Undisputed Champion (The Undisputed #1)

Prologue One

Sierra

A nxiety doesn’t knock. It slips through keyholes and settles between your ribs like a stray cat you can’t shoo away. It curls around your lungs while shelving biographies, sharpens its claws during staff meetings, and purrs against your throat when the phone rings.

I know this better than I know anything else.

My Sunset Public Library morning routine usually goes something like this:

6:40 AM Arrive twenty minutes early to avoid small talk in the parking lot.

6:49 AM Triple-check medication pouch. Nonprescription.

7:02 AM Brew black tea in the break room microwave.

7:15 AM - Rearrange the "New Releases" display so the romance novels face outward.

But today, the universe decided to align against me.

“Sierra?”

Mr. Jones’ voice carried across the fiction section like a foghorn, making me jump. My fingers spasmed, sending a stack of paperbacks cascading to the floor.

The sound, thwack-thwack-thwack , echoed through the vaulted ceilings, each thud making me flinch.

Four counts in. Seven held. Eight out.

“Sierra, there you are!”

He rounded the corner, holding a clipboard like it was a live grenade. “The donation event. We need to discuss your introduction speech for next week.”

I felt my stomach drop, my face immediately falling. No, no, no. I’d rather die.

“Speech?” The word tasted like acid. I looked up at the regional manager, feeling like a mouse surrounded by traps.

“Five minutes, tops!” He beamed, oblivious to my internal meltdown. “Just welcome the crowd, share your favorite book, and hand the organizer the microphone. Easy!”

I gaped up at him, my dark curls falling in my face.

Easy. Easy was a myth invented by people who didn’t rehearse grocery store interactions in the shower.

Easy was for Marissa, who flirted with firemen during children’s story hour. Easy was not standing in front of two hundred rich donors while your armpits sweat through three layers of deodorant.

“I—maybe Marissa should—” I was stuttering now, my hands beginning to shake as the walls drew closer.

“Nonsense! You’re our resident expert.” He clapped my shoulder hard enough to rattle me, and I just wanted to cry. “Besides, the organizers requested someone ‘relatable’ for the intro. You’re perfect!”

The compliment landed more like an insult. Relatable. Code word for a nervous wreck who still hid behind bookshelves at her ripe age of twenty-three.

I always counted down the seconds until my lunch break. It was my only chance to have some alone time at work and rest my nerves.

The storage closet was quiet, save for the crinkling of my bag of chips. My knees were tucked under me, and my cardigan was pulled tight around my shoulders like armor against the world outside. The library was too busy today, and I needed this moment of solitude to catch my breath. To think.

I flipped open my journal through salty bites, the pages worn soft from years of use.

The cover was plain, a muted purple with frayed corners, but the inside was messy.

Scribbled thoughts, half-finished poems, messy sketches of things I couldn’t say aloud.

This notebook held pieces of me that no one else ever saw.

My pen hovered above the blank page as I hesitated to write out my feelings.

What could I even write today? That Mr. Jones had asked me to give a speech at the donor event?

That my stomach had twisted into tight knots at the mere thought of standing before two hundred strangers?

That my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how many times I counted my breaths?

No. Those were surface problems, symptoms of something deeper. Something that ate at me every single day. I pressed the pen down, letting the ink bleed into words constantly playing in my head.

Why can’t I be normal?

The small loopy script stared back at me, heavy and unanswerable. My fingers tightened around the pen as I continued.

Normal people don’t cower behind bookshelves or flinch every time someone raises their voice.

My heart thumped faster as the words transported me back, cruel memories resurfacing. I began writing quickly, scribbling them down before they could settle through me.

Normal people don’t grow up walking on eggshells because their stepfather’s temper is a ticking time bomb.

The words came faster now, spilling onto the page as I desperately tried not to fall into the tunnel the memories presented .

He’s not even my real dad. Just the man who married Mom when I was six, just the man who taught me that silence was safer than speaking.

I swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to blur the ink. I hated myself for letting my thoughts get to this point, but now that it happened, I had to get it out.

I used to think it was my fault, that if I were quieter, better, less ‘me,’ he wouldn’t get so angry. But no matter how small I made myself, it was never enough.

The pen trembled in my grip as I wrote the following line, my heart in my ears being the only sound I could still hear.

I still hear his voice sometimes. Sharp and cutting, telling me I’m useless. Telling me to stop crying because it only makes things worse.

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe through the tightness in my chest. Four counts in. Seven held. Eight out.

The breathing technique I used worked most of the time, but it didn’t erase the ache lodged deep between my ribs or the perpetual anxiety crawling through my body.

He was gone now; he’s been out of my life for years, but his shadow always lingered. I left home years ago, but I saw him in the corner of every panic attack and in every sleepless night. He was there every moment I felt like I wasn’t enough.

My lashes felt wet as I began falling right into the tunnel I wanted out of, my heart pounding against my ribcage like it was going to explode .

I hated being so weak, letting my memories consume me like this. I wanted to be someone strong, someone who could raise her voice without fear. Someone who could step out into the world and find her better half.

What if someone saw me, really saw me, and didn’t look away?

The words weighed down the page as if daring me to believe it could ever be true. I knew better.

After lunch, I usually spent my afternoons in the children’s section. Their innocent curiosities brought me some calm and made it impossible to linger on bad memories.

“Miss Sierra!” A sticky hand tugged at my sage cardigan, making me look down at her. “Why does the dragon look sad?”

The six-year-old held up the book in question, her brow furrowed in worry. I knelt, my knees meeting the rough carpet of the children’s section.

“Well... the dragon thought keeping princesses would make him happy. But… it wasn’t what he truly needed.”

I wondered what it felt like to be truly happy. To have no worries or anxiety holding you back from the most mundane tasks.

Her nose scrunched, clearly unhappy with my answer. “That’s dumb. He should keep cookies, then.”

A laugh startled out of me, unexpected, but welcomed. This is why I liked hanging out with the kids; they’re always bright and so out of pocket.

“Best advice I’ve heard all day.”

The moment crumbled when another regular appeared behind us, reeking of fancy perfume and disapproval.

“Are you encouraging sugar consumption?”

I jumped, spinning to look at the woman. “No! We were discussing literary themes…”

I placed my hand over my heart to calm down, and my nose wrinkled at her upturned expression and the pungent floral fragrance wafting off her. It made my stomach churn. It was the same kind of fragrance his girlfriends wore. Floral and cloying, and it clung to the house long after they’d gone.

“Hmm. I’d like S her in neon riot glory and me drowning in a cardigan that was pilling a concerning amount.

“I look like a depressed nobody.” I sighed, taking the moment to scrutinize myself and my long tangle of curls that only added to my perpetual sadness.

Near closing, I sat with my notebook in my lap again, legs crossed on an office chair, and I balled myself into a girl even smaller, staring at the pages as I contemplated.

I want to be brave. I want to feel good enough. Not heroine brave, with a perfect body and a billionaire boyfriend. Real brave.

The kind that lets you order coffee without rehearsing. That doesn’t cancel plans because the subway might be crowded. That stands at a podium without wanting to vomit.

I flipped to a fresh page, my stomach still churning with the thought of next week. What if I didn’t hide? What if I said the words out loud?

What if someone saw me, really saw me, and didn’t look away?

I wrote the same line from earlier, trying desperately to believe it.

A motorcycle that usually passed at this time growled through the early spring night, startling me. I imagine it’s him, whoever he is, free and racing toward tomorrow with the reckless certainty of someone who’s never felt so small they wanted to disappear.

Next week, I’ll stand at the podium. Next week, I’ll try, really try, not to disappear.