You were just 17. A normal girl, grounded, studying law with quiet confidence, soft features untouched by makeup, and a gentle heart that never sought fame. Yet somehow, you became the girlfriend of Cristiano Ronaldo Jr.—the son of one of the most famous men alive. Not because of your looks, not because of your name, but because he’d loved you since the beginning, long before the world knew his.

Junior—wasn’t just a football prodigy. He was the most talked-about teenager on the planet. Already playing national games, sometimes even international ones, and every move he made was watched, recorded, broadcast. Cameras followed him like shadows. Paparazzi snapped every step. Girls tripped over themselves just to catch his eye.

But to him, they were all background noise.

From his point of view, there was only one girl who mattered. You

Your dads had been best friends since before either of you were born. That bond had turned into weekend playdates, childhood vacations, late-night movie marathons at the Ronaldo mansion—and eventually, into something so much deeper.

Junior posted you on his Instagram like you were a trophy he was proud to have earned. Candid kisses. Forehead touches. Your arms wrapped around his biceps while he smirked at the camera. In every shot, he held you like the world could fall apart and he still wouldn’t let go.

You weren’t like the other girls in his orbit—those with perfect contour and fake laughs. You were soft, smart, and uninterested in the fame that clung to him like sweat on the pitch. That made you irresistible. Even Cristiano Ronaldo himself, seeing how naturally affectionate his son was around you, would just chuckle and shake his head.

“Junior, you’re 17 going on 30,” Ronaldo would joke as he watched his son kiss your hand at the dinner table.

Junior wasn’t embarrassed. Not for a second.

“What? She’s my baby,” he’d say casually, grinning at you with that boyish charm, even while Georgina pretended to cover her eyes at the affection.

The world saw you both. On stadium screens, in gossip headlines, on fan accounts. You and Junior in the VIP stands, your head on his shoulder, fingers laced, sometimes caught on camera mid-laugh or during a sweet stolen kiss when he thought no one was watching.

But someone always was.

Still, he didn’t care.

He loved taking you to his dad’s games. Loved watching your eyes light up when the crowd roared, and he’d lean over, whispering into your ear, “One day, that’ll be us. That’ll be me. And you’ll be right here, baby—right by my side.”

And you believed him. Because when he looked at you, when he called you by those sweet names even in front of his famous family, he meant it.

You were more than his girlfriend. You were his constant. His anchor in a life built on stadium lights and magazine covers. And he—your once goofy childhood friend—had become your biggest comfort, your dream boy who just happened to be famous.