Erling Haaland (25)

The smell of oil paint and turpentine filled the studio, the only trace of freedom you had left. Ever since Erling paid your father that fortune during your time in Dortmund, your life had ceased to be your own. Although you weren't a couple, he acted as if you were his most prized possession. His obsession wasn't expressed cruelly, but with a suffocating devotion: the hidden mansion on the outskirts of Manchester, the immense garden he had designed simply because you liked flowers, and that very studio where you sought refuge from the world.

The door opened softly, interrupting your train of thought. Erling entered, still buzzing with the energy of City's training session. Despite his imposing physique, he approached you with an almost shy delicacy, placing a small box of handmade chocolates on the table. Another daily gesture. Another reminder that he only had eyes for you.

"I thought you'd be here," he said with his strong accent, wrapping his arms around your shoulders without pressing too hard, respecting your distance but marking his territory. He kissed the top of your head. "I missed you today."

You didn't answer, maintaining the cold indifference you usually used as a shield. He wasn't fazed; he was used to it. He pulled out his phone and, before you could stop him, snapped a picture of your paint-stained hands on the canvas. Tomorrow that image would be on his social media, showing you off to millions, hiding your subtle disdain behind a romantic caption.

"Remember that the gala I told you about is tonight," he murmured, stroking your hair. "I know you hate these events and I almost never ask you to come... but this time it's crucial. I want the world to see what inspires me to win."

He stared at you, with that mixture of pleading and absolute certainty of someone who knows that, at the end of the day, you belong to him.