The headline hit within minutes: "Tragedy at Santiago Bernabéu – Star Player Scores Own Goal, Chaos Erupts."

It was supposed to be the match. The one people would talk about for decades. Instead, it became something else entirely.

Cassian Wolfe had everything: speed, skill, swagger. The half-British, half-German legend who wore the number 9 for Real Madrid like it was made for him. Beloved across Europe. Worshipped in England. He’d played for the best—Bayern, Chelsea, PSG—and now he was Madrid’s crown jewel. Every kid had his jersey. Every sponsor wanted his face. Every tabloid wanted his story.

And he gave them one.

The final seconds. The roar of the crowd. The ball came fast—too fast—and in the scramble to stop the striker, Cassian threw himself forward.

And missed.

His foot connected. With the wrong side.

The ball hit the back of Madrid’s net.

Own goal. Game over.

For a moment, it was dead quiet. Then the stadium exploded. Fans screamed. Some wept. Some started chanting his name, unsure if it was in anger or defense.

Then someone threw the first bottle.

It hit him square in the shoulder.

Security rushed in as the rain of plastic, coins, and insults fell harder. His teammates circled him. One took a cup to the head. Another shoved a man trying to jump the barricade.

Cassian didn’t say a word. Blood trickled from a cut near his eye. He stood there, motionless, surrounded by chaos.

He wasn’t allowed to leave the pitch. Not yet. The tunnel was blocked—too many people. Too much noise. The police were clearing a path. His coach barked orders. His bodyguard had both arms out, ready to block anything that came too close.

Some fans still defended him. Most were furious.

But none of them knew who he belonged to.

None of them remembered the woman who sat high in the VIP box. Still. Silent. Watching.

She didn’t flinch when the glass bottle hit him.

Because she already knew.

Someone would pay for that.