Chapter 6 Provocation

The next afternoon. Court 3 at the Olympic Sports Center.

Cecilia was at the baseline, working through her return practice.

The ball machine fired. She swung, clean and precise.

Then came the sound of deliberate footsteps and laughter from the court entrance.

Cecilia stopped and looked.

Charles and Ivy walked in side by side.

Ivy was dressed in the latest designer tennis skirt, makeup flawless, a limited-edition handbag dangling from her wrist — nothing about her said she was here to train. Charles wore proper gear, but his eyes hadn't left Ivy since they walked in.

"Cecilia! There you are." Ivy quickened her pace, her voice dropping into that familiar sugary lilt. "We've been looking everywhere for you."

Cecilia grabbed her towel, wiped the sweat from her face, and turned back to adjust the ball machine without a word.

Ivy, getting nothing, looped her arm through Charles's and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Charles was worried you'd be lonely training by yourself, so he brought me along to keep you company. You don't mind, do you, Cecilia?"

Charles arranged his face into something he probably thought looked caring. "Cecilia, I know things have been rough lately. Ivy was so worried about you she insisted on coming. You two are family. Let the past go. Stop being so — prickly."

Cecilia switched off the ball machine and turned around.

"Family." She looked at Charles. "I broke up with you yesterday. Today you show up here with Ivy. Charles, that devoted boyfriend act is getting harder to sell."

Charles's expression stiffened. "That's not — I just thought Ivy could help talk some sense into you."

"Talk sense into me about what?" Cecilia almost smiled. "How to hand over my entry spot? How to play along with whatever you two are staging?"

Ivy's eyes went glossy on cue, tears trembling at the edges. "Cecilia, how can you say that about Charles? He's only trying to help. If you're angry, take it out on me — don't blame him." She pressed herself a little closer into Charles's side.

Charles wrapped an arm around her and turned on Cecilia, voice climbing. "That's enough. Ivy came here in good faith, and you're treating her like this? Look at yourself. What guy is supposed to put up with this?"

Cecilia didn't bother.

"That's not really my problem anymore, is it?" she said. "We're done, Charles. You brought your new girlfriend to my training session. Should I call security, or are you going to leave on your own?"

Charles opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Ivy surfaced from his shoulder, voice soft and careful. "Cecilia... actually, the reason Charles wanted to come today — the tournament's really intense, and he's worried you'll get hurt. He thought if you gave your spot to me, he'd stay with you the whole time, take care of you off the court..."

"Stop." Cecilia cut her off. "Ivy, do you actually think playing helpless covers the fact that you want my entry for free? If Charles really cared about me, he wouldn't have helped tank my endorsements. I know exactly what this is. I just can't believe I ever fell for it."

Charles's face went hard. "Don't push your luck. You think making it into the WTA means you're going to win anything? You'll be out in the first round. And you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

"I'll manage," Cecilia said, picking up her racket. "Now please leave. I'm paying by the hour, and I'd rather not spend it watching the two of you."

"Cecilia, don't be like that." Ivy stepped forward and reached for the racket. "Charles means well. Why won't you just listen?"

Cecilia turned her wrist. The racket swung clear of Ivy's hand — the edge of the frame cutting the air an inch from her fingers.

Ivy gasped and clutched her hand to her chest, tears spilling over. "You didn't have to do that! If you didn't want me to touch it, just say so — why use the racket?"

"Whether you're hurt or not," Cecilia said, nodding toward the corner of the court, "the camera's been recording the whole time. Want me to get the facility manager to pull the footage?"

Charles and Ivy both went still.

They'd been so focused on the performance they hadn't noticed the high-definition camera mounted in the corner.

Ivy's tears stalled mid-cheek. The hand clutching her fingers quietly relaxed.

Then came steady footsteps from the court entrance.

"Her forehand does have a technical issue." A low, unhurried voice. "But whether she makes it past the first round isn't yours to call."

Cecilia turned.

The man walking in wore a plain black athletic set. Tall, composed, features sharp — something quiet and dangerous in the set of his eyes.

Benjamin Howard.

The name surfaced without effort.

In her last life, Benjamin Howard had been a legend. Grand Slam titles, a career cut short by injury, then a quiet move behind the scenes. She'd watched him play on television once — that suffocating, relentless style of his had stayed with her.

She hadn't expected to run into him here.

Benjamin crossed to where she stood and glanced at the racket in her hand.

"Grip angle's off. Contact point's too far back. In that last set of drills, you were hitting the frame on at least a third of your shots."

Cecilia paused.

She'd felt something was off. She just hadn't been able to name it.

"Mr. Howard." She gave a slight nod. "Training today?"

"Passing through." His tone was even. "Your fundamentals are solid, but your mechanics are wrong. Keep hitting like that and you'll wreck your wrist."

Charles let out a short, derisive laugh. "And who are you? Coming in here and picking apart her form. Her coach taught her that technique — who asked for your opinion?"

Benjamin didn't look at him. He looked at Cecilia.

"Give me the racket."

Cecilia handed it over without hesitating.

Benjamin walked to the ball machine and hit the switch. The machine fired.

One fluid motion — wrist, shoulder, follow-through. The ball left the strings like a shot and buried itself in the far baseline corner, clipping up a scuff of chalk.

No wasted movement. No visible effort.

Cecilia stared.

So that's what it looks like.

"See it?" Benjamin handed the racket back. "Lead with the elbow on the backswing. Let your core and hip rotation drive the forearm — don't just flick from the wrist. At contact, angle the face forward slightly. That's how you control the trajectory."

Cecilia took the racket and adjusted her grip, working through the position.

"Try it," Benjamin said.

She exhaled, set her feet, and fixed her eyes on the machine.

The ball launched.

She lifted her elbow, rotated through her hips, and swung.