Page 52 of Bought and Enjoyed

But the photographer’s eyes lit up, confirming that he’d found his target. “No, no, I’m certain it’s you,” he insisted, falling into step beside me. “Listen, I have a message from Lucas Moreau. He wants to see you.”

My breath caught in my throat. Lucas wanted to see me? Despite my better judgment, I felt a flutter of hope in my chest. “He… he does?”

The photographer nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, he asked me to bring you to the post-game press conference.”

My heart raced as I followed the photographer through the crowded streets surrounding the stadium. The roar of jubilant fans faded to a distant hum as we made our way to a more secluded area. I knew I should turn back, that nothing good could come from this encounter. But the pull of possibly seeing Lucas again was too strong to resist.

We reached a nondescript side entrance, guarded by a burly security officer. The photographer flashed his press credentials, gesturing for me to follow. As we stepped into the fluorescent-lit hallway, I felt a sense of unreality wash over me. How had I ended up here, in the bowels of the Parc des Princes, about to face the man who had turned my world upside down?

The press conference room was a hive of activity. Journalists jostled for position, their voices a cacophony of different languages as they prepared their questions. Camera flashes popped intermittently, creating a strobe-like effect that left me feeling disoriented. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation.

The photographer guided me to a spot near the front, his hand on my elbow steering me through the crowd. I felt exposed,vulnerable, acutely aware of the curious glances thrown my way. My simple jeans and sweater felt woefully inadequate in this sea of sharp suits and press badges.

Suddenly, a hush fell over the room. My breath caught in my throat as Lucas strode in, flanked by the club manager and another teammate.

As Lucas took his seat at the table, his eyes scanned the room. For a brief moment, our gazes locked. I saw a flicker of surprise cross his face, quickly masked by his usual composed expression. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone in the room must hear it.

The press conference began, with journalists peppering Lucas and his teammates with questions about the match. Lucas answered with his trademark poise, his deep voice carrying easily through the room. I found myself mesmerized by the way his lips moved as he spoke, memories of those lips on my skin sending shivers down my spine.

Suddenly, the photographer who had brought me here raised his hand. “Lucas,” he called out, his voice cutting through the din. “Your performance tonight was particularly impressive. Some might say you played like a man with something to prove. Perhaps to a certain someone?”

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Lucas. I felt the blood drain from my face as I realized what was happening. The photographer wasn’t done, however. He gestured toward me, drawing everyone’s attention. “I couldn’t help but notice that Alice Morgan is here tonight. Care to comment on her presence and how it might have affected your game?”

A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd as journalists turned to look at me. Camera flashes exploded in my face, momentarily blinding me. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger. How could I have been so stupid as to fall for this trap?

Lucas’ expression remained impassive. “I’m afraid Mademoiselle Morgan and I have parted ways,” he said, with a little smile that gave nothing away. “Next question.”

His eyes returned to me for just a moment, and the look in them made my blood run cold. It took me a heart-pounding, tummy-dropping moment to figure out why. Lucas’ face didn’t say, “I don’t want to see you here again,” which was what I had felt sure he would think once he had realized the trick the photographer had played.

No: Lucas’ eyes’ private message to me—I felt absolutely sure, though I also knew no one else in the room could understand it—said, “You have serious consequences coming, you naughty little whore.”

CHAPTER 23

Lucas

I almost decided to do nothing at all. The photographer had clearly tricked Alice into coming to the press conference. I didn’t even really feel much anger at the embarrassment her presence had caused: Alice would undoubtedly get all the attention from the paparazzi she needed to learn once and for all never to go near another celebrity.

But my mind refused to let go of one lingering question: Alice had said she never wanted to see me again. Why had she come to the match at all, let alone allowed herself to be tricked into coming to the press conference?

I’d been on the point of accepting the transfer to Yokohama. I’d told myself that if nothing else, my few days’ relationship with Alice at least had helped me make my mind up about that—I needed to leave Paris and not return until the memory of Alice Morgan had faded sufficiently that I could walk the streets of the Left Bank without feeling as if my heart had been ripped out of my body.

And now… I didn’t know.

One thing seemed absolutely clear, though: Alice needed to be disciplined for the embarrassment she had caused—not on my behalf anywhere near as much as on behalf of my teammates, whose glorious victory against Lyon had gone almost unnoticed under the flood of speculation Alice’s appearance had caused.

And of course on Alice’s behalf, because I had seen in her eyes, when I had fixed her with my own gaze, just how badly she needed to have consequences imposed for her foolishness.

So as I left the press conference, my mind churned with conflicting emotions. The thrill of victory against Lyon had been overshadowed by Alice’s unexpected appearance. Her presence had stirred up feelings I thought I’d managed to bury—desire, possessiveness, and a burning need to assert my dominance over her once more.

I made my way through the winding corridors of the Parc des Princes, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the concrete walls. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, grass, and victory—a heady combination that usually filled me with satisfaction. Tonight, however, my thoughts were consumed by Alice.

As I pushed open the heavy door to the locker room, I was greeted by the raucous celebration of my teammates. Bottles of champagne popped, their contents spraying across the room in glittering arcs. The air was filled with laughter and shouted congratulations in a dozen different languages.

I plastered on a smile, accepting back slaps and high fives as I made my way through the crowd. My eyes sought out Tomas andLeo, finding them in a quieter corner of the room. They looked up as I approached, concern evident in their expressions.

“That was quite a scene in there,” Tomas said, his voice low enough that only Leo and I could hear.

I nodded, running a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. “It was unexpected,” I admitted. “But it’s given me some clarity.”

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