Rejected

For the first time in a long, long time, I had been rejected.

Not the kind of rejection that came with hesitation, or flirtation disguised as resistance—no, this was a cold, immediate, dismissive rejection.

And I felt it.

Even after I walked away from her, even after I returned to my drink, I couldn't shake the way she had barely even acknowledged me. It had left a strange feeling in my chest, something unfamiliar, something annoying.

Because that never happened.

Women threw themselves at me, not the other way around.

And yet, even when other women had approached me after, their voices sultry, their eyes inviting—I had barely registered them.

Normally, I would have indulged in the game, played along, picked whichever one interested me the most for the night.

But tonight, none of them caught my interest.

Because my mind was still there, still replaying the scene of that woman turning away, completely unbothered by me.

I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose as I slid into my car.

A Lamborghini Urus.

Flashy, yes. But I liked things that stood out. The deep midnight blue exterior gleamed under the city lights, the engine letting out a low, powerful purr as I turned the key.

The seats were lined with black leather, stitched in a way that screamed luxury, the dashboard sleek, illuminated by a state-of-the-art display.

It was too much, I knew that. But I didn't care.

The city blurred past me as I drove, the sharp hum of the engine cutting through the quiet of the night.

Streetlights cast long, golden reflections along the hood, neon signs flickered past in a blur of colors, and the distant sound of honking horns blended into the background.

But even as I sped down the road, my mind kept returning to her.

I didn't even know her name.

I scowled, pressing my foot down on the accelerator.

The villa was bathed in soft exterior lighting by the time I pulled into the driveway. The gates slid open automatically, and the gravel crunched under the tires as I rolled to a stop in front of the entrance.

Massive glass panels framed the exterior, reflecting the deep indigo sky, while sleek black stone and modern steel accents gave the place a sharp, almost untouchable feel. It was too big for one person. Too extravagant. But I had never cared about too much.

Stepping inside, I let the door swing shut behind me, the silence of the house swallowing me whole.

I didn't even bother with the lights. I moved through the space with ease, my fingers loosening the buttons of my vest as I made my way toward my bathroom.

The shower was already running before I stepped in, steam curling into the air, fogging up the mirrors.

The hot water hit my skin, and I let out a slow breath, leaning my head back against the wall.

I should have forgotten about her already.

But I hadn't.

And that annoyed the hell out of me.

Dressed in a loose black t-shirt and sweatpants, I flopped onto my massive bed, phone in hand.

I didn't know her name.

But I did know one thing—she was friends with Elena Steele.

And that gave me an idea.

I pulled up Instagram, fingers tapping against the screen as I searched for Elena's profile.

Found it in seconds.

Elena Steele – Public Figure | Model | Lover of expensive wine and good company

The profile was full of glamorous pictures—runway shows, fancy dinners, candids with Carmen, soft romantic moments that made me roll my eyes.

But I wasn't here for that.

I went straight to her friends list.

Then I started searching.

Scrolling.

Scanning.

Five minutes in, I frowned.

Ten minutes in, I scowled.

She wasn't there.

Or, more specifically—she had to be there, but if she was, she either didn't have a profile picture, or her account was locked up so tight that I couldn't even tell it was hers.

I tossed my phone onto the bed, running a hand through my damp hair.

Who the hell doesn't have a profile picture?

Who the hell just existed in the world without making themselves searchable?

I groaned, rolling onto my back, staring up at the ceiling.

She was an enigma.

And I hated it.

I hated that I cared.

I hated that she hadn't spared me a second glance.

I hated that—despite everything—she had won.

But I was a football player and I was not going to give up, I will find her not matter what.