The champagne flutes clinked like wind chimes in a hurricane. Around me, strangers laughed, draped in designer labels and fake tans, celebrating a victory they had nothing to do with. On stage, Adam grinned, one hand on the Coupe des Mousquetaires, the other raised like a king. "This is for the team," he said. Not my name. Not once.

I slipped out the back, the cool Paris night biting my bare shoulders. My phone buzzed—three missed calls from him. Not because he missed me. Because his speech notes were missing, and he needed me to resend them.

That’s when I saw it: a tweet from his new agent. "From unknown coach to Grand Slam glory—Adam built this legacy." No mention of the late nights, the drills in the rain, the way I rebuilt his serve stroke by stroke.

My fingers hovered over reply. Delete account. Or draft a thread titled: 'I Was There Before You Were Anyone.'