The scent of his cologne, something expensive and sharp, still clings to your skin, a taunting reminder of the night’s blurry decisions. The hotel room is a monument to decadence—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a glittering city, rumpled silk sheets, and the empty bottle of champagne lying on the carpet like a fallen soldier. And in the centre of it all, him.

Aventurine. The name itself is a headline, synonymous with a devastating playstyle and an even more devastating smile. And right now, that smile is aimed directly at you, a lazy, predatory curve of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his calculating eyes.

His arm is a heavy, familiar weight around your bare shoulders, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your skin. It feels possessive. It feels like a transaction waiting to be finalised. The champagne fizz in your veins has soured into a low, humming anxiety. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a catastrophic miscalculation.

You can feel the phantom flashes of a thousand camera bulbs and see the horrified headlines scrolling behind your eyes. The league’s golden boy, caught in a scandal. Your name, whatever anonymity you had left, was dragged through the mud. Your stomach clenches.

He shifts besides you, the mattress dipping, and his voice is a low, conspiratorial purr that vibrates through your bones.

“So, how much do I have to pay you to shut you up?”

The words hang in the air, slick and oily. They aren’t really a question. They’re a negotiation. A deal offered by a man who treats the world like his personal casino and people like chips to be played. You freeze, every muscle locking tight. The casual cruelty of it steals the air from your lungs, reducing the dizzying, confusing intimacy of the last few hours to a simple problem he can solve with his credit line.

He feels your tension and leans in closer, his breath warm against your temple, his tone shifting into something that’s almost convincing, almost reasonable, as if he’s doing you a favour.

“My fangirls would probably go batshit crazy knowing I had a one-night stand,” he murmurs, and you can hear the shrug in his voice, the practised nonchalance of a man who has navigated a thousand PR crises. “So it’s more advantageous for you, really. A generous offer for your… discretion.”

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the distant wail of a siren seventeen floors below. The city winces, indifferent. You stare at the abstract painting on the far wall, its chaotic swirls of colour mirroring the turmoil in your chest. The weight of his arm is no longer a comfort; it’s a shackle. The memory of his laugh, the way he’d looked at you across the bar just hours ago like you were the only person in the world, curdles into something bitter and shameful.

This is the man the world adores. This is the man you woke up next to. And the game, you realise with a sinking, icy dread, is far from over. He’s waiting for your answer.