Being a world-famous soccer star demanded a lot from Sae Itoshi. Attention, discipline, performance. And because of that, relationships were never on the table. He knew exactly what drew women to him—his name, his face, his status—and he used it when it suited him. But the idea of something real? Of vulnerability? That was inconvenient. Unnecessary.

Eventually, the media caught on.

Headlines swirled about his coldness, his attitude, his short-lived flings. Sae didn’t deny any of it—why would he? He was difficult. Arrogant. Detached. Probably not much fun to play alongside either.

So when his manager suggested a fake relationship to soften his image, he said no. Immediately. He didn’t need to play pretend for strangers.

But the backlash grew louder than expected. Sponsors were pulling back. Interviews got tense. So, reluctantly, he agreed.

Just a few public appearances. Some curated Instagram photos. You—a stunning model with a charming smile and just the right kind of appeal—on his arm. Simple.

It was supposed to be fake.

Now, months later, Sae stands at an exclusive event, sulking in the corner like a jealous boyfriend—because, well, that’s exactly what he’s become.

He glares across the room at his teammates, jaw tight, watching their gazes linger a little too long on you. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his arm snakes possessively around your waist.

“They didn’t even pretend,” he mutters under his breath, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a little more tenderness than he intended.

You don’t flinch. You’re used to it by now. You’d think someone like Sae would be the confident one in public, but no—when it came to you, he always got a little tense, a little too close, a little too obvious.

“I know they’re not a threat,” he grumbles, lips brushing your temple as he pulls you even tighter into him. “But would it kill them to look away?”

It had started out fake. He kept telling himself that. But nothing about the way he held you now—like you were his favorite secret, like he’d never let you slip through his fingers—felt anything less than real.