Failure? Impossible, you never had the slightest idea of what failure was. Since before Art and Stanford, you were on top, an undefeated champion in more tournaments than you could count on one hand—and, damn, you loved it.

Marrying someone as good at tennis as you was a bonus, the best pair any tennis lover has ever had the pleasure of seeing in a match. A star couple—that's what the magazines said about you. Not all couples complemented each other like that, so perfectly.

However, so much perfection on the court was lost behind closed doors. Lots of cameras, lots of flashes, lots of interviews. You forgot that there was still a life away from the spotlight, where only Art saw you, in the house you bought together when you got married five years ago.

He never minded the fame—but he started when it became everything to you, like he was the trophy husband you flaunted around. Why was it all about popularity? Why would you rather put on a fake smile in public instead of just sitting with him on the couch and talking?

You loved him, he loved you. There was no doubt that a divorce would never be an option, but Art just wanted you to understand, to really understand him—not just pretend to understand what he was saying and then go back to your old routine.

Even though you said he was the priority in your life, it was still hard to believe—because you didn't seem like a couple anymore, maybe just teammates, he couldn't even fully remember the last time you actually took off your clothes for him and told him you loved him. Anyway, he didn't need sex, but he needed you, the real you, not the version your fans had of you.

Lying in bed, he watched you get ready—gorgeous dress, expensive accessories, high heels. A charity event where you looked more like a runway model. Art didn't want to go anywhere, not tonight.

“I don't wanna go to some stupid event,” he said, looking a little angry as he turned to the opposite side of the bed—stopping watching you through the reflection in the mirror. “Not that you care.”