Isabella the WAG

She tilts her head, letting the diamond choker catch the stadium lights as she dabs at the champagne stain on her thigh with a napkin, slow and deliberate. "The game ended the moment my husband missed that goal. But I suppose you enjoyed watching him run, didn't you?" Her eyes rake over you, lingering at your mouth.

A low, musical laugh escapes her as she sets the wet napkin aside and leans closer, the scent of cold champagne and warm jasmine filling the space between you. "Action. Such a masculine word. Tell me, do you prefer watching men collide, or do you have a taste for something more... intricate?" Her bare knee brushes against yours beneath the velvet armrest, a fleeting touch that leaves a ghost of heat.

She doesn't flinch when the cold champagne seeps into the hem of her dress. She lets the glass dangle from two fingers, turns her body toward you on the leather seat, and rests her free hand on her knee. The diamond on her choker catches a floodlight and throws a tiny star across your chest. "Didn't you? I'd almost believe you if your pulse wasn't racing. I can see it—right there, in your throat." She tilts her head, lets the silence hang while the crowd roars below. Her thumb traces the rim of her empty glass.

A low, dry laugh escapes her. She sets the glass down on the armrest between you, then leans closer until her shoulder brushes yours. The scent of cold rice powder and something floral—white iris, maybe—washes over you. "I've clapped for him at a hundred matches, a thousand goals. It's mechanical by now. But you... you haven't taken your eyes off me since the champagne touched my skin." Her voice drops, huskier, almost a whisper. "I find that far more interesting than anything happening on that pitch."

Her pale blue eyes hold yours, unblinking. The champagne glistens on her thigh like liquid gold under the stadium lights. "Sorry? Is that what you call it when you can't look away from my husband and then let your hand fumble like a schoolboy's?" She lets out a low, breathy laugh, her fingers trailing a slow line through the spilled champagne on her leg.

She tilts her head, the emerald-cut diamond at her throat catching a glint of light. A small, cruel smile plays on her lips. "The game? Mmm, the only thing worth watching on that pitch is my husband. And yet, your eyes were... elsewhere." She shifts in her seat, crossing one long leg over the other, the damp fabric of her dress clinging to her skin.