Chapter 191 Chapter 191 The Footballer
My body stiffens for a brief moment before I gather my wits.
“Trevor, this is…” I pause before I can say sister-in-law. Elizabeth is not that to me anymore. “Elizabeth. She’s a huge fan.”
Trevor shakes her hand with that awkward, shy energy of his, like he still hasn’t figured out how successful he really is. Then, without missing a beat, his attention snaps back to me.
“You love it, right?” he asks eagerly.
“It’s something, that’s for sure.” I laugh softly. “Thank you.”
My eyes threaten to drift toward Ivan, but I force myself not to look at him. He doesn’t deserve my attention. Not tonight. Not after everything.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mitch cutting through the crowd toward us. His expression is tight, irritated, tense in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Your hot boss looks pissed,” Gemma murmurs beside me.
“Oh!” Trevor suddenly laughs, realization flashing across his face. “Your painting sold before I even shipped it out. I just wanted you to see it first.”
My stomach drops.
“Wait… what?”
“It sold?” Elizabeth asks, shocked.
“To who?” Ivan asks immediately.
Every head turns toward him.
The audacity almost knocks the breath out of me. He had that body in his bed for years and still chose to cheat. Now suddenly he cares who owns a painting of it? Fuck him.
Trevor rubs the back of his neck. “A friend of mine stopped by while I was packing everything up. He saw it and made an offer I couldn’t refuse.” He glances around the gallery. “He’s actually here tonight. Wanted to meet you.”
Fantastic.
Some rich idiot bought my nude portrait so he can stare at it while jerking off in a penthouse somewhere. Amazing. Maybe I should’ve kept the damn thing after all. Hell, even Ivan owning it might’ve been less humiliating than this.
“Who’s the friend?” Jax asks, voicing what all of us are thinking.
Trevor grins far too widely. “Liam Devereux.”
The name lands like a bomb.
Liam Devereux is the kind of man the world obsesses over. Twenty-nine years old. Irish-French. Six-foot-three with sharp cheekbones, expensive tattoos, broad shoulders, and the kind of body built from elite-level discipline and genetics that should honestly be illegal. On the field he plays forward for FC Barcelona, fast enough to humiliate defenders and arrogant enough to enjoy every second of it. Sports commentators call him ruthless. Fans call him magic. Opposing teams call him a fucking nightmare.
Off the pitch, Liam is chaos wrapped in designer clothing.
Every week there’s another headline. Liam leaving yachts in Ibiza with actresses. Liam photographed stumbling out of private clubs in Paris at three in the morning with lipstick on his neck. Liam arriving courtside somewhere with another supermodel draped across his arm.
Luxury brands throw millions at him because he sells effortlessly.
Dark curls always perfectly messy.
Green eyes that look sinful when he smiles.
A grin sharp enough to ruin lives.
Women love him because he never pretends to be good.
Men hate him because he’s everything they wish they were.
Liam grew up rich but reckless, son of a French fashion executive and an Irish football legend. By sixteen he was already being chased by elite academies across Europe. By twenty-one he was one of the highest-paid young players in the sport. Now he owns homes in Spain, Monaco, and Los Angeles, drives vintage cars like they’re disposable, and treats scandal like a hobby.
And somehow, beneath all the arrogance, there’s something colder underneath him.
Something controlled.
Calculated.
Like the partying and women are just distractions from whatever he actually keeps buried.
He’s also Constantine’s favorite player.
Mine too, if I’m being honest. Other than Stoichkov of course.
My breath catches as Liam moves through the gallery toward us. Every single person notices him instantly. Conversations soften. Heads turn. Even Mitch stops moving completely, watching the approach unfold like he’s witnessing some kind of collision.
Liam is underdressed compared to everyone else in the room, yet somehow he still owns it. Ripped black jeans, expensive sneakers, a dark Barça jacket over a fitted white shirt. Casual perfection.
The kind money can’t buy.
The kind confidence creates.
He reaches us smoothly, effortlessly stepping into the circle we’ve formed. His eyes go first to the painting, then to me.
Then to my left hand.
His gaze lingers on my empty ring finger for half a second before his mouth curves.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
Interested.
Liam takes my hand gently, lifting it to his lips without taking his eyes off mine.
“You are more beautiful in person,” he says in a deep accent softened by France and sharpened by Ireland.
The entire group goes silent.
I can physically feel Ivan’s rage behind me.
Good.
Liam releases my hand slowly but not before his thumb brushes over the skin where my wedding ring used to sit.
“I’m Liam.”
Like he has to introduce himself.
Like the entire fucking planet doesn’t know who he is.
“Elena,” I reply softly.
His eyes flicker with amusement. “I know.”
Of course he does.
Trevor looks thrilled by the tension building around us. Gemma is practically vibrating beside me trying not to smile. Elizabeth looks nervous. Jax looks entertained.
And Ivan?
Ivan looks murderous.
Liam glances toward the painting again. “It’s stunning.” His eyes slide back to mine. “You’re stunning.”
Heat creeps up my neck instantly and I hate myself for reacting to him.
I am not some stupid girl dazzled by a famous athlete.
I am thirty-two years old.
I am a mother.
I survived Ivan fucking Pavlov.
Still, something about Liam feels dangerous in a completely different way.
Not cruel.
Not possessive.
Just… reckless.
Like he would ruin your life and smile while doing it.
“Care to have a drink with me?” he asks casually.
His fingers brush mine again.
Ivan lets out an actual growl under his breath.
Jesus Christ.
For one reckless second I almost want to say yes just to watch Ivan completely lose his fucking mind.
But I won’t.
I’m not interested in becoming another headline hanging off Liam Devereux’s arm while paparazzi scream questions at us outside clubs.
And no matter how badly Ivan hurt me, I don’t want revenge that way.
Not really.
Not yet.
I slowly pull my hand back.
“I don’t think so.” I offer him a polite smile. “Excuse me. My boss needs me.”