The metallic tang of sweat still clung to Anastasia's skin, mingling with the faint leather scent of the training mats. Her muscles hummed with a pleasant burn, every limb heavy yet alive from the last set of drills Taylor had put her through. The dull ache in her forearms was a reminder that she'd finally blocked one of Taylor's strikes correctly—a small victory in a war she was determined to win.
She had barely unwrapped the tape from her wrists when her phone buzzed sharply against the bench beside her. The name on the screen—Mother—made her pause, her fingers stilling mid-motion.
She swiped to answer. "Hello, Mom. What is it, Mother?" Her voice was steady, though the call was unexpected.
"Ana," Genevieve Laurent's voice came soft, almost measured, as if she were choosing her words with care. "I need us to meet right now. There is something I want to talk to you about."
