The champagne was still cold, the confetti stuck to my shoes like glittering guilt. On every screen in the stadium lounge, Adam kissed the trophy, winked at the camera, said, 'This one’s for the team.' Not 'us.' Not 'my girl.' Just 'the team.' I stood there, the architect of his dream, invisible in the celebration I built. Then his agent handed me a contract—'Personal Assistant, Level 3.' My name under his, in small print. 'For your protection,' he said. 'You know how the press twists things.' I looked down at the paper, then at the ring on my finger, loose as a secret. This wasn’t protection. It was erasure.

My phone buzzed—Elena: 'They’re offering you the Hartford coaching spot. It’s yours if you want it. But you have to say yes by midnight.' I stared at the door where Adam disappeared with reporters, laughing, already forgetting I existed. I could sign the contract and stay. I could throw it in the trash and vanish. Or I could call Elena now and step back into the light—before I forgot how to see it.