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.”
This was never supposed to go this far. I was meant to be Jude’s sugar baby — pretty, temporary, here for the luxuries and nothing deeper. Instead I’ve staked my claim on his apartment, his space, his lap — and I’m slowly, irrevocably becoming his entire world. I pout? Jude pays. I sulk? Jude showers me in everything I want. I climb onto his lap and ask for something absurd… and Jude? He made me exactly this way — and he’s never letting me go. Endless money, every luxury imaginable, and one man who doesn’t just spoil me — he claims me. His hand comes up, firm, curling tight around the back of my neck — not hurting, never hurting, just holding me exactly where he wants me. “You think you get to ask for anything and I’ll give it to you?” His voice drops, low and rough and dark with it, eyes locking mine like he’s branding me. “Damn right you do. Because you’re mine. Every inch, every mood, every greedy little wish — all of it belongs to me.” I smirk, pressing closer, but he’s already tightening his grip, dragging me flush against him like he’s scared someone might look. “Say it,” he rumbles, thumb brushing hard over my jaw. “Tell me who you belong to.” “Yours,” I breathe — and he rewards me with a kiss that’s all heat and possession. “Good.” He shoves his wallet into my hand, fingers lingering, marking me. “And everyone’s gonna know it. Buy whatever the hell you want. Wear it. Show it off. Let every single person see exactly who you belong to.” He pulls me into his chest, arm banded around me like a chain — unbreakable, unyielding, proud. “You’re my girl. My spoiled, perfect, mine. And I’m never sharing you with anyone.”
This was never the agreement. I was meant to be his sugar baby — clean, convenient, here for the allowance and the nice things and nothing deeper. Instead I’m camped out in his penthouse like it’s mine, draped across his lap like I belong there, and slowly, inevitably, taking over every single part of his world. I pout. Jobe hands over the card. I mope. Jobe showers me in gifts. I clamber onto his lap batting my lashes asking for something totally absurd — and Jobe? He built this monster. And he’s never, ever going to fix it. His arm curls tight around my waist before I’ve even finished speaking. “You’re unbelievable,” he chuckles, rough and warm, brushing hair out of my face like I’m the softest thing alive. I jut my chin out, all petal-soft stubborn. “You love it. And you’ll get it for me anyway.” “Damn right I will.” He’s already reaching for his wallet, shaking his head like he can’t believe it — but his eyes are bright, hungry, completely gone for me. “Spoiled little thing. You know I can’t tell you no.” I smile, all sweet and wicked, and snuggle closer. I wasn’t supposed to matter this much. But Jobe made me exactly how he wanted me — greedy, demanding, and entirely his whole universe — and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
The heel caught. I stumbled, arms flailing, and the heavy crystal centrepiece teetered — crashed to the floor with a sharp, deafening shatter. "Do you have any idea—" the event coordinator started, face blazing red, storming over. "That was custom! You’re a professional model — act like one!" "I know, I know — I’ll pay for it, every piece," I said, already backing away, cheeks burning. "Just… let me get out of here." I turned and hurried down the hallway — and slammed straight into someone solid. Hands came up to steady my elbows, firm and sure. Of course. Of course. I looked up. There he was. Marshall Mathers. Fifty-three, intense as ever, grey at the temples, eyes sharp and tired all at once. The man I kept crashing into every time my life fell apart. The man I swore I couldn’t stand. "You’ve got to be kidding me," he sighed, like this was the last thing he needed. "Again?" I pulled back, jaw tight. "Don’t act like I planned it. I’m leaving." "Leaving because you just took out half the decor?" He stepped closer, voice low, private. "What was it this time? Tripped over your own dress? Got distracted mid-pose?" "Heel slipped. The floor was polished," I muttered, brushing past him — but he shifted, blocking my path easy. "Every time I see you, something’s gone wrong. You always like this?" "I’m a model — things happen fast, people rush. And why do you even care?" I glared. "Last time we spoke you said I was nothing but chaos." "And you told me I was cold, stuck-up and impossible," he shot back, half-smirking like he remembered every word. "Funny how we keep ending up right here." My throat tightened all over again. "Yeah. Hilarious. My life’s a joke anyway. My ex-fiancé… Jude. Jude Bellingham. The one I was supposed to marry? He’s marrying my sister. Next month. Found their wedding invitations on my kitchen counter this morning." Silence settled — heavy and quiet. Marshall’s expression softened, that hard edge melting away. "Damn," he said quietly. "Tha
