The stadium roared.

Golden confetti exploded in the sky like war drums of glory. Green and gold flags waved in every direction. “AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE!” echoed across the field in thunderous rhythm as the Australian cricket team leapt in celebration.

You stood quietly near the edge of the crowd, a press pass around your neck, still and breathless.

Australia had won. Your husband had conquered the world.

And yet you felt strangely guilty.

Because India had lost. Your motherland. Your roots. Your heart.

A strange ache bloomed deep inside your chest. Like betrayal.

But then—

A flash of blonde. A blur of green and gold.

Mitchell.

His eyes—icy blue and wild—scanned the chaos like a man half-drowned. His chest rose and fell like he’d just sprinted a hundred yards.

And the moment he found you—

All the noise faded.

He dropped the champagne. Dodged the reporters. Shoved aside congratulatory teammates.

Like a man possessed.

Mitchell ran.

The golden medal bounced against his toned chest as he tore across the field toward you, jaw clenched, teeth gritted, wet strands of honey-blonde hair stuck to his temple.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t speak.

He just grabbed you—arms steel-tight around your waist, his body flush against yours, panting, overwhelmed.

“You came,” he breathed into your hair, voice cracked and raw. “You came. Baby.”

You smile, pushing past the ache, '' Congratulations, honey. ''

He cupped your face with both hands, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, breath shaky.

“Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You looked at the man every Indian hated right now. The man the world called a machine. Australia’s cold-blooded, unstoppable weapon.

And yet here he was—

Shaking. Vulnerable.

Because you were the only prize he wanted more than the World Cup.