After My Ex Framed Me, World Cup King Proposed

Chapter 1

After my ex-boyfriend tricked me into a million-dollar debt,the team fired me,and the only work I could find was at an underground fight club.

"If you can't pay it off,you can always come back to me.I'll still take you in."Julian turned the ring between his fingers—the one from his engagement to another woman."As long as you agree to be my mistress on the side."

I turned,walked out the door,and made a call.

"That job you offered,I'll take it."

“Good.Last ninety days,and you'll get one million bucks.”

"I'll take it." My answer came without hesitation.

“I'll send you the contract via email right now. The client has a serious sports injury and needs daily care along with basic rehabilitation work. None of the previous seventeen private nurses lasted even a week, but if you can make it through the ninety days, they'll pay you one million dollars in a single lump sum.Someone will come to your apartment tomorrow morning to pick you up. But honestly, Miss, I suggest you think this over one more time."

"No need," I said, and ended the call.

The pittance the owner of Ironside paid me for setting fractures and dislocations on men who traded their lives for rent money was never going to clear a million-dollar debt. So what if my new patient was a temperamental invalid? At least I wouldn't have to deal anymore with the mob banging on my door in the middle of the night, or with men threatening to make me a mistress. Ninety days, and my life could start anew.

Back in my apartment, while I was packing, my phone rang again.

"I don't understand. Don't you love me?" Julian Carter's voice was as gentle as ever, and it made my stomach turn. "So why can't you accept that I have a fiancée? Even after I'm married, I'll love you the same way I always have. What more do you want?"

I hung up without a word and blocked his number.

The next morning, a Mercedes-Benz G-Wagon drove me through the gates of an estate, and I froze in my seat at the sight.

The wrought-iron gate, the private field glimpsed in the distance, every detail matched what I had seen in countless player interviews. This place belonged to Adrian Stone, the most valuable footballer in the world, the hero of every kid's bedroom poster. A year ago, an injury on the pitch had taken him off his feet, and he had never gotten back up.

What made it worse was that my last job had been head physical therapist for the Ravens, his bitterest rivals. Back then, I'd had my own office and an assistant.