I’ve known for seven whole days—held this secret close, saving it exactly for this: his 21st birthday. Two years since we lost our first baby. Since then we tried everything—medication, rounds of IVF that took every bit of us, only to end in heartbreak again. Jobe held me through every defeat, whispering we’d be okay even when I didn’t believe it. Two years of quiet grief, wondering if it would ever be our turn. And then—our miracle came, without even trying. I had something special made just for him: across the back, bold and proud: DADDY BELLINGHAM and right below it, his number: 7. He wears it for Borussia Dortmund, here in Germany—this is our home now, and this moment belongs right here on this pitch. It’s crisp and cold out on the German grass, so I keep my coat zipped tight, hiding those letters and that number. Only I know what’s underneath. I think of his mum holding me through the grief, his dad’s steady care, Jude—my big brother since I was 13—telling me don’t give up when I had none left. They’re all here in Dortmund, all waiting. The live match ends, we head down onto the pitch together the celebration still on live , the whole family surrounding him, teammates cheering nearby. He’s glowing, still buzzing from the game, turning 21 today—and I’ve got the greatest gift right here. I step close to him, cheeks warm, heart racing fast. “Jobe… stand behind me?” He moves right behind me, hands resting light on my shoulders. My fingers find the zipper—slow, steady, I pull it all the way down. Before it can fall open, his hands gently take over and slide the coat right off my shoulders. And there it is—bright and bold, clear as day for him to see: DADDY BELLINGHAM above the number 7. Behind me, everything stills. His breath catches. His hands don’t move from my shoulders. Then he rests them softly over the words, over the number, over me. I turn slowly to face him, hands pressing gentle to my stomach, tears spilling over.
The stadium hummed loud enough to shake the seats—thousands of voices, flags flying, England’s anthem ringing out over everything. I smoothed my hand over my belly, round and heavy at seven and a half months, our little girl moving soft beneath my palm. I twisted the engagement ring on my finger, the one he slipped there just weeks ago, and told myself I was being silly. Everything was perfect. Jobe was here, on the world’s biggest stage, alongside Jude, playing for the country they both dreamed of representing. We’d come so far. We were thirteen when we first walked home together, backpacks slung over our shoulders, too shy to hold hands but never wanting to be apart. Now we’re twenty-one. Eight years. I’ve been by his side through every training session, every late night, every time he doubted himself. I loved him before the headlines, before the shirts with his name, before anyone knew who he was. And I was so sure—so absolutely sure—that he loved me right back. That our forever was just starting. He pulled me aside behind the tunnel, minutes before he had to walk out. His jaw was tight, his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and my stomach dropped even before he spoke. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, quiet and fast, like ripping off a bandage. “It all feels… too much. Too soon. We were kids when we started, and now there’s the engagement, the baby, everything… I feel rushed. I never got to live for myself. I don’t want this. Not with you.” The air left my lungs. “Jobe… what are you saying?” He shifted, restless, already glancing toward the pitch. “I’m saying I don’t want to be together. But listen—no one can know. Not yet. My family’s here, Jude’s here, everyone’s watching. I need you to sit up there in the box with them, smile, cheer, act like nothing’s wrong. Just until the tournament’s over. Please.” I stood there, carrying his daughter, wearing his ring, my heart splitting open right there in the shadow of the stadium walls—and he was asking me to pretend. So now
The stadium is shaking. Everywhere you look, people are screaming, crying, hugging each other — Spain have just done it. World Cup champions. You're pressed right next to Sheila, Lamine's mum, her arm tight around yours, and his little brother perched on the seat between you, clapping his tiny hands as hard as he can. "He did it! He did it!" she keeps saying, laughing through tears, and you nod, your own eyes spilling over. You've been together since you were both 14. Five whole years — through every match, every call-up, every moment everyone watched him blow up. And now here you both are, 19, and he's a World Cup winner. But standing isn't easy. 41 weeks and 5 days. One week and five days overdue. Your back aches constantly, your feet are swollen so bad your shoes barely fit, and the baby just won't come. You're tired — so, so tired — frustrated, fed up, every hour feels like three. Still, when you see Lamine down on the pitch, chest heaving, gold confetti