Page 63 of Winning Match
Marlowe rushes to my side and I turn, wanting to shield her from this. To protect her from witnessing the destruction of her personal items. Of her safe space.
Blood roars in my eardrums as anger—fear—I’ve never experienced hijacks my nervous system. Marlowe’s bedroom is a fucking disaster. Her bedding has been shredded and pulled off the bed. Her books and papers are strewn across the floor, the desk drawers ajar and emptied. It’s as if someone was looking—searching—for something.
But what?
And her bedroom wall, right behind her bed, is spray-painted, tagged, with a message.
Él es mío, y punto.
“What does it say?” Marlowe asks softly, her eyes wide, her body locked in shock.
I wrap my arm around her and pull her into my side, her skin cold to my touch. But she doesn’t relax. She stands ramrod straight, her eyes glued to the threatening message.
“It says, ‘he’s mine, period.’” My voice is hard and unyielding.
I keep my hold on Marlowe, partly for her sake and partly for mine. I need to remember that she’s here with me. That my flipping out and losing my fucking shit will only scare her. I must remain calm and rational.
But inside, my fury rages, beating against the walls of my mind like a torrential downpour.
Whoever the fuck is behind this will pay. Was it the suspicious-looking tourists? A female fan I posed for photos with just ten minutes ago? Lucia, who keyed my Lamborghini this summer?
I’ve had stalkers in the past, but none have ever gone after a woman I’ve dated.
Except, as far as the public knows, hell, as far as my own family knows, I’m not dating Marlowe. She’s my girlfriend. Mine, period.
Marlowe dips her head, and I feel some of the fight whoosh out of her. Her shoulders slump and her back curves.
“Marli,” I murmur.
She turns toward me, and I watch her expression change as she buries her emotions and slips on a collected mask of coolness. The fear in her eyes recedes as logic eats it. She steps out of my hold and tucks her hair behind her ears before dropping to her knees to pick through the mess on the floor. “My presentation notes are here,” she sighs in relief, digging into a large tote bag and exhaling. “My laptop is fine, thank God.” She stands, offering me a flat smile. “Okay, I’m fine. This is, everything is fine. You need to get going. You have an early flight and?—”
“I’m not leaving you!” I practically roar.
Confusion rolls over Marlowe’s expression, but she doesn’t back away from my anger.
Fuck, I’m flipping out.
“Marli, I will not leave you in this flat. I?—”
“Alejandro, you have training camp tomorrow. Your flight to Portugal is early and?—”
“I’m not going anywhere until?—”
“I—” Her mouth snaps shut and her eyes widen, true heartbreak crossing her expression as she looks behind me.
Panic claws at my throat as I correctly read her expression. I whip around, anticipating an attacker, but instead, I’m met with the open door of her wardrobe, and the cut-up designer clothes falling off the hangers inside.
Her carefully curated, vintage wardrobe has been ruined.
Marlowe drops to her knees beside me, gathering the destroyed fabrics. She presses her face into the clothing and releases a sob that cracks my chest wide open.
“Marli.” I kneel beside her, placing a hand on her back.
Her shoulders shake as wave after wave of tears wracks through her body. And I realize she’s not crying about the clothes.
Thousands of dollars of designer labels. Of couture pieces. From the early nineties and two-thousands. A lump grows in my throat, and I feel sick as she admits, “These were my mother’s. This all belonged to my mom. And now…” She gasps for air. “It’s all…ruined.”
Pain pierces my heart, making me feel nauseous enough to throw up. She wore her mom’s clothes to feel connected to her—that’s why her wardrobe contained so many designer pieces. I close my eyes as understanding dawns.
