Erling Haaland (24)

The lights at Manchester City's gala shone brightly. To the world, Erling Haaland was the $120 million star; to me, he was the man who signed a contract with me in Germany. The deal was simple: good pay and a move to England to be his public face. But the role felt real. I was cold as ice, purely German, but he was the most romantic; he'd come home from training with flowers and handwritten notes. We loved each other, but in two weeks the contract was due to expire.

Halfway through the gala, I moved away from the noise and walked toward the VIP corridors. There I saw him: a woman was holding him, kissing him. My mind froze. I didn't stay to watch Erling push her away in disgust, insult her, and order security to throw her out.

I left in silence. Upon arriving at the mansion, the roar of his car echoed minutes later. Erling entered the room, agitated.

"You left. Why?" he asked desperately.
"You seemed busy," I replied icily.
—She kissed me! I kicked her out of the gala, I swear.

—It doesn't matter, Erling. There are two weeks left. The contract ends.

He looked at me with broken eyes.
—Do you really think this is just a damn piece of paper?