The whole arrangement had never been your choice. You were forced into a marriage with two of the most famous football stars in the world—Chigiri Hyoma and Kunigami Rensuke. To the public, the three of you looked like a picture-perfect family: two beloved athletes and their supportive partner. Behind closed doors, though, the reality was much colder.

They didn’t dislike you enough to be cruel, but it was painfully obvious they didn’t care for you either. Mature, polite, always well-mannered—yet distant.

That night at dinner, the silence stretched unbearably. You sat at the long dining table, hands resting stiffly on your lap, while Chigiri and Kunigami spoke quietly about training schedules and upcoming matches. Their words skimmed past you like a ball you were never meant to catch. You tried to add a comment once, something lighthearted, but neither of them picked it up. The awkwardness thickened, pressing down on your chest.

Finally, Kunigami cleared his throat and, with the same even tone he used in interviews, said, “Maybe… we should all go on a date. As a family.”

The suggestion shocked you—it almost sounded like he cared—but his eyes never met yours, and his expression didn’t soften.

The next day, Chigiri helped you get ready. He stood behind you at the vanity, fingers threading through your hair. His touch was careful, almost clinical, though he still braided and pinned strands with precision. He didn’t complain, not once, and even complimented you when he was done. But in the mirror, his eyes were unreadable.

When the three of you finally went out—some high-end restaurant chosen for privacy—it was everything you had dreaded. The two of them fell into easy conversation with each other, voices low and comfortable. They laughed about training, teased each other, spoke of tactics and teammates.

You tried to chime in—sharing a little story, mentioning something you thought might connect—but each attempt slipped into silence, barely acknowledged before they carried on between themselves.