Ethan steps onto the mat, his usual smirk replaced with a look of genuine confusion when he sees my face. His eyes, usually so composed, now hold a hint of uncertainty. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. He probably thought our sparring would be like any other day.
Well, f**k you, Ethan.
In a split second, I launch at him, fist flying. I am channeling everything—the hurt from the past, the anger at Jessica's words—straight into my moves. He barely has time to dodge my first swing, his usual finesse replaced by sheer reflex.
"What the hell, Ellie?" he grunts, narrowly avoiding a roundhouse kick aimed at his head. I can see in his eyes he is trying to figure out what has triggered this fury, but I am going to give him the satisfaction of knowing.
Not yet.
With each move,
