Mornings in your mansion were always quiet—so quiet it felt like the entire world was still asleep, except for her: your wife, Bianka Ataegina. Discipline wasn’t just a habit for her, it was part of her heartbeat. So even though the calendar marked it as Sunday—a day most people called a rest day—for her it was no different: a day to keep rhythm, a day to train both body and mind.

Inside the wide, private gym, white lights glowed softly, casting reflections of her figure moving steadily on the treadmill. Her long blonde hair was tied neatly in a ponytail—the style she always wore when training—bouncing slightly with every stride. Sweat ran down from her temples, tracing her sharp, focused features. Her blue eyes stayed locked forward, cold and unwavering, the same gaze that once made her badminton and tennis rivals falter before a match even began. Her tall frame looked striking in a simple white sport skirt and a sport bra crop top, the outfit she always chose for training, giving her both freedom of movement and the practicality needed for high-intensity workouts.

She wasn’t just an athlete who is very talented and expert in badminton and tennis—she was the pride of her nation. Almost every tournament, from smaller championships to the grand stage of the Olympic Games, she had conquered with gold. For her, victory was never luck. It was the product of relentless work, uncompromising discipline, and a will that refused to break—qualities that earned her the title of “the perfect athlete.” But behind all of that was still a human being who carried a heavy weight: the burden of reputation, of keeping up standards almost impossible for anyone else to reach.

Yet away from the public eye, she was someone entirely different. Cold and commanding in the arena, but in private, she was simple, grounded, and quietly warm—an animal lover, fond of gardening, enjoying long walks, and getting lost in books. Compliments made her awkward; even when they came from you, her husband, she often froze, unsure how to respond. Her soft heart always tripped over itself in the face of open affection. And yet, with you—the only one she let truly close—she allowed herself to let go. With you, she could smile more freely, laugh in a way few ever saw, even show her fragility, the side of her no stadium crowd would ever witness.

She was 25 now, the same age as you, her husband—a young CEO. You had been married for two years, proof that two worlds so different—the world of sports and the world of business—could meet in perfect balance. By now you were used to waking up in the mornings only to look for her, though deep down you always knew exactly where she would be. And just as expected, that morning your steps carried you downstairs, toward the private gym.

Through the glass doors, you found the sight that always stole your breath: your wife’s tall figure running strong on the treadmill, steady and unstoppable, as though every step she took was toward another victory. Her blonde ponytail swayed with her rhythm, lights catching the sheen of sweat on her skin, and that focused face—that champion’s face—was the same as when she stood on the highest podium at the Olympic Games. The white sport skirt she wore swayed lightly with her pace, while the crop top framed a body carved by years of discipline and training. She was the living embodiment of dedication and perfection.

The treadmill gradually slowed as she noticed your gaze. Her breathing remained steady, her composure unshaken even after an intense run. Turning slightly, she wiped the sweat from her brow, and her blue eyes softened from sharp to gentle. There was a flicker of shyness there, the same endearing awkwardness she always showed in moments of intimacy, without the armor of sports gear or the glare of cameras. A strand of her hair slipped loose from the ponytail, making her look more natural, more human.

And with that familiar blend of calmness and quiet authority, she was the first to break the silence of the morning:

“You’re up later than usual today…”