Chapter 7 [Wren's POV]

Ever since that sugar bead worked its magic once, I became part of Cole Ashford's routine—a fixed item on his checklist.

Every junior tournament, I had to be there. Not "would you like to come," but "you will be there." Cole never asked. He'd just slip a card with the venue address into my hand the night before, mutter "Don't be late," and walk off—as if I were his racket, his wristband, one more piece of equipment he had to account for before heading out the door.

I should have been angry. But I wasn't.

I just tucked that card under my pillow.

That day's match was at a club in the northern part of the city, somewhere I'd never been before. We took the bus for what felt like forever. Mom transferred three times, terrified we'd be late, and dragged me out of bed before dawn had fully broken. She'd ironed her best coat twice the night before, but the worn spot on the shoulder—no matter how hard she tried—wouldn't come out.

She kept looking at that spot the whole ride, rubbing at it with her fingers. It wouldn't budge. Eventually, she just shoved that hand into her pocket.

The moment we pushed through the glass doors, cold air rushed into our faces, and inside was a world full of people I didn't know—people who smelled expensive.

Perfume. Polished leather shoes. And something else I couldn't name, but the instant I caught it, I knew: I don't belong here.

The lobby was lined with framed photographs of champions the club had produced over the years—gold frames, gleaming under spotlights. I craned my neck until it ached, scanning every single one. Not a single Kelly among them.

Of course not. I let out a silent, bitter laugh. Why would a wall like this ever feature someone from the building manager's family?

The stands were packed with well-dressed families. Mom pulled me by the hand toward the farthest corner, where we found two empty seats. When she sat down, her back went ramrod straight—so straight it looked like it hurt.

I understood that kind of effort. It was the effort of pretending we deserved to be sitting there too.

A woman beside us turned her head and looked us over from head to toe. Just one glance. But that glance felt like a blade, slicing slowly from crown to sole.

"Whose child is this?" she asked the person next to her with a smile, her voice pitched just loud enough for me to hear. "She looks a bit… unfamiliar."

"Oh," another voice replied, "I think she's from the Ashford building—the building manager's daughter."

"The building manager?" The woman's eyebrow arched ever so slightly. "They brought her to watch the match too."

Too.

Just one word. But I've never forgotten it.

It meant: Even people like that can sit in here now.

I dropped my gaze to my shoes—the ones Mom had scrubbed clean last night, my best pair. Now, surrounded by designer brands on every side, they looked painfully, humiliatingly old.

I wanted to tuck my feet under the seat and disappear.

Mom's hand brushed lightly over the back of mine. She didn't say a word. She just straightened her spine a little more.

In that moment, I wanted to cry. Not because of that woman. Because of Mom.

The match began.

The instant Cole stepped onto the court, the stands fell half a beat quieter. He was only eight years old, but standing in the center of that court, he looked like the ground had always belonged to him.

He served. The boy across the net couldn't return it.

He served again. Another miss.

The same women who'd been sizing me up moments ago now turned their full attention to him, their eyes taking on a different quality—the kind of look reserved for something valuable, something worth owning.

I almost wanted to laugh.

You looked down on me. But that boy you're watching with such glittering eyes? Just yesterday, he was sitting on the floor of the greenhouse, listening to me read him a story until he fell asleep.

That secret belonged to me alone.

Cole won. When the final ball hit the ground and the referee called the score, the entire venue erupted in applause.

He didn't look at the referee. Didn't acknowledge the clapping crowd.

Instead, he lifted his head and looked past all those well-dressed adults, all the way to the farthest corner.

All the way to me.

Then, in front of everyone, he raised his hand and pointed to his pocket—where the sugar bead was—and then pointed at me.

The meaning was clear: It worked. You did this.

A few people in the stands followed his gesture and turned to look at me. Those same eyes that had found me "unfamiliar" moments ago now froze in confusion.

The Ashford prodigy just won his match, and the first person he looked for was the building manager's daughter?

I could practically see the gears turning in their heads. What kind of connection was this? What strings had been pulled? Was there some arrangement the Ashford family had made that they didn't know about?

In their world, favoritism always had a reason—money, power, or some transactional relationship. They could exhaust themselves trying to figure it out, and they'd never arrive at the truth: Cole looked at me for no reason at all.

He just wanted to look at me. It was that simple.

So simple that not a single person in that room full of calculating minds could believe it.

My face burned hot.

I wanted to crawl into a crack in the floor. And at the same time, I wanted him to keep pointing at me—forever.

Both feelings crushed together in my chest until I could barely breathe.

Beside me, Mom let out a soft "Oh." I turned to look at her.

She was smiling. Her eyes were bright, filled with pride—and something else I couldn't read at the time.

It took me many years to understand what it was: fear.

A mother watching her daughter be claimed so publicly by a boy like that—her pride and her fear were exactly equal in measure.

Cole came down from the court and walked straight toward us.

A coach tried to intercept him. He sidestepped. A woman with a practiced smile tried to offer him praise. He didn't stop.

He reached the edge of the stands, tilted his head up, and held out his hand to me.

"Come down," he said. "Walk with me."

Not a request. A command.

Every pair of eyes in the room snapped toward me in unison, pressing down like a physical weight on my shoulders. The woman who'd raised her eyebrow earlier now had her mouth hanging open in a perfect circle of disbelief.

I sat frozen in my seat, palms slick with cold sweat. Why should I do what you say just because you said it? But my body was more honest than my brain—my legs were already trembling as I stood. Mom gave me a gentle push from behind, and I felt all her hesitation and reluctance in that single touch.

I edged toward the railing. He kept his hand extended, utterly certain I would take it. That certainty made me feel embarrassed and indignant all at once. The moment our fingers touched, he locked his grip tight—his palm burning hot and damp from the match, the pressure so firm it felt like a declaration of ownership.

He led me through the sea of polished, staring faces, murmurs buzzing faintly in my ears. I buried my head in the shadow beside him, wishing I could vanish entirely. But Cole's back stayed perfectly straight, his stride steady and unhurried, utterly indifferent to the scrutiny around us. When we reached the club's front doors, he paused and glanced back at the stands.

In an instant, every whisper died.

In that moment, I finally understood: Cole Ashford never needed to explain to anyone who I was. The sight of him holding my hand was answer enough.

That year, at eight years old, I stood in a room full of strangers and let a blue-eyed boy reach out and take my hand—and I never managed to let go of it again.