curling into a faint smile that suggested amusement rather than the annoyance simmering beneath. When the other woman finally turned back around, triumphant as though she’d accomplished something monumental, Avery sighed audibly, her crystalline blue eyes flitting to the far wall as if already seeking more engaging company.

Madeline began to speak, and Avery let her. She even inclined her head slightly, as though she were actually listening. But by the time Madeline finished, Avery shook her head slowly, like a patient teacher addressing a particularly obtuse student.

“Oh, darling,” she purred, her voice laced with sugar and just a hint of venom, “while I appreciate your dedication to the fine art of fighting scared, I don’t think I have the time, or the interest, to entertain another five minutes of… this.” She waved a hand vaguely toward Madeline, her tone remaining perfectly pleasant, though the subtext was clear.

Her smile widened, sharp as broken glass. “Five minutes, you see, is more than enough for me to find someone with a bit more confidence. Perhaps even someone who's willing to try to win rather than avoiding the shame of losing.”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze softening just enough to feign sympathy. “Not that I blame you, of course. Staying on defense against someone of my caliber is, admittedly, a wise approach. But wisdom doesn’t interest me nearly as much as decisiveness.”

With that, Avery reached down for her bag, the movement slow and deliberate as she lifted it onto her shoulder. She stepped toward her sandals, her hips swaying with an effortless, regal confidence that seemed to command the room. Her expression remained perfectly serene, but her tone sharpened ever so slightly as she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Well, Madeline? Do try to decide quickly. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll miss your chance entirely.”

And with that, she slid her sandals onto her feet, ready to move on should Madeline fail to meet her expectations.

[Lightman]

As she might a classical concerto, Madeline watched the performance with serene detachment, appreciating the skill but expecting the outcome. Avery’s delivery was impeccable, as always: the tilt of her head, the lilt in her voice, the artful disdain spread like fine gloss over a sharp interior. A near-perfect show of command.

And yet Madeline didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She simply listened.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? Avery wasn’t actually walking away. Not really. She lingered. Waited. Goaded. The same instinct kept her from storming off after that first tap—the refusal to let anything end without ensuring her presence had the last word. This was more than showmanship. It was a craving for control, dressed up as disinterest.

The subtle theatrics, the arch of her hand, the oh-so-measured glance to the wall, the regal saunter toward her bag. None of it surprised Madeline. What surprised her, perhaps, was how performative it all remained, even after everything.

Was she bluffing again? Or worse—was she unaware that she was?

Avery’s words dripped sugar and disdain in equal measure, but beneath the smooth veneer, Madeline heard the same note she’d heard before: frustration masked as superiority. She refused to engage with what she could not control.

She had given Avery exactly what she claimed to want—a stage, control, rules tilted in her favour. And yet now, on the cusp of it, she preened and postured and threatened retreat. Why? Did she want a clean win too badly? Was she unwilling to risk losing on her terms? Or did she somehow believe that Madeline had something to prove to her?

Madeline didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she bent down, plucked the phone from the mat, and silenced the timer with a single tap. Her motions were efficient, lacking ceremony. Then she walked to her bag, calmly unzipping it and slipping the phone inside. The routine was neither dismissive nor performative—it was simply done. As if the result had been inevitable all along.

“The assessment is concluded,” she said at last, her voice cool and clear, with not a note of derision. “I’ll pass my notes to management and they will contact you after they make a decision."

She lifted her bag onto her shoulder and turned to face Avery fully. Her posture was unshakably composed, but there was a distinct gravity to her words now—something heavier than formality.

“I don’t doubt your ability to make an impression,” she added, tone softening only slightly. “But I’d encourage you to decide—sooner rather than later—whether you’re more invested in the appearance of power… or the real thing.”

Her gaze held steady for a heartbeat longer, then she inclined her head—graceful, measured, final.

And with that, Madeline Christiansen turned and walked away. Not out of surrender. Not out of dismissal. But because the game, for now, was no longer worth playing. “Once you figure that out, you know where to find me.”