Chapter Text
London was raining again.
Not the soft kind of rain people romanticised in films. Proper London rain. Cold. Relentless. Grey enough to turn the entire city colourless.
Inside the Royal Lancaster Hotel, however, everything glittered.
Crystal chandeliers reflected against champagne glasses while cameras flashed almost constantly along the charity gala carpet. Football executives, celebrities, sponsors and fashion elites moved through the ballroom in carefully curated perfection.
And right in the middle of it all stood Carla Connor.
“Carla! Carla, this way!”
“Who are you wearing tonight?”
“Will Connor Designs partner with Chelsea permanently?”
Carla barely slowed for the photographers.
She was used to this. Had been for years.
The black silk gown she wore was her own design of course — elegant, sharp, dramatic without trying too hard. Her dark hair fell loosely over one shoulder as she offered the cameras a practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes.
Famous enough now that people moved for her without thinking.
Power did that.
“Ms Connor.”
One of the event organisers hurried towards her nervously. “Thank you again for agreeing to this collaboration. The Chelsea board are thrilled.”
Carla accepted the champagne flute handed to her.
“Well,” she said dryly, “let’s hope your football stars survive being dressed by me.”
The organiser laughed too hard.
Carla glanced around the room, already slightly bored.
She hated these events.
Too loud.
Too fake.
Too many people pretending not to stare at each other’s money.
“Your table’s beside Captain Swain’s tonight,” the organiser added carefully.
That finally got Carla’s attention.
“The Swiss captain?”
“Yes.”
Carla raised an eyebrow.
Even she knew who Lisa Swain was.
Everybody did.
Captain of Switzerland.
Captain at Chelsea.
One of the best defenders in women’s football.
The woman newspapers called The Wall.
Carla had seen her on magazine covers often enough:
serious blue eyes,
dark blonde hair,
impossible composure.
And apparently an absolutely terrifying tackler.
“Right,” Carla muttered. “A football captain. That should be riveting conversation.”
—
Across the ballroom, Lisa Swain looked like she would rather be literally anywhere else.
“Smile,” one of her teammates whispered beside her.
“I am smiling.”
“You look like you’re about to report a murder.”
Lisa exhaled quietly, adjusting the cuffs of her black suit jacket.
She hated formal events.
Give her a Champions League final in front of eighty thousand people and she’d be fine.
Put her in a ballroom with wealthy strangers and tiny portions of expensive food?
Nightmare.
“Captain Swain!”
A reporter appeared beside her almost instantly.
Lisa forced professionalism onto her face.
“Do you think Chelsea can retain the league title this season?”
“We’ll try.”
“And Switzerland’s chances at the Euros?”
“We’ll try.”
The reporter blinked.
“Right.”
Lisa took her champagne and escaped before another microphone appeared.
That was when she noticed her.
Across the room.
Black silk dress.
Sharp posture.
Dark eyes that looked permanently unimpressed with the world.
Carla Connor.
Lisa recognised her immediately.
Everyone did.
Half the women in Europe wore Connor Designs on red carpets.
The tabloids followed her relationships almost obsessively:
actors,
musicians,
businessmen.
Untouchable glamour.
And somehow even more beautiful in real life.
Lisa looked away first.
Which annoyed her immediately.
—
Ten minutes later they were seated beside each other at dinner.
Neither looked particularly pleased about it.
Carla took a sip of wine before glancing sideways.
“So,” she said smoothly, “how many times tonight do people ask you about penalties?”
Lisa looked over.
“At least as many times as they ask you who you’re dating.”
Carla blinked once.
Then laughed unexpectedly.
A real laugh.
Lisa noticed immediately how much it changed her face.
Dangerous, that smile.
“Fair enough,” Carla admitted.
Silence settled briefly between them.
Not awkward exactly.
Measured.
Observant.
Carla studied her properly now:
broad shoulders,
calm posture,
slightly crooked nose that had definitely been broken once,
hands rougher than she expected.
An athlete’s hands.
Lisa caught her looking.
“You always inspect people like that?”
“You always stare back?”
That earned the faintest hint of a smile.
Somewhere nearby another camera flashed.
Neither noticed.
For the first time all evening, both of them were interested in something other than leaving.