In which 34 year old Marco Reus, one of the world's most celebrated footballers, accidentally-on-purpose falls in love with Sahara Tereschenkova, his late lover's mysterious little sister.
The problem? Marco's married with a young daughter, and Sah...
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I won't soothe your pain I won't ease your strain You'll be waiting in vain I've got nothing for you to gain
—
Sahara could feel their stares and hear their whispers; every last word that they uttered about her disruptive presence. Juliette was dead. She was dead, and while Sahara could barely remember her, she knew that she was supposed to be dejected. Since she looked dejected and weak, particularly standing next to Andreas in all his glory, people whispered.
And Marco Reus's wife was no exception. "Poor thing, to lose her sister like that..." despite her pitiful tone, Scarlett Gartmann-Reus's lips were curled in an amused smirk. "Though it can't be so bad, living with Andreas. I mean, I can think of worse—"
"Sahara," Andreas interrupted Sahara's eavesdropping, causing her cheeks to redden as she instantly turned the other way. Scarlett knew I was listening. "You haven't moved since we arrived. Here," he placed a drink in her hands, that same charming and patronizing grin on his lips. "Just relax."
The beverage was non-alcoholic—Andreas would never let Sahara so much as sniff a glass of liquor, or inhale second-hand cigarette smoke. She'd been out of the hospital for a month, but if she mixed substances with her prescribed medications, she'd end up right back in the emergency room. She knew she was a myth of sorts, and that was why people couldn't stop talking about her. For a month now, the footballers at Borussia Dortmund had spread hushed word of Sahara Tereschenkova, the little sister nobody knew Juliette Tereschenkova—who was a ballerina by profession—had. Why did Juliette say she was an only child? She was beyond respected in every circle she existed within; people knew her name, and they adored it. But her death, and Sahara's emergence, had proved that nobody really knew her. Sahara was, presumably, the only one who had the answers—yet they silently derided her for being kept, for being shy, for being an unsophisticated outsider.
"Just relax?" Sahara frowned, staring up at Andreas. She gripped her drink. "Everyone in here is talking about me."
She didn't even know whose party they were at, if they were in a nice house or a fancy venue. She didn't even know if they were in Dortmund. She didn't need to, when Andreas kept track of everything for her. "You begged me," Andreas watched Sahara blush as he fired back at her remark. "I told you it might be better for you to stay at home."
Home. Well, that was true. Sahara didn't know what had come over her when she saw Andreas grabbing his car keys, dressed in one of those minimal and clean outfits that only worked on men who were naturally handsome. But she'd never actually thought of him as handsome until then. In a flash, she liked the way it felt in her stomach, and between her thighs, when he looked at her. So, like a child, she threw a fit. She begged him to take her, knowing inside that she just didn't want to lose that feeling. Moreover, she didn't want him to give it to any other women. She'd failed in both of those objectives, and Andreas knew this, yet he let it flatter him—like any mourning and desolate widower would. Sahara's lips parted, and she stuttered. "Y-you," her eyes were burning now. No, she couldn't do this. Not here. You can't do this. She couldn't think. Why can't you fucking think?!