sticking to his hair, you smile so wide your cheeks hurt. This is his moment. And you're going to be there. "I'm going down," you tell Sheila. "I need to see him." "Are you sure, love? You look ready to drop," she says gently, resting a hand on your bump. "I'm sure." You take it slow. Step by careful step down the stairs, past cheering fans, security guards nodding and letting you through when they see who you're heading for. Every few metres you pause, hand pressed to your lower back, breathing through the pressure building there. Almost there. Then you spot her. Inés García. Standing right near the edge of the pitch, phone in hand, grinning like she belongs there. You know exactly who she is. The messages have been coming for months — first casual, then bolder, ignoring it when Lamine told her he was taken, that you were having his baby. She kept pushing. Kept trying. And now she's here, in the same stadium, moving straight toward him. Lamine hasn't seen you yet. He's hugging Gavi, then Nico William
The hum of the hotel corridor faded behind the closed door. Somewhere down the hall, players laughed; outside, Miami glowed gold and neon. But here in our room, it was quiet—too quiet. The kids were fast asleep on the extra bed: Lila, six, curled with her little Argentina jersey clutched tight; Thiago, three, his tiny football tucked under one arm, breathing soft and steady. Enzo sat on the edge of the bed, back to me, staring at the wall. We’re halfway through the World Cup now—America, of all places, the whole world watching. He’s playing for Argentina, shining every match, the name FERNÁNDEZ blazed across shirts everywhere. We just came here fresh from his big move: Chelsea to Manchester City, the transfer everyone’s talking about, the one we dreamed of when we were kids. And we were kids, weren’t we? Fifteen when we got together. Two ordinary ones with nothing but bus rides and shared dreams and a love that felt like home. Now we’re twenty-five. Ten years. Married four. I was there when he had nothing—worn boots, empty pockets, no one believing but me. I packed bags, cheered loudest, held on through every high and low. And now—now he has everything. That’s why I thought he’d be happy. That’s why I thought tonight would be about the next match, how proud I am, how far we’ve come. Instead he turned, and his face was tight, eyes dark and torn, and he said the words that split the quiet right open. “I rushed it all,” he said, voice low, like he was ashamed. “We were so young. I never… I never got to be single. Never had that time. And now—everything’s big, everyone’s looking, doors are opening… and I wonder what I missed. I need to try it. I need to know what being alone feels like.” I stood frozen by the window. The city below blurred. “You’re serious?” My voice came thin, hardly mine. “Ten years. Two babies. A life we built from nothing while you were still learning to be a man. And now you want… single life?” He didn’t look away, but he didn’t meet my eye
The Bernabéu shakes with every roar, but I keep my composure soft, face calm — the picture-perfect manager’s daughter. Dad walks tall beside me, Real Madrid’s new head coach, every movement measured. He still looks at me and sees his little girl, still thinks I’m the quiet, innocent kid who’d never step out of line. He has no idea how wrong he is. A warm, familiar hand lands on my shoulder, and I look up to see Jude — 23, broad, confident, the star of the team, practically my big brother after all these years. His smile is knowing. “You okay back there, kid?” His voice is low, only for us. “You look like you’re plotting something.” I nudge his arm, grinning. “I’m always plotting something. You know that.” He chuckles, quiet. “Yeah, I do. But your dad definitely doesn’t.” He squeezes my shoulder gently — protective, steady. “Be careful, yeah? And come find me after the match, alright?” “Alright, Jude,” I promise, and he jogs toward the dressing rooms, leaving me with that warm, safe feeling only the Bellinghams ever give me. The match ignites — Madrid vs Barça is never just a game. Tension hums thick in the air. By half-time I need space; I slip away from the family box, drifting down the quieter corridors near the away area, lost in thought — until I turn a corner and crash straight into someone. Hands catch my waist, steadying me instantly. “Whoa — easy there.” I pull back fast, breath catching. Dark, sharp eyes, that unmistakable Blaugrana jersey, a smirk that’s equal parts cocky and charming. Lamine yamal same age as me 19. Barça’s golden boy, standing right here, in enemy territory, looking like he owns the place. “You…” I start, straightening my jacket. He tilts his head, that smile sharpening. “And you’re Alonso’s daughter. The quiet, sweet one everyone talks about.” He steps closer, voice dropping, warm and teasing. “Somehow I don’t think ‘quiet’ is the whole story.” My chin lifts. “You don’t know anything about me.”
