The Fighter - A Maxerica The Selection Fanfiction

The Blonde Woman

A/N: I truly apologize for the wait, everyone! I was so busy this week and my depression was so bad that I was pretty much in bed all week. Thank you for the wonderful support to this work of mine. This is my first Selection Series fanfiction. I hope that I am giving it justice. Please let me know in the comments below if you have any suggestions as to where you want this story to go. Any critiques, any likes are always greatly appreciated! Please continue to read, like, share and comment. I love reading them.

I stand in the hallway facing the door of my old room. The door is a little splintered from me kicking it open but it's manageable. I take a deep breath and turn the handle, letting myself in. By this time the world outside has gone dark, so I scramble on the wall to find the light switch. It didn't take long to find it since I still knew where it was.

The light flickers on and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the soft yellow glow. I take in my surrounding and amazed at how everything is still how I left it. Except everything has gathered dust as if no one has come in here in the last six years. It was locked before I came and kicked it down, I thought to myself.

I begin to form questions as to why that was. It's palace protocol to keep this beautiful cage immaculately spotless. Why was this room locked? Maybe it reminded Maxon of me and his hate for me. I begin to move around the room and allow myself a moment to remember my past.

I look at my vanity and remember the countless mornings of being woken up early by my maids: Anne, Mary and Lucy. I smile at the many memories of them helping me getting ready for the day. I wonder what they're up to now. I know Lucy is now married to Aspen as I found them locked in a small safe room after the attack. Anne and Mary, I haven't seen. Perhaps they've also found love and moved away from the palace. It seems everyone in my life has moved on, leaving me completely behind. Do they ever wonder what happened of me? Does anyone even care?

I sigh and move away to go to the other side of the room. I look at the piano tuck away near the corner of the room. I touch the dust-covered wood and reminisce of the countless memories of playing my piano with my family. Singing was my passion. It was how I and my mother made our living. I miss them with all my heart and I will never be able to forgive myself for the heartache they must have gone through with my disappearance.

The invisible burden I carry on my shoulders get heavier and the constant ache surrounding my heart squeezes its hand tighter. I couldn't handle the flashbacks anymore, but I know I have to face them, so I go to another part of the room.

I start my way to the walk-in closet attached to the room. I turn the handle expecting to find it empty, but my mouth falls open to see that all of the dresses that my maids made me are still hanging in the racks. Why in the world are they still here? What kind of sick, twisted thing is this? Who would actually hang on to my old dresses like this and lock them away in what is clearly a tabooed room?

My confusion only grows, and I end this journey through my past so to not deal with the many emotions I'm not used to having anymore. I decide to clean the vanity desk of the dust, so I can start my work. After doing that, I begin to unpack some of the items in my briefcase and put them on the temporary workstation. I set up my laptop in front of me and some of the paperwork I have to look over.

After an hour and a half of working, my vision begins to blur from the fatigue. I push through it because I need to get through the backlogged work. Running a defense, covert agency is not an easy job. Even though the name refers to Illéa, the agency decided to extend its services worldwide a while back. A lot of my work focuses on making sure there are sufficient resources to our international relations without forgetting our agents at home. It often takes its toll on me. I have always been a hard-worker and put more than I should in what I do. That's the only similarity between me and Scarlet. Or me and America. I shake the confusion away.