She Fights and Plays

Katie

The knock came at eleven-thirty, sharp and professional. I jerked awake, hand automatically reaching for the knife that wasn't under my pillow anymore. My heart was pounding, adrenaline already flooding my system.

"Miss Harrison." Eileen's voice through the door. "Mr. Cartwright and Mrs. Cartwright have returned. Mr. Cartwright wishes to see you in the third-floor study. Immediately."

I looked down at myself. Gray T-shirt, athletic shorts, bare feet. No time to change, apparently. "Give me two minutes."

"He's waiting now, miss."

Of course he is. I pulled on my boots without bothering to lace them, jaw already clenched. An ambush. Great. Just fucking great.

I followed Eileen upstairs to a study that was all dark wood and leather and intimidation. William Cartwright sat behind a massive desk. Mid-forties, expensive suit, hair that probably required a team of stylists. Victoria on the sofa in Chanel, wine in hand. She looked at me like I was something she'd scraped off her shoe. Brandon stood beside her, and when he saw me, something smug and satisfied flickered across his face.

Oh. So this was definitely an ambush.

"I heard there was an incident at dinner." William's voice was cold, controlled. Boardroom voice. "You and Brandon had words."

I was running on maybe four hours of sleep total, exhausted from travel and stress, and I had exactly zero patience for this bullshit. "He insulted my mother. I responded. That's all."

Victoria made a sound between a laugh and a sneer. "Responded? You called me a homewrecker in my own house."

"I stated facts." I met her eyes directly, watched her flinch. "He came at me first."

William slammed his hand on the desk hard enough to make the lamp jump. "Enough! You've been here less than twenty-four hours and you're already causing problems—"

"Look." I cut him off, too tired and pissed off to care about proper behavior. "If you called me up here at eleven-thirty at night just to yell at me, can we do this tomorrow? I need to be up at five for training and I'm running on four hours of sleep."

The silence that followed was the kind that usually preceded violence. William stood slowly, face doing this interesting thing where it tried to stay composed while also expressing absolute fury.

"Do you understand who I am?" His voice dropped to something dangerous. "I'm your father. Your legal guardian. You live under my roof, and you will show me respect."

"You're my legal guardian." I kept my voice level even though my hands were clenched into fists at my sides. "That's what the law says. Beyond that..." I shrugged. "Is there anything else? Because I really need to sleep."

Victoria stood up, wine sloshing in her glass. "William, you see? This is what happens when children are raised by people with no understanding of proper behavior."

Something hot and sharp flared in my chest. "You're right," I said, turning to look at her. "Jack, my grandfather, didn't teach me about proper behavior. He taught me not to break up other people's families. Guess our priorities were different."

Brandon moved forward like he was gonna come at me, and part of me wanted him to. But William held up a hand.

"Everyone. Stop." He took a breath, visibly collecting himself. "Kate, I'm saying this once. You're here because the law requires it. I'll provide financially but don't expect special treatment. Your school expenses are covered but you're responsible for your own success—I won't hire tutors like I do for Brandon. And most importantly, you will not embarrass this family. At school, in public, anywhere. Understand?"

"Crystal clear." I was already turning toward the door. "Can I go now?"

"Yes. Get out."

I walked down the hall, hands still clenched, jaw so tight it hurt. Halfway down I heard Victoria's voice, low and vicious: "Why did you even bring her here, William? She should've stayed on that farm where she belongs."

He didn't answer. Or if he did, I was too far away to hear it, and honestly I didn't give a shit. I'd gotten the message loud and clear—I wasn't wanted, I was barely tolerated, and the only reason I was here was some legal requirement he couldn't get around.

Fine. Two years. I could survive two years of anything.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my palms against my eyes, breathing slowly until my heart rate came down. Don't let them get to you. That's what they want. Stay cold, stay tactical, finish the mission.

My alarm went off at five sharp. I dressed in training gear, still pissed off from last night but channeling it into something useful. I headed to the backyard, moving through the house like a ghost.

The infinity pool gleamed in pre-dawn light. I found a corner of the lawn and started my routine, letting the familiar movements calm the anger still simmering under my skin.

Twenty minutes of standing meditation. Body still, breath controlled, every muscle engaged. My legs trembled but that was the point—building the kind of deep strength most people never developed. I focused on my breathing, letting everything else fall away. The anger, the frustration, the overwhelming urge to punch something.

Then the real work: a hundred push-ups, two hundred squats, fifty pull-ups using a tree branch. Twenty sets of sprints across the perfect lawn, boots leaving divots that would probably give someone a heart attack. Good. Finally, technical work against a tree—strikes, elbows, knees, each one controlled and precise, pulling power at the last second.

No flash, no wasted movement. Just efficient, brutal technique. C.Q.C wasn't about looking cool—it was about ending threats as quickly and decisively as possible. One strike, one target, one outcome.

I was washing my face at the pool's edge, letting cold water shock me fully awake, when I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Second floor, Brandon's window. The curtain shifted just slightly.

He'd been watching.

I looked up at that window for a long moment, water dripping down my face, and let him see me looking. Then I turned and walked back inside, jaw set. Let him wonder. Let him worry. Little shit has no idea what he's dealing with.