The sun beats down bright and sharp on the VIP box, and I shift in my seat, adjusting my cream silk dress. My manager’s voice loops in my head: “All games, front row, FIFA sponsorship — don’t miss a second.” Below me, Spain vs England — World Cup, stakes sky-high — and there they are, on opposite sides: Jude, 23, leading England’s midfield, armband bright on his bicep, focused and fierce. We’ve been seeing each other a few weeks — quiet, warm, solid — and he glances up once pre-match, gives me that quick, steady smile that makes everything feel okay. And there — Lamine, 19, same age as me, blazing in Spain’s red jersey. I’d know him anywhere. Same quick, light stride, same little head tilt before he moves, that fire in his eyes that used to be only mine. Back then, just kids: his boots caked in mud, sharing chips on the wall outside training, “We’ll make it together” a promise he whispered like it was ours alone. Then the texts faded. Then silence. Then the headlines: Lamine’s new love — Inés García. Now he’s the star of Spain, and Jude’s the one marking him. Second half, still deadlocked 0–0. Lamine picks up the ball, dances past two England defenders — and there’s Jude, right in his path. Face to face: Spain’s golden boy vs England’s captain. Then Lamine’s eyes flick up. Straight to me. His feet stumble. The ball rolls harmlessly away. He freezes. Jude blinks, glances from Lamine to me — and sees it. He’s looking at her. “Lamine!” Jude barks, sharp, snapping him back. “Focus!” Too late — an England teammate pounces on the loose ball. The crowd roars. Lamine blinks hard, face flushing, but his gaze drifts right back up — to me, then to Jude, then back to me. Across the box, Inés watches from the partners’ section. She sees where he’s looking. Her eyes follow his line — and lock onto mine. Cold. Sharp. Knowing.
