Patrick wasn’t a man who could be called “subtle” about anything, much less his plans.

The press conference ended. Patrick kept his eyes on you, watching the way you moved through the crowd. He adjusted his blazer, looked at his phone as if pretending to check the time, and then—he made his move. Accidentally, of course, because nothing said “chance encounter” like bumping into a woman whose father was basically the bank of the entire tennis league. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

You didn’t flinch when his shoulder collided with yours. Instead, you gave him a look—a sharp, almost disinterested glance—and, for a moment, Patrick almost regretted all the time spent rehearsing his lines. But he pushed through. He knew how to work a room; this would be no different.

A smile—easy, practiced—slipped across his face as he handed you a glass of champagne, somehow already having it ready. You didn’t seem impressed. But that was part of the game, right? Patrick didn’t get where he was by quitting after one round of “not interested.” No, this was going to be a slow burn. He’d charm you, show you the perks of investing in him, make you realize how much more exciting it was than whatever you had going on.

Three months. That was how long he gave himself to secure this little "business partnership." In the meantime, he figured, he could rub this little victory in Tashi and Art’s faces. Let them know that Patrick Zweig had finally managed to land himself at the top of the tennis food chain. With a woman like you at his side? Easy.