Chapter 3 - The Price of Pride
The murmurs in the crowd swelled into an uneasy hum. Neighbors who had spent the afternoon sipping chardonnay and admiring Ethan’s athletic display were suddenly looking around nervously.
Richard Caldwell stepped onto the mat, placing a heavy, protective hand on his son’s shoulder. He glared at me with the cold, calculating expression of a man accustomed to buying his way out of every problem he had ever encountered.
“That’s enough,” Richard said, his voice dripping with condescension. “The girl proved her point—she knows how to throw a cheap trick. Ethan, leave it. We’re done here.”
“I’m not done, Dad,” Ethan snarled, shaking off his father’s hand. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “She humiliated me in front of everyone I know. Twenty thousand dollars. Right now. Cash wire to your account, or right out of my trust fund. Let’s see how tough you are when I’m actually trying.”
I looked at him—really looked at him. Underneath the expensive gi, the designer watch, and the inflated ego, he was just a spoiled kid who had never faced a real consequence in his life. Everything had been handed to him: his dad’s money, his club memberships, his easy victories over lesser opponents in controlled gym environments.
“Money isn’t going to fix what’s wrong with you, Ethan,” I said calmly.
“Are you scared?” he yelled, his voice cracking slightly under the strain of public embarrassment. “Is that it? The big bad Army veteran is afraid to step back on the mat for twenty grand?”
Walt Griffin stepped forward, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. “Watch your mouth, boy. You’re barking up a tree you don’t have the axe to cut down.”
“Stay out of this, old man!” Ethan snapped, losing whatever shred of composure he had left.
That was the mistake.
You don’t disrespect Walt Griffin on Larksburg Court—not while I’m standing there.
I raised my hand, signaling Carlos to step aside.
“Twenty thousand,” I said quietly.
Ethan blinked, surprised that I had taken the bait. A vicious, triumphant grin spread across his face. “You want twenty grand? Fine. But this time, Carlos doesn’t stop it until someone taps. Real submission.”
“Agreed,” I said.
Denise grabbed my elbow, her nails digging into my sleeve. “Victoria, have you lost your mind? He’s furious! He’s going to hurt you!”
“Denise,” I said, looking her in the eye with absolute serenity. “He’s angry. Anger makes people sloppy. Sloppy people make mistakes.”
Richard Caldwell pulled out his phone, his face tight with grim satisfaction. “I’ll wire the funds into an escrow account right now. Referee holds the release. But if you break my son’s arm, I’ll own everything you’ve ever owned by tomorrow morning.”
“Write the check to the Wounded Warrior Project,” I said, stepping back onto the blue mat. “If I win, not a dime goes to your bank account or his.”
Ethan sneered, stepping back onto the foam and rolling his neck. “You won’t win.”
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Carlos looked between us, his expression troubled. He knew Ethan was technically gifted, but he also saw the terrifying, unreadable calmness in my posture. With a heavy sigh, Carlos raised his hand.
“Match two,” Carlos announced, his voice tight. “Submission only. No striking. Whenever you’re ready.”
