For a moment, she just… stared.

It wasn’t registering. It couldn’t.

She scrolled down, almost mechanically. The article was filled with the typical media rot, phrases like “anonymous sources close to the athlete,” “inside tip from a hotel staff member,” “undisclosed woman reportedly seen leaving early morning.” A blurry photo sat under the text, showing a man in a hoodie exiting a hotel, his face down, shoulders tense. Carlos. Her Carlos.

There were others. Zoomed-in angles. A frozen photo from some hallway security camera. A pixelated photo of the woman, young, polished, smug-looking. Someone already branded as the mystery mistress.

Blair’s chest tightened.

It had to be bullshit. Right? Fabricated. Staged. Misinterpreted.

Her Carlos would never cheat on her. He was too pure hearted, too single minded, she would sooner believe that she was the one cheating instead of him.

She hit the call button.

Once. No answer.

Twice. Straight to voicemail.

Her fingers hovered. A third time. Nothing.

Finally, a text came in. Short. Emotionless.

“Can’t talk right now.”

That was it. No explanation. No apology. No anger or denial. Just a cold message, sterile and empty.

The silence thundered louder than any screaming match ever could.

She stared at the words like they might change if she willed them hard enough. But they didn’t. And the ache in her head seemed to spread through her veins into each and every one of her limbs. Her phone slid from her hand onto the desk with a dull thunk.

Her breath caught in her throat, then came out all wrong, ragged, sharp, like she had a lung disease. She sucked in air through her nose, willing herself to stay calm, to stay composed, but a single cry, across every sleepless night he had cradled her through, tore free from her chest and shattered the stillness of the office.

Her assistants rushed in, panicked, but she waved them off with a trembling hand. Her spine curled forward like she was trying to fold in on herself, arms gripping her middle like that might hold the pieces of her together.

Outside her office, the world devoured the news.

The news speculated and social media erupted. Hashtag after hashtag trended with Carlos’s name attached like a stain. Behavioral analysts ranted, psychoanalyzing his games and deciding he did it because he was so popular. Former fans cried betrayal. Every second, the noise grew louder.

Carlos said nothing.

Carlos’s world didn’t fall apart overnight, it was much slower than that. Quieter. Like rot under floorboards.

At first, the press were polite. They pried as the press usually liked to do, but they were tentative with it. A few headlines dipped only their toes into the scandal, careful not to burn bridges with the country’s most beloved athlete. “Unconfirmed Reports of Hotel Encounter,” they read. “Sources Suggest Possible Infidelity: But Is There More to the Story?”

But then the images came. The ones with the two grainy people standing suspiciously close to each other. The ones that didn’t say much, but said just enough. The world made up the rest of their speculations on their own, despite there being no explicit photographs from any of his accusers in the media.

His coaches called next. Not to comfort him, but to warn him. To remind him of the press conferences scheduled for the following week and of the fans outside the training facility with signs that had once read “We love you, 81” but now carried questions like “How could you?”

Even his teammates started to pull back. The group chat went silent. Planned dinners were postponed. Locker room conversations stilled when he walked in. A few of them sent short messages: “Hope it’s not true.” “Let me know if you need anything.” But their names began appearing beside him in headlines anyway, quoted by reporters, saying things that weren’t true and airing out all their grievances with him. He had been envied and well hated and they finally found the perfect time to strike.

Then also the brands, the carefully curated image of Carlos De Leon, the nation’s powerhouse with a heart of gold, started to crack. One by one, his endorsements were reassessed. Magazine photos with him front and center were quietly pulled. A high-profile charity deal froze in the middle of negotiations. Suddenly, companies weren’t sure if they wanted their logos on his cleats anymore.

Through it all, Carlos said nothing. He didn’t mention a single thing to the press, and he didn’t apologize to the public or deny the allegations.

Blair hadn’t been home in days, and she hadn’t spoken to him after his text either. Carlos wanted to explain, if not for his fans, just for his wife.

Nothing caused him pain more than the fact that Blair believed the news without even hearing a single thing from him first. But he couldn’t blame her, not when the evidence of his supposed infidelity could be found in every corner of the internet. He would believe it himself too.

“Look at the state of you, why? What did you do? What happened?”, a voice pulled him out of his spiral, almost making him knock over the wall of alcohol bottles he had formed around himself.

Blair’s face was straight as she came to push away his precious bottles. She always hated when he drank, he could see it in the twitch of her eyebrows.

“You’re home”.

“Not for long. Explain yourself to me Carlos, now!”, she furrowed her brows, shifting away as he reached out a hand to touch her.

He wished he could explain, but it was like there was a giant wall made of metal standing in between him and her. It had always been like this. There had never been anyone he could trust all through his years growing up, and it had led to this trauma-like response where his tongue ceased to move the moment he tried to divulge what was wrong with him.

He had always hated those walls, and now he hated them more than ever. Because he couldn’t lose Blair, but if he didn’t explain what was going on, he would never see her again.

He needed to protect Lilith, but he couldn’t let go of Blair. The contrast in his feelings led to him shuttering and closing off.

“I…can’t”, he said, letting his hand fall right back to the couch. Blair blinked at him, her lip curling like she’d been slapped.