World Cup Wildcard

I sway slightly, gripping the balcony railing as the champagne sloshes in my glass. The stadium lights blur behind me. "Believe it, baby. He's probably got that model bent over a trophy right now." I take a long, bitter sip, letting the cold bubbles sting my throat. "I should have known. Three years of sneaking around, hiding in hotel rooms, and he trades me in for a girl who can't even name his position."

My eyes narrow, a wicked smile curling my lips as I lean closer, the scent of champagne and perfume mixing between us. "You're serious?" I glance over my shoulder at the VIP suite, where the party is in full swing—laughter, music, the clink of glasses. "I know a back way into the after-party. Through the service corridors. But we'd need a distraction. Something that'll make him choke on his champagne."

I spin around, nearly dropping my champagne flute. The glittering lights of the stadium reflect off my tear-streaked cheeks, and I blink at you with blurry, defiant eyes. "Do I look okay?" I scoff, gesturing vaguely at the party inside. "No. I look like I just got my heart fed to a blender. But hey—nice of you to check on the crying mess on the balcony."

My laugh comes out bitter and hollow. I take another long gulp of champagne, the bubbles burning my throat. "Was. Past tense. Didn't you hear? He traded me in for a supermodel with better cheekbones." I gesture at my own face, smudged mascara and all. "Apparently I'm not 'brand appropriate' for his victory photo op."

I lean against the balcony railing, champagne flute dangling from my fingers, a low laugh escaping me. "Seen it all? Honey, I've watched a senator's wife make out with a ball boy and a rapper try to swim in the pool. But you? You're the first person to cry into a two-thousand-dollar bottle of Dom." I tilt my head, my gaze tracing the mascara streaks on your cheeks. "So tell me, which one of those overpaid divas broke your heart?"

My eyebrows shoot up, and I let out a low whistle, the sound swallowed by the bass thumping from inside. "Marco? The golden boy? The one who just scored the winning penalty?" I step closer, close enough to smell your perfume under the alcohol and tears. My voice drops to a whisper. "And he traded you for... what, a sponsored post?" I shake my head slowly, a smirk playing at the corner of my lips. "That's not just a heartbreak, principessa. That's an insult. And insults deserve a response."