SAVING VENUS

Chapter three:

MAYA

My thighs had declared war.

Every step down the stairs felt like I was descending from Mount Doom. My glutes had stopped communicating with me. My calves were holding a silent protest. Even my pinky toe ached. I didn't even know toes could ache.

But still, I showed up.

6:01 a.m. at Elevate Lab. Because I told myself I was going to stop quitting on myself. Because somewhere under the soreness and self-doubt, I wanted more. Not just thinner thighs or clearer skin I wanted to feel like I wasn't disappearing.

Damian was already waiting inside, holding a clipboard like it was an extension of his soul. He didn't say good morning. He didn't smile. He just looked at his watch and said:

"You're late."

I blinked. "It's one minute."

"One minute late is still late."

I sighed. This man.

We started with assessments. Body scans, measurements, tests that involved bending in ways I hadn't attempted since childhood. My sports bra nearly resigned. I made sarcastic comments to lighten the mood he didn't even blink.

"You're hiding behind humor," he said.

I froze. "Excuse me?"

"You make jokes so you don't have to be vulnerable. It's a defense mechanism. Common, but not useful."

Well, okay then. Diagnosis by brooding trainer.

He had the nerve to just move on to squats like he hadn't ripped open my psychological baggage.

By the time we reached planks, I was shaking like an overcooked noodle.

"I can't," I gasped.

"You can."

"I'm not strong enough."

"That's why you're here. You don't need to be strong yet. You just need to stay. Stay in the discomfort."

I wanted to throw a dumbbell at him. But also... I stayed.

Barely.

After the session, I collapsed on a bench, sweat cascading down my back like regret. Damian handed me a cold towel and a folder.

"Transformation Protocol: Maya Collins."

Inside was a personalized plan: nutrition guide, workout schedule, journaling prompts, even a water intake tracker. And a contract.

"What's this?" I asked.

"A commitment. Not to me. To yourself."

The contract had terms:

* No processed sugar.

* 6 a.m. sessions four times a week.

* Weekly journaling check-ins.

* One mandatory truth session per month.

"Truth session?"

"Where you talk about what's really going on. Not just what hurts physically."

"So... emotional burpees."

"Something like that."

"What if I miss a session?"

"You don't."

Of course.

Later that day, I hobbled into my office, gripping my coffee like it was my last connection to sanity. My co-workers ignored me, but Marsha the office crypt keeper eyed me.

"New perfume? Or is that menthol rub and desperation?"

"Both," I muttered.

During lunch, I checked my phone.

ERIC: *Saw your post. Looking good. Want to grab coffee sometime?*

Oh. So now that I'm not melting into my sweaters, he's interested?

Lola would slap me if I replied. So I didn't.

That night, Lola came over with eucalyptus bath salts, dumplings, and attitude.

"Let me see the plan," she said, spreading out the folder on my kitchen counter like she was reading a royal decree.

When she saw the contract, she gasped. "Is this a fitness plan or an oath to the Avengers?"

"I think I joined a cult," I whispered.

She read the journaling prompt out loud: *"Write one sentence about what your body is protecting you from."* Then she stared at me.

I stared back.

"Damn," she said. "That's deep."

Next morning

I walked back into Elevate Lab, my signature limp slightly less dramatic. Damian was there again, doing pull-ups like gravity owed him money.

I held out the signed contract.

He took it, glanced over, and nodded once.

Then, just before turning to walk away, he looked over his shoulder.

"Welcome to war, Maya. With yourself."

"Good," I said. "I plan to win."