Ashlyn’s brushing my hair as we get ready for the England team dinner. “You know he’s watching you before you even walk in, right?” she grins. I laugh. “Jobe’s always watching.” She’s with Jude — 23, same age as me, Real Madrid and England’s star. And me? I’ve got Jobe. 21 now, plays for Borussia Dortmund and England, and we’ve been together since he was 19 and I was 21 — two whole years, through every match, every move, every quiet night in Germany. Out in public? Around his Dortmund teammates, the England squad, anyone at all? Jobe acts unbothered, sharp-jawed, a little grumpy — hands in his pockets, keeping his voice low, like nothing gets to him. But I know better. He notices everything. Every head that turns, every lingering glance, anyone who leans in too close. He gets quiet, his jaw tightens, and his eyes go dark — like he’s fighting not to just step between us and say she’s mine, back off. Alone with me? He’s all softness and fire. Sensitive, loving so hard it sometimes aches. He loves marking me — deep hickeys along my neck where everyone will see, trailing them lower to my inner thighs, claiming me in every way. In bed he’s rough, dominant, hungry — tangling his fingers in my hair and pulling just right, loving me hard and thorough — but always checking, always gentle the second after. He loves when I take care of him too; it makes him feel grounded, like he’s exactly where he belongs. Tonight at the dinner, it starts small. We’re sitting together when a guy from another sport — someone we don’t even know — leans past me to speak to Jude, his eyes lingering on me way too long, a slow, wrong smile on his face. Jobe’s hand tightens on my thigh under the table instantly. He doesn’t say anything, just stares straight ahead, jaw set hard, face unreadable. Later, by the bar, it happens again. A stranger comes up while Jobe’s talking to a teammate, smiles at me, leans in: “Can I get your number? I’ve seen you around — you’re stunning.” Before I can even
The Argentina hotel room in America was too quiet — the World Cup had just started, yet everything felt broken. You twisted your silver ring: married at 20 to Enzo, then 24. Now you’re 21, he’s 25, four months pregnant with your daughter. Teddy’s two, curls exactly like his dad’s. You met at 17, always at your dad Messi’s side — training, matches, team dinners. Enzo was 21 then, warm and bright. Together by 18, Teddy at 19, married at 20. Everything supposed to be perfect. It wasn’t. Late nights, strange perfume, deleted texts, secret meetings. You told yourself it was tournament pressure — until last night, when you heard him whisper: “She doesn’t suspect a thing.” He came back from training. “Amor? Why the tears?” “Where were you — really?” “With the lads —” “Stop.” Your voice broke. “I know. The girls. The meetings. Did you ever think about Teddy? Our baby girl?” Silence. “It meant nothing —” “One mistake doesn’t repeat.” You grabbed your bag and Teddy’s hand. “I gave you everything. I can’t stay.” You walked out, World Cup flags bright in the halls. “Where we going?” Teddy asked. “To Grandpa’s.” You knocked. Dad opened instantly — saw your face, your bump, and pulled you in. “Mi niña.” Teddy ran to him. Dad held you both, steady and safe. “Tell me.” You did. All of it. His jaw set hard. “He promised me.” “I don’t know what to do,” you whispered. He stroked your hair. “You’re not alone. Stay here. This is your home. I’ll handle Enzo.” Teddy curled beside you, patting your tummy. “We got you, Mami.” Finally, you breathed.
The bathroom tile is cold under my knees. I’m hunched over the toilet, hands shaking, cramps twisting sharp and deep, blood seeping warm through my clothes — and I know. I know what’s happening. I’d only just started letting myself think maybe, and now it’s gone. The door clicks open. I freeze. Denise stands there, fully dressed, hair neat, ready for the match tonight. She takes one look at me — pale, teary, clutching my stomach — and her expression shifts. Not to softness. To calculation. “What’s this?” she says, voice low, shutting the door behind her. I wipe my eyes, voice trembling. “I think… I think I’m losing the baby. I need Jude —” “Jude’s at training,” she cuts in, crisp and firm. “He’s got a match tonight. Big one. Everyone’s watching — Real Madrid, England scouts, the whole world.” She steps closer, tone steadying, almost commanding. “You’re going to pull yourself together. Get dressed. Do your hair. Smile. Sit in the stands and look like the perfect supportive girlfriend — exactly like you always do.” I stare at her, stunned. “I can’t — I need him. I need to tell him —” “No.” Her voice sharpens, quiet but unyielding. “You will not tell him. Not until after that final whistle blows. Do you have any idea how much pressure he’s under? World Cup weeks away, his form, his focus — one wrong word and he could crumble. You want to be the reason he plays badly? The reason everyone blames him? Blames you?” My throat tightens so much I can barely breathe. “But it’s important —” “It’s personal,” she says, colder now. “And personal stays private. Especially tonight. You’re his partner — you support him. You hold it together. That’s what we do for him.” She reaches for my arm, pulls me gently but firmly to my feet. “Wash your face. Put on something nice. No one will know. You’ll sit there, look proud, and when the match is over — when he’s done his job — then you can tell him. Not a minute before.” I stand there trembling, hurting in places I didn’t know co
