In Manchester, from the 40th floor of the Deansgate skyscraper, the rain looked like static on a TV screen. It was distant, quiet, and expensive.
Rio Lance sat on his massive velvet sofa, staring out at the city lights.
The apartment was silent. Leo was out "networking" (which meant he was probably trying to sell Rio's image rights to a shampoo company in a nightclub). The matte black McLaren was parked downstairs. The £60 million contract was signed. The Number 7 shirt was in his bag.
He had everything.
And he was bored out of his fucking mind.
He picked up his phone. He scrolled through Instagram.
Erling Haaland posted a picture of a cow.
Jack Grealish posted a selfie with a DJ.
Fabrizio Romano posted about Rio's market value rising.
It was all noise.
Rio sighed and opened his contacts. His thumb hovered over a name.
Maya.
Maya wasn't a model. She wasn't an influencer. She wasn't someone Leo would approve of because she had "zero brand synergy."
