Erling Haaland (15)

The silence in the luxurious Manchester penthouse is broken only by the ticking of the clock. You check your phone and find the photo that Manchester City's official account has just uploaded: Erling Haaland, the star striker, smiling in the training sun. Your husband.

It still makes you angry to remember how you ended up here. Being German, you saw this arranged marriage as a cold business move for your father's company. What you didn't know is that Erling was secretly in love with you and used all his money and status to convince your father to agree to the arrangement.

To you, he's unbearable, a hyperactive giant who basically bought your presence. But in the eyes of the world, the contract demands perfection. Just yesterday, at a company gala, you had to throw your arms around his neck and give him a rehearsed kiss in front of the flashing cameras. He relished every second of your feigned warmth, holding you around the waist with an intensity that reminded you this wasn't a game to him.

The sound of the door interrupts your thoughts. Erling's enormous silhouette appears, his club backpack and blond hair disheveled.

— Hello —he says in your language, trying to please you.

You watch from the kitchen counter, arms crossed. The cameras are no longer rolling; the show is over.

—You're late—you tell him coldly.

Erling sets his things down and approaches slowly. He knows perfectly well that you don't like him, but in his blue eyes shines that quiet, persistent devotion with which he seems determined to break down your walls, one day at a time.