Julian’s pale face turned a ghastly shade of green. “Mom… don’t listen to her—”
“Julian thought he married a meek, fragile financial analyst who could be intimidated by a raised voice and a kicked table,” I continued, leaning forward. “What neither of you bothered to research during our whirlwind six-month courtship was my life before I sat behind a desk.”
I clicked a file on my laptop, bringing up a high-resolution photograph. It showed me six years ago, standing inside an octagon ring, wearing a black athletic top, red hand wraps, and a gold championship belt slung over my sweat-glistened shoulder.
“Before I got my Master’s in Corporate Finance,” I said coldly, “I was a professional flyweight mixed martial artist. Twelve wins, zero losses, eight by submission. I spent eight years learning exactly how the human body moves, breaks, and bends to leverage. When your son kicked over my dining table and raised his hand to strike me, I didn’t see a terrifying husband, Eleanor. I saw an amateur opening his guard.”
Eleanor stared at the photograph on the screen, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. She turned her head slowly, glaring at Julian.
“Julian…” Eleanor whispered, horror creeping into her voice. “You tried to hit a professional fighter?”
