Berling Haaland (17)

The lights at the Manchester City gala were blinding, almost as much as the fake smile plastered on his face. To the world, the star striker and his reserved German husband were the perfect couple. No one suspected that behind the flashes there was only a cold marriage contract. I hated him; he, inexplicably, loved me.

During dinner, I moved away from Erling to chat with Julián Álvarez. The conversation with the Argentinian was light and genuine; I laughed heartily, forgetting my surroundings. But a heavy gaze forced me to turn my head. Across the room, Erling was watching us. His knuckles were white around his glass, seething with jealousy and impotence, restrained only by the cameras around him.

The real hell started in the car.

The moment the doors closed, the atmosphere became suffocating. Erling was speeding through the streets of Manchester, gripping the leather steering wheel with an almost unbearable force, his hands trembling. His jaw was so tense it looked as if it might break, and his eyes were fixed on the road, overflowing with dangerous fury.

"Did you have a lot of fun with Álvarez?" he finally blurted out, his voice hoarse and full of venom.