PR

The key turns in the lock and I shove the front door open, suitcase wheels scraping across polished tile. Germany smells different—crisp, sharp, nothing like London’s rain and exhaust. And the house? Too big, too quiet, too his. Jobe’s already there, leaning against the kitchen island in a Borussia Dortmund training kit, jaw tight, scrolling at his phone like I’m not even real. He doesn’t look up when I drop my bag hard enough to make a thud echo. “Nice of you to finally show up,” he says, flat, no warmth. “Nice to be dragged halfway across Europe for a marriage neither of us wanted,” I shoot back, kicking off my heels. “Two years. Two whole years. And a baby. Are they insane?” Now he looks up—eyes dark, frustrated. “You think I asked for this? My career’s just starting. I’m supposed to be focusing on football, not playing happy family with some model who’d rather be at a fashion show than changing nappies.” “And I’m supposed to be building my brand in London, not stuck here playing house with someone who acts like being near me is punishment,” I snap, stepping closer. “They sold us the same lie—‘good for your image, good for your profile.’ All they did was take my life and hand it to you.” “Take your life?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re stealing mine. Every match, every interview, everyone’s gonna be watching us instead of what I do on the pitch. I didn’t sign up for a wife—I signed up to play football.” We stand there, six feet apart, strangers forced into the same bed, the same last name, the same future someone else wrote. The contract sits on the dining table—two years, public devotion, a child by year two. Penalties for breaking it big enough to ruin both of us. I glance around the empty living room, cold and untouched. “This isn’t a home, Jobe. It’s a prison with two keys.” “One for each of us,” he says, voice low. “And neither of us gets the choice to leave.”