I tucked the check away and grabbed my phone, opening the pinned chat.

Before the party, I'd sent a simple text: [Kind of miss you.]

Six replies.

Five hours ago: [Miss you too.]

Four hours ago: [Heading to practice.]

Three hours ago: [Actually, I don't mind being interrupted during practice.]

Two hours ago: [They told me it's your birthday.]

One hour ago: [Happy birthday.]

Just now: [I'm coming to see you.]

I smiled.

I typed back: [No need. I'll see you next week at your match.]

After a long time, two messages arrived.

[Okay.]

[Don't play me.]

***

Over the next month, Scott paraded Gigi around in public, openly flaunting their affair.

Like two teenagers drunk on love.

The almighty Scott Fletcher let her drag him to street food stalls, snap silly photo booth pics, and kiss under the Bali sunset. Even followed her to an esports match—one featuring Joel Arnoult.

Nineteen. A phenomenon. Last year, he led his team to a world championship. Right now, he was the biggest name in esports.

Outside the stadium, Gigi sported a headband with his name, clutching Scott's arm as she posed for photos. Scott, clearly irritated, yanked her closer. "What's so great about some kid?"

Gigi giggled, kissing his cheek. "I just like watching him play. But, of course, I love you the most!"

From my car, I watched it all.

Nausea crept up my throat, but before I could look away—my phone rang.

Scott.

Cold. Impatient. "That project you mentioned? We'll talk another day. I'm busy tonight. Not coming home."

I let out a quiet laugh and deliberately asked, "Busy with what?"

"Watching Joel Arnoult's match—"

Before he could finish, Gigi's scoff cut in. "That boring old woman—does she even know who Joel Arnoult is?"

Through the car window, I saw her snatch the phone from Scott's hand.

"Leila Lloyd, don't ask things you shouldn't. I'm hanging up."

Arrogant. Spoiled. Willful.

But young. Beautiful. Blooming like a flower at its peak.

So Scott just pinched her cheek, amused, and led her into the VIP section.

Everyone preferred youth and beauty.

Myself included.

My phone lit up again—Joel.

"Are you here or not?" His voice was impatient. "Last time, you bailed on me. Don't tell me you're doing it again."

"I'm here." I knocked lightly against the car window. "But... you're too popular. I could only get a regular seat. I'll find you after the match."

Joel scoffed. "Tch. Do you really think you need to buy a ticket to see me play? I told the club to save you a suite. Just go straight there."

A pause. Then—

"Have you thought about it? Last time, you promised to make it up to me. If I win tonight, what's my reward?"

"What do you want?"

"Anything I say?"

His voice came low, husky. Even through the phone, I could picture the smirk, the sharp, striking eyes darkening when they landed on me.

I chuckled, indulgent. "Anything."

A beat of silence.

Then— "Leila, if I take the championship, you're mine tonight."

The match began.

Through the glass, I watched Joel slip on his headset, fingers flying across the keyboard. His expression? Sharp. Unshakable. Locked in.

Not once did he falter.

Until the final score blazed across the screen—3:0.

[Champions!!!]

Only then did he stand, bathed in the deafening cheers, the flashing lights.

And through the chaos, his eyes found mine.

I mouthed, "Congrats."

He grinned, mimicking me.

"Now, you're mine."

Tonight belonged to Joel.

***

By the time the post-match interviews wrapped, it was late.

Outside, a light drizzle misted the air.

I had just slipped into the dim back path toward the parking lot when a hand grabbed me—yanking me into a car.

"Trying to run again?"

The crisp scent of rain clung to the night, but his body burned hot.

A single word flickered through my mind—restless.

I tensed, but he only held me tighter.

Sighing, I gave in. "I wasn't running. You were still in the interview, so I went to take care of something. I didn't expect you to finish so quickly—"

"You always say things so nicely, but no one ever really knows what you're thinking."

His arms locked around me from behind. He was kissing my ear.

Warm breath. Slow exhales against my hair. A tingling sensation followed.

Each exhale brushed against my hair, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake.

