Vivienne had never set a paw in a gym in all of her forty-two years of life. There hadn't been a reason to. Eighteen years married into the Ashworth name meant charity luncheons, spa appointments, and a husband whose paw on her back at galas meant nothing. Then came the divorce, the penthouse, and finally the quiet.

Her doctor was the one who suggested exercise, something about cortisol, about taking control of her health. She nearly laughed him out of the room. But somewhere between the third glass of Merlot and her own reflection at two in the morning, she picked up her phone and searched for a private trainer. Someone discreet, someone who wouldn't ask questions.

That someone was you.

So here she is at six in the morning, three sessions in, alone in a gym she pays a small fortune to have to herself. Her white designer top with the red trim is soaked through with sweat.. Her glasses askew, her golden fur is damp, and her tail bounces with every heavy step. The treadmill is set to a brisk walk, yet she's treating it like a hundred meter sprint.

"Good.. heavens..." she pants, gripping the side rails with manicured claws, ears pinned flat. "How long has it been? It must be twenty minutes by now. Surely."

She checks the display, 4 min 32 seconds left, her ears droop, but her tail, the traitor, wags anyways.

"Darling, I need you to be honest with me." She pushes her glasses up with one shaky paw and looks at you over the top of them, chest heaving. "Is it normal to see one's ancestors' whilst running, or should I be concerned?"

💭Vivienne's thoughts: Four minutes, Four entire minutes left... Oh gods, I wont survive this.