SAVING VENUS

Chapter Four: Rules of Engagement

MAYA

My body was adapting. Slowly. Grudgingly. Like a cat being taught to swim.

I no longer collapsed after every session. My leggings felt looser. My lungs didn't sound like broken bagpipes on the treadmill. And weirdly... I was starting to like the soreness.

But the man? Still a problem.

Damian Cole, fitness demigod and emotional locksmith, was the definition of complicated. Every time I tried to joke, he gave me homework. Every time I deflected, he asked why. I was used to people letting me gloss over the hard stuff. Damian didn't let me get away with anything.

Today, we were doing strength intervals. Deadlifts, battle ropes, jumping squats. Pain. Regret. Sweat. He stood nearby, arms folded, silently judging my entire existence.

"You're holding back," he said.

"I'm trying not to pass out."

"You're stronger than you think."

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my past mistakes.

Later, during cool-down, I surprised myself by talking. Not the usual sarcasm,real talking.

"My dad was a surgeon," I said, staring at the floor. "He used to say, 'Never settle for average.' Even if I came second in school, he'd ask what happened."

Damian didn't interrupt.

"I've spent most of my life chasing excellence like a punishment. Like if I didn't succeed, I didn't deserve to exist."

Still, silence. But not cold. Just... stillness.

When I finally looked up, his gaze met mine. Calm. Unflinching.

"You're not your dad's scoreboard," he said.

That shouldn't have hit me in the chest like it did.

Back at work, something shifted. I wasn't hiding anymore. I spoke up during a morning meeting about a merger case and actually got nods of approval from two partners.

It felt weird. Good. Scary.

Of course, Marsha noticed.

"You're glowing," she said as we passed each other in the kitchen. "Breakup body is a real thing, huh? Men always circle back when we shrink."

I just smiled tightly.

Inside, I was seething.

Later that night, I wrote in my journal:

"I'm tired of being celebrated for disappearing."

Eric's texts became more frequent.

Likes on my Insta stories. A laughing emoji reply to an old post. Then, one evening:

ERIC: Miss this.

Attached was a photo of us from two years ago. I was thinner, yes. But also hiding so much behind that smile.

You were happy then, he wrote.

No. I was agreeable then.

The next day at Elevate Lab, my brain was foggy. Damian noticed in under three minutes.

"You're distracted."

"I'm tired."

"No," he said. "You're somewhere else. Want to waste both our time or just yours?"

I dropped the weights with a loud thud.

"Excuse me?" I snapped, wiping sweat from my forehead. "You don't get to talk to me like I'm some data point on your clipboard."

Damian didn't even flinch. "You're not focused. I don't train tourists."

"Oh, so now I'm a tourist in my own life?"

He took a slow step forward, voice even. "You showed up asking to change. I'm giving you the tools. What you do with them is on you."

I crossed my arms. "You act like this is just reps and protein bars, but this" I gestured to the mirror, to myself,"this is decades of stuff. And maybe I'm not ready to unravel it while squatting over kettlebells, okay?"

His eyes sharpened. "Then say that. But don't stand here pretending you're trying when you're mentally ten blocks away."

That hit. Too close. Too loud.

I felt the sting behind my eyes but masked it with anger. "You think you're better because you don't show emotion? Because you're calm and cold and... whatever this is?"

Damian's jaw tightened.

"I don't need therapy with burpees," I said, voice rising. "Maybe I just needed someone to help me sweat. Not dig through my personal trauma file!"

Silence.

Then, cool and calm: "Maybe you're scared that if someone looks too close, they'll see the cracks you've spent years painting over."

That one broke me.

I grabbed my water bottle and bag, heart thudding, voice low and sharp:

"You don't know me. You know my stats. Stay in your lane, Coach."

And I walked out,out of Elevate Lab, out of control, and out of excuses.

The next day, I didn't go.

I sat on my couch, in the same shirt from yesterday, eating dry cereal from a mug and watching people renovate homes they couldn't afford. I ignored my phone. I ignored myself.

Around noon, Lola showed up uninvited.

She didn't even ask what happened. She just looked at me and said, "Nah. Get up."

I groaned. "I'm not doing this today."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm allowed to be dramatic."

"You're allowed to be human," she said. "But not allowed to stay broken."

I looked at her. "What if I can't do it?"

"You already are."

That night, I stared at my phone for thirty minutes before finally sending the text:

ME: Sorry. I wasn't ready for that truth yet.

Damian replied three minutes later.

DAMIAN: You don't have to be ready. Just honest.

The next morning, I returned.

No makeup. Hoodie. Heart in pieces. But I carried a new notebook, and in it, I had written:

"I don't know who I'm becoming, but she's braver than I thought."

Damian saw me, nodded, and handed me a towel. No lecture. No smirk. Just a simple:

"Then let's keep going."