"The interview wasn't over. I got bored. So I left. I wanted to see you."

A nineteen-year-old with boundless energy.

Under the dim car light, he kissed me inch by inch.

Then—his teeth grazed my neck, a sharp bite leaving a faint sting.

"Leila, you made a promise." His voice dripped with amusement. "I won. How are you going to reward me tonight?"

"I—" My vision blurred.

I blinked hard, pushing back the tears threatening to well up from the intensity of it all.

And just as my sight cleared—two painfully familiar figures appeared.

"I told you, Scott! This is Joel Arnoult's car!"

A second later, Gigi bent down, rapping on the window, voice bright and eager.

"Mr. Arnoult! I'm a huge fan! Can you sign something for me and my boyfriend?"

***

Gigi was so close—just inches away.

Logically, she couldn't see inside.

But under her expectant gaze, my whole body locked up.

Behind me, Joel chuckled, low and rough. "You're nervous?"

His teeth left my skin.

The sting couldn't register before warmth replaced it—wet, lingering.

His breath came quicker, fanning over the back of my neck.

"If you're so afraid of getting caught, why'd you come to me in the first place?"

His tone dipped—teasing, dangerous. "Or maybe... I should just roll down the window and tell them to get lost. What do you think?"

For the first time, I caught a glimpse of something beneath the usual playfulness—a quiet, untamed madness.

When silence stretched too long, Gigi's face tightened, annoyance flickering in her eyes.

She yanked Scott's sleeve. He stepped up, radiating arrogance. "Mr. Arnoult, I'm Scott Fletcher, CEO of Fletcher Corp. My girlfriend wants your autograph." Like his title alone guaranteed obedience.

Silence.

Then Joel scoffed, cold and sharp. He grabbed his jacket and tossed it over me, blocking my view entirely. Before I could react, he pushed the car door open and stepped out, moving with effortless ease.

Wrapped in fabric, all I saw was shifting light and shadow—

Joel's voice was razor-sharp: "Tch. I don't know you."

Scott's tone darkened. "What did you just say?"

Joel's words cut clean. "I said, I don't know you." Then, with a lazy cruelty: "What, are you deaf or just stupid?"

Scott, coddled and worshipped his whole life, had never been humiliated like this. Even without seeing his face, I could picture the fury twisting his expression. I smiled slightly.

"Wait... is that—" Gigi gasped. "Is that a skirt in the car—"

Before she could finish, Joel shut her down, voice flat and lethal. "What's it to you? Get lost."

***

The car door slammed shut.

Joel slid back into his seat.

I moved to shrug off the jacket, but before I could, his fingers closed around my wrist. One sharp tug—my vision cleared, but soft fabric twisted around my wrists, pinning them above my head.

He leaned in, inch by inch, his striking features sharp in the dim light. Displeasure burned in his gaze.

"So, that was your cheating husband? What a coincidence."

Up close, the cold arch of his brow cut even deeper. Our bodies pressed together, heat pooling between us. I let out a quiet, amused sigh.

"And how am I any different from him?"

Joel didn't answer.

Instead, he kissed me—deep, forceful, claiming.

The familiar scent of blue eucalyptus and rain filled the air, wrapping around me, seeping into my skin.

As my mind blurred in the pull of him, his voice cut through—low, certain.

"At the very least, I have better taste than him. Leila, you chose me."

Outside, rain drizzled soft against the car. Inside, condensation streaked the windows, a misty reflection of the storm unraveling between us.

***

Joel's place wasn't far—just a thirty-minute drive.

The second we stepped inside, his hands found my shoulders. He kissed me—devouring, relentless.

"I'll be gentle," he murmured. "I won't hurt you."

His breath burned against my skin as he moved lower, his palm tracing the sharp curve of my shoulder blade.

Then—he stopped.

His fingers froze over the uneven ridges.

His breathing turned rough. "...What's this?"

His voice sharpened. "Did he hurt you?"

I hesitated, then understood. The whip scars.

A soft laugh slipped out. "No. With our families' business ties, he wouldn't dare—"