Costa Mayor stormed out of Manchester United's executive office, fists clenched, forcing himself to swallow his fury. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to lash out—but he couldn't. Not here. Not when Claire Lee was the golden boy his Warner Music bosses were banking on.
Beside him, Denis Irwin's face cycled through emotions like a malfunctioning traffic light—red with anger, yellow with unease, green with… whatever the hell that conflicted grimace meant.
Only Claire seemed unbothered, casually eyeing the players warming up on the pitch. United's intra-squad scrimmage was about to begin, but Costa's mind was stuck on one question:
What the hell did these two talk about without me?
Because something had shifted. Irwin, who should've been an easy pawn in Warner's chess game, had suddenly switched sides during the meeting—backing Claire's demands with unexpected defiance.
---
### Claire's Burden
Claire's calm exterior hid a storm. The "bond"—that inexplicable emotional tether—was acting up again, yanking him in directions he didn't fully understand.
It started after the press conference.
Ronaldo had dragged him and Rooney toward the locker room, scheming about their night out. Rooney, ever the hedonist, was already pitching his yacht party (courtesy of White Star Line).
"Come on, lads! Proper night out—none of that rookie shit you're used to."
Ronaldo hesitated (smart man, given Rooney's tabloid reputation). Claire outright declined, citing his alcohol-induced benching earlier.
But then, eavesdropping on two Daily Mirror reporters, Claire's world tilted:
"Heard the Mission: Impossible 3 lead's some Hong Kong star? She roasted London cops at the premiere last night!"
"And Megan Fox is flying in October 1st for Transformers reshoots—"
Megan. Fox.
The name detonated in Claire's skull.
---
### Flashbacks & Fury
Claire barely made it to an empty restroom before the memories ambushed him:
- A little girl with freckles tugging his sleeve: "Yi, wait for me at the bus stop tomorrow!"
- Her clumsily packed lunch: "I made this less spicy, just for you."
- Her voice cracking: "My parents are fighting again… I'm scared."
- The pact: "Let's tattoo our names where everyone can see. So we never forget."
His left arm burned under his sleeve—the hidden "Megan" inked there.
Gasping, Claire gripped the sink. "I KNOW! I remember the fucking promise!" he snarled at his reflection. "But she's a blockbuster star now, and I'm a one-game wonder! Give me TIME!"
The "bond" responded by flooding his mind with Hollywood power plays—producers greenlighting films, studios writing checks.
Claire laughed bitterly. "Oh, now you want me to help her? Buddy, I can't even help myself yet."
As quickly as it came, the pressure faded.
But the message was clear: This isn't over.
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