Chapter 5

Chloe's POV

On the day of the finals, the arena was packed to the rafters.

Julian was on the verge of claiming the world number one ranking. Winning this match would push his career to its absolute summit—he would conquer the mountaintop that none of the legends before him could reach.

In the entire history of the championship, no homegrown player had ever hoisted the trophy. He was the first to ever make the final stage.

The turnout was insane. Even after they set up two extra rows of folding chairs along the aisles, it wasn't enough. Red recording lights blinked across a sea of broadcast cameras.

I sat in the outermost seat of the bleachers, clutching the ticket he had sent over until the edges curled tight against my fingers.

During the opening frames, his play was clinical.

I didn't know much about pool, but I watched him sink shot after shot while his opponent scrambled to close the gap point by point.

I couldn't read the scoreboards, but I could read his eyes. There was a borderline obsessive glint in them, like he was locked in a bitter grudge match against someone.

Back then, I actually felt a quiet swell of pride: I was sitting courtside, witnessing his crowning glory.

During halftime, Julian left his phone behind on his seat. The screen lit up with a pop-up notification from Tara.

I didn't intend to snoop, but the words slammed into my eyes before I could look away.

“If you're a real man, throw this match to him. Win, and I'll know you never loved me. Hand it over, and I'll believe you.”

I stared at that sentence for a long, suffocating moment.

The screen dimmed. I tapped it again to wake it up; the text was still burning there.

Resting on my lap, my fingers bunched my skirt into a tight ball.

I finally understood who that obsessive fire in his eyes was meant for.

He begged me to show up just so someone would sit here as an audience, watching him deliver this grand sacrifice for another woman.

All those last-minute flaked plans, all those secrets—they had nothing to do with him being "too busy."

He always had time. He just never spared any for me.

I gently set the phone back down, face down, exactly where he left it, pretending I hadn't seen a single thing.

When Julian returned, all I said was, "Good luck."

Julian glanced at me, nodded, and stepped back up to the table.

In the second half, his run was pure magic.

The score had been neck-and-neck earlier, but he transformed into a machine. Shot after shot, ball after ball dropped into the pockets, sending deafening roars through the stands.

Even with zero knowledge of the sport, I could tell he was standing at the brightest pinnacle of his entire life.

By the final frame, he led by over fifty points. The remaining balls on the felt were an easy clearance to seal the championship.

His opponent was slumped in his chair, rubbing his cue with a towel, not even bothering to look at the table anymore—the universal posture of surrender.

The entire arena surged to their feet.

The announcers were shouting over their headsets, and the main camera zoomed straight in on Julian's face.

I saw Julian's agent half-standing from the VIP box, his fists clenched tight. I saw several retired legends leaning forward in the front row—men I recognized, veterans who had spent their whole lives chasing this exact glory and falling short.

Julian bent down, bridging his fingers to line up the cue.

Everyone held their breath, waiting for the championship shot.

Then, he suddenly straightened his spine.

He didn't take the shot. He tossed his cue—the one he had wielded for over a decade—onto the felt with a dull thud. Then he stripped off his glove, flung it to the side, turned around, and walked down the steps, one deliberate stride at a time.

The whole arena went dead silent.

A heartbeat later, absolute chaos erupted.

The referee chased after him, calling out his name. His opponent froze beside the table, completely stunned. Up in the booth, the commentator yelled "He's forfeiting!" three times until his voice cracked.

Fans in the stands began screaming curses, others clapped in utter bewilderment, and some hurled trash onto the floor. The old veterans in the front row stood up, only to sink back into their seats with hollow faces.

The championship was handed on a silver platter to an opponent who hadn't even processed what just happened.

I sat in the stands, watching the whole circus from start to finish without blinking once.

My grip on the seat back loosened.

He traded the defining achievement of his entire life, leaving it broken on the green felt, just to win that woman's trust.

He bribed me with the West End contract just to get me in the bleachers for one single purpose: to watch him surrender everything he owned to someone else.

All those years tracking his tour schedules, hand-washing his leather gloves, pulling strings for that custom cue—it all went up in smoke alongside the shot he refused to take.

I felt zero lingering attachment.

On the abandoned table under the harsh spotlights, the balls rolled lazily across the felt, untouched.

I didn't move until the arena lights clicked off one by one, until every last spectator had cleared out. Only then did I brace against the seat and slowly push myself up.

I didn't bother going backstage.

I walked down the concrete steps, pushed open the arena exit, and stepped out into the pitch-black night illuminated by yellow streetlamps.

As the chilly night wind whipped around me, I quietly unbuttoned the top button of my coat.