The crowd erupted in cheers and applause as the match ended. The blurred figure of the victor raised a triumphant hand toward the audience after winning six sets to forty-five points. Meanwhile, the young blonde knelt on the court, slamming her fist against the ground. No matter how hard she tried, the cruel reality struck her again and again—she was nothing more than a microbe beneath her father's shadow.
Because of her, his image had been tarnished before the world—exposed by the miserable lie of "talent" she had pretended to possess. Tears of frustration fell onto the court as she gripped her racket tightly. Then, the blond man appeared before her.
Alexandre: "Quite a match, wasn't it?"
Francesca: between sobs "…Yes…"
Alexandre: "All this happened because I gave you the chance to walk your own path—and it was useless. Just like you."
Francesca: raising her head, eyes closed "…Yes…"
Alexandre: "Everything you could've become… wasted on chasing a pathetic dream you thought you could achieve, just because that fool helped you." He pointed toward the stands.
There, a crude cardboard cutout of the warrior stood—badly painted, with the face of a clown.
Francesca: crying with shame "…Forgive me, Father…"
Alexandre: "Tell me—by God, did you really believe that the false fantasy he fed you would make everything easier?" He snatched the racket from her hands and turned his back. "You don't deserve to stain this sport with your childish dreams."
The audience roared with excitement, focusing their admiration on the blond man as he walked off the court with his head low. The flashing lights of cameras and the fans' eyes illuminated both her father and her rival—leaving Francesca alone beside the cardboard figure, consumed by oblivion.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes wide, looking around. Her large bedroom came into view. She let out a long sigh, noticing that the door was open. A slender figure stood there, letting in the morning sunlight—the figure of a woman with her hair tied into two braids, dressed in a maid's uniform.
Realizing that the girl was awake, the woman spoke quickly, flustered:
Maid: "Oh! My apologies, miss. Your father told me to wake you so you could have breakfast."
Francesca simply nodded, heading to the bathroom to wash her face before going downstairs.
As she dried her face, a single tear slid from her eye. She quickly wiped it away and muttered to herself, "It was just a bad dream," returning to her usual emotionless, robotic expression.
As she approached the kitchen, she overheard voices inside.
???: while cooking "You must be very proud, sir. After all, today is young Francesca's debut in Le Grandi Leghe."
Alexandre: taking a sip of vegetable juice "You can say that again, Mario. I've never been so eager to see the result of a match."
Mario: serving thin, soft crepes on several plates, drawing lines of melted chocolate and a red fruit sauce over them, and finishing with a sprinkle of chopped nuts "È molto positivo, Signor Alexandre. Here, your breakfast."
Alexandre: "Thank you, Mario. And how many times have I told you—you don't have to call me signor?" He smiled warmly, almost angelic.
Francesca entered the kitchen, greeting her father and Mario with a polite "Good morning," which they both returned. She went straight to the refrigerator, grabbed an apple, and began heading back to her room.
Mario, however, immediately noticed something was off. After all, he spent more time with Francesca than her own father did. Concerned, he removed his chef's hat, picked up one of the plates he'd prepared, and approached her with a gentle smile.
Mario: holding the plate "Guarda, signorina. I made your favorite breakfast."
Francesca stopped for a moment, looking at the dish—and at the short, round man with his trademark mustache who smiled at her every morning.
Francesca: "Thank you, Mario, but I need to get ready for my match." She glanced briefly at her father, who was too absorbed in something on his phone, smiling widely.
As she walked out, she ran into her brother, who greeted her casually with a small wave.
Jerome: "Morning! Oh—crepes with chocolate and red fruit sauce! You're a genius, Mario." He grabbed one of the plates on the counter.
Mario: "Thank you, young master," still holding the other plate meant for Francesca.
Alexandre: a bit embarrassed "So, son, how was your gig last night?"
Jerome: raising a brow "Since when does the great athlete care?" He turned around, plate in hand. "Anyway, Mario, I'll be in my room eating this masterpiece."
Mario: "Of course, giovanotto. And tell me—will your friend want one too?" He still held Francesca's plate in his hands.
Both Alexandre and Francesca, who was listening from the doorway, were taken aback.
Jerome: "Nah, she left around six. Oh, and sis—still only an apple, huh?" He frowned, noticing Mario clutching the dish protectively.
Alexandre: "Son! Why didn't you tell me you brought your girlfriend home?!"
Jerome: "Number one, she's not my girlfriend. Number two, even if I had told you, you wouldn't have noticed—you're too busy reading glowing articles about yourself online." He snatched the plate from Mario's hands. "Here—you're in the way, take this." He placed it into Francesca's hands.
Mario didn't bother scolding him. Seeing that Francesca had accepted the plate, he smiled kindly.
Mario: "Eat, signorina. Today's your big day." He ruffled her hair lightly before heading back to the kitchen.
Francesca watched her brother walk upstairs. Despite his usual aloofness, small gestures like that always comforted her. Then she felt a hand rest on her shoulder. Turning, she saw her father smiling proudly.
Alexandre: "Alright, sweetheart. Once you finish breakfast and get ready, we'll head to the court. Today… is your grand debut!" He raised his arm enthusiastically, beaming with pride.
Francesca began to smile faintly—but before she could respond, a phone call interrupted him, pulling him away to answer it.
Monday, 11:00 a.m. — One hour before the match.
Francesca arrived with her father at the Center of Great Champions. The scale of the place didn't impress her; compared to where she trained, it even seemed smaller. The stands were slowly filling with spectators. While her father went to look for her brother, Francesca's sharp gaze scanned the crowd carefully, searching for the warrior—but he was nowhere to be seen.
Just then, she caught sight of someone wearing a familiar light-blue tracksuit, but before she could focus, her father returned.
Alexandre: "Ready, sweetheart? Are you calm? Need some water? Just say the word and I'll get it for you."
Francesca: "Yes, Dad, I'm fine. Hey, do you know when my opponent will arrive?"