Marina
My phone wouldn’t stop vibrating.
At first, I thought it was some nightmare trick — a maddening loop in my brain that wouldn’t quit. But then the buzzing got louder, sharper. More urgent.
I groaned and rolled onto my side, blindly grabbing the device off the nightstand. The screen lit up, drowning me in a storm of texts, missed calls, and notifications piled high like bricks ready to crush me.
Mira (Manager): CALL ME. NOW.
PR TEAM GROUP CHAT: Marina, what is this? It’s everywhere.
Mira (again): You and Eli? At the fountain? Explain before the WTA spins it themselves.
Another ping flashed: Your father’s going to kill you.
“What the—”
I clicked the first link and froze. Grainy, zoomed-in photos stared back at me — me and Eli, sitting side by side at the fountain. My head resting against his shoulder, his head tilted like he was about to kiss me.
Heat flushed my cheeks, but the blood drained from my face. Another photo showed my hand in his lap, our fingers barely intertwined.
The headlines screamed:
“Secret Romance? Marina Chen and Eli Santiago Spotted Getting Cozy Post-Conference.”
“From Wildcard Partners to More Than Friends?”
“Scandal-Prone Eli and Tennis’ Ice Queen Spark Dating Rumors.”
“No. No, no, no, no.”
The knock at my bedroom door came hard, sharp — then the door swung open.
“Get up,” my father barked.
I bolted upright, clutching my blanket. “Dad—”
“Do you have any idea how many calls I’ve taken since six a.m.?” Vincent Chen’s voice sliced through the room. “Sponsors, journalists, the federation — all demanding answers.”
“I didn’t know anyone was taking photos—”
“You let yourself be seen like that,” he snapped. “Do you realize what this does to your reputation?”
“I was off-camera. It was private.”
“There’s no ‘off-camera’ for a Chen,” he hissed, stalking closer with his phone held out like a weapon.
He shoved the screen in my face.
“You see this?” His eyes burned. “This is what happens when you start letting emotions rule you. When you forget what this career costs.”
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off.
“From now on, Santiago is banned from your training block. I’ll call the director. Make it official.”
“No.”
His expression froze, disbelief flashing. “What did you say?”
“No.” My voice grew steadier. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I make all the decisions,” he roared. “You wouldn’t be anywhere without me. Everything — your career, your deals, your ranking — I built it.”
“And I’ve kept it,” I shot back, standing tall now. “I worked for it.”
His nostrils flared. “You’ve never survived a day without me—”
“I could,” I whispered, “and maybe I should.”
Silence crashed between us.
“You don’t own me, Dad.”
His face went rigid, unreadable.
“You raised me like a machine,” I said, chest heaving, “but I’m not a robot. Not a puppet for you to parade.”
He scoffed. “Is this about Santiago?”
“No. It’s about me,” I snapped. “About being 23 and still needing permission to breathe.”
“I made you a champion.”
“You made me scared of failure.”
He stared at me like I was a stranger.
“I want a career,” I said. “Not a cage.”
He didn’t reply. Just turned, walked out, and slammed the door behind him.
***
Three hours later, I lay tangled in my sheets, head pounding. The noise outside was muted but the weight inside me was loud — heavy with regret, fear, anger.
My laptop sat on the desk, tempting and terrifying all at once. I took a deep breath and flipped it open. My fingers trembled as I pulled up a blank search bar and typed:
“Tennis coaches taking private clients — Europe.”
Because if I was going to survive this mess, if I wanted to prove I could do it on my own terms, I’d have to start somewhere. Away from the shadow of my father, away from the whispers that followed me like ghosts.
I didn’t know if I could pull it off. But I knew I had to try.