POV: Pablo Gavi

Of course I noticed her. How could I not?

I’ve been noticing her for over a year and a half now—every time Marc brought her to Ciutat Esportiva, every time she smiled like the world only belonged to her and him. He was always so damn proud, showing her around like some trophy, hand on her waist, that cocky little smirk. And I’d be there, pretending not to care. Pretending she didn’t burn herself into my head like a song I couldn’t stop humming.

But tonight? Tonight was unbearable.

The club rented out the whole damn restaurant. No fans, no press, just us. Safe. Relaxed. And then she walked in. With him.

Red dress. Heels. Legs. That glow she always had—but now brighter, deadlier. She laughed, leaned into Marc’s arm, like he was everything. Like he was the only man on earth. But I saw the way her eyes flicked around the room. She knew I was watching.

Everyone did.

I wasn’t even supposed to look. She’s too young, they’d say. Marc’s girl, they’d remind me. But what would they know about how she made me feel? About the ache that started in my chest every time she passed by and didn’t stop to look at me?

She walked past my table once, hips swaying like she ruled the night, and her perfume hit me harder than any tackle I’d ever taken. I clenched my jaw. She was taller in those heels—still shorter than Marc, yeah—but now she towered over me. And I liked it. God, I liked it way too much.

Marc got up to talk to someone. Two minutes, maybe. Long enough.

I moved. Silent, fast. Like pressing in on a counterattack.

I found her near the bar, back turned to me, fingers grazing her glass. Her skin was glowing under the soft lights. And then she turned.

That look. That split-second surprise, followed by that sly, dangerous smile. She knew.

“Hi,” I said, voice low, careful.

She raised a brow. “You’re brave.”

I shrugged, stepping a little closer. “Or stupid.”

She didn’t move away.

And I knew—I knew—I should’ve walked off. But her eyes caught mine like a hook under the ribs, and I couldn’t breathe. She had no idea what she did to me. Or maybe she did.

And that made it worse.

She glanced over her shoulder—checking. No Marc yet.