The Football King’s Secret Heir

Riley’s POV The entire city of Cooperswellis vibrating. Even deep within the quiet, carpeted eighth-floor corridor of the Grand Horizon Luxury Hotel, I can hear the distant, muffled roars of car horns and cheering crowds echoing from the streets below. Tonight, our country didn't just win the World Cup—we conquered it. And the man who carried the entire nation on his back is none other than Mateo Moretti. He also scored the single goal of the World Cup finals that gave us the victory. At just twenty-four years old, he is already an undisputed legend. He made his professional debut at seventeen, breaking records as a teenager and showing the kind of greatness people only see once in a generation. I’ve been his fan since the very beginning. For seven years, his posters have covered my bedroom walls, and I’ve watched every single match, watching him grow from a breakout prodigy into the king of football. Tonight, he didn't just lift the trophy; he walked away with the Golden Ball as the tournament's best player and the Golden Boot as the highest scorer. Watching him lift that golden trophy on the breakroom television earlier tonight made me feel, for a fleeting moment, like the suffocating weight on my own life had lifted. But reality always snaps back. I glance down at the silver name badge pinned to my uniform. It reads ANNA. The real Anna is a nurse from the hospital my grandmother is admitted, who applied for this housekeeping position, got hired, and then realized she couldn't juggle the hours with her nursing schedule. She never even showed up for her first shift. Knowing I was drowning in debt and losing my mind trying to pay for my grandmother’s intensive care bills at CooperswellGeneral, she handed me her uniform, her training manuals, and her new hire badge. “They just hired a massive wave of nocturnal staff for the World Cup rush, Ms Jacob,” she had whispered. “The floor managers don’t know my face yet. They just look at the clock-in sheet. Go by Anna, take the cash, and save your gran.” It was a desperate, terrifying risk, but it was working. By the time the clock strikes 11:30 p.m., the hotel is quiet. The official national team victory gala is happening across the city at the convention center, but the wealthy elite who traveled for the final match are starting to filter back into their luxury suites. Most of the hotel staff had begged for assignments near the VIP suites tonight, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elites. I was the only one praying for a quiet shift. "Anna," the night supervisor barks, flagging me down by the service elevator. "Take this silver tray up to the Penthouse, Suite 801. The guest requested a fresh carafe of black coffee and extra ice water. Move quickly." "Yes, sir." I take the heavy tray, my knuckles turning white as I step into the elevator. The elevator ascends smoothly, lifting me to the highest tier of the building. I walk down the silent, heavily insulated corridor until I stand before the mahogany double doors of Suite 801. I know Mateo Moretti visited our hotel earlier under a private alias—the staff whispered about it during shift change. “He wanted privacy, escaping the chaotic team party to find a quiet sanctuary away from the cameras and the noise, but I don’t know if he is still here.” My pulse quickened despite myself. For seven years I have dreamed of meeting Mateo Moretti, but not like this. If fate was kind enough to let me see him tonight, maybe I'll finally get the autograph I've always wanted. The plan is to attend to whoever is in this room and rush back to look for Mateo. I balance the tray on one arm and knock firmly. "Room service." No answer. I knock a second time, a bit louder. "Room service for the penthouse." To my surprise, the heavy door isn't locked. The latch clicks, and the door swings inward a fraction of an inch, revealing a sliver of a dimly lit, incredibly lavish living room inside. I nudge the heavy door shut behind me with my foot. "Sir? Ma’am?" I call out cautiously, pushing the door open with my shoulder as I step inside. "I have your coffee and water." Silence greets me. The air inside the suite wraps around me like a furnace. It is unnaturally hot, almost difficult to breathe.The scent of a sharp, expensive masculine cologne mixes with the bitter edge of alcohol. Even the room itself feels… wrong. I place the silver tray onto the nearest glass console table in the entryway and step around the corner into the main living suite. My breath completely leaves my body. A glass lay shattered beneath the coffee table, amber liquid had soaked deep into the cream-colored rug, tiny shards of crystal glittering around it beneath the chandelier. Whatever had happened in here, it hadn't been peaceful. Sprawled on the plush velvet carpet beside the massive sofa is a man. His white linen shirt is violently torn open at the collar, his broad chest heaving as he fights for air. His tan skin is slick with an unnatural, terrifying amount of sweat, his jawline clenched so tightly the bone looks ready to snap. I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs as I stare at his face. No. This is impossible. Is this really Mateo? The man who was just draped in a gold medal on my television screen a few hours ago? Or does this person just look exactly like him? Driven by pure panic, I step closer and drop to my knees beside him. "Mateo... Moretti?" He doesn't answer, his jaw clenches so tightly that a muscle jumps beneath his skin, and a strained groan escapes him as though he's fighting something inside his own body. The heat radiating from his body is electric. I reach out, my hand trembling as I touch his arm. He is burning alive. His breathing comes in frantic, uneven bursts, each inhale sounding more painful than the last. My eyes dart to his face. His pupils are unnaturally wide, almost swallowing the color of his irises, and despite the unmistakable scent of expensive whiskey on his breath, something about this feels horribly wrong. This isn’t how a drunken man behaves... is it? My mind races with frantic, terrifying questions. Is he drunk? No… this looks worse than drunkenness. Is he having a severe allergic reaction? Did he take some kind of medication he isn’t supposed to? Or did someone slip something into his drink? Whatever it is he looks like he's on the verge of collapsing entirely. Fear spiking through my veins, I quickly reach into my uniform pocket and pull out my mobile phone. "Oh my god... hang on, let me call a doctor. Let me get an ambulance…" His eyes snapped toward the phone before I could even unlock it. Something almost panicked flashed across his face. A heavy, calloused hand shoots out, clamping around my wrist with bone-crushing force. Mateo’s eyes snap open. But they aren't the sharp, triumphant eyes from the trophy ceremony. They are entirely bloodshot, clouded over by a dark, wild, and completely erratic glaze. He looks entirely out of his mind, Whatever was happening to him, it looked far more dangerous than ordinary intoxication. "No..." he rasps, shaking his head weakly. "No phones. No police. No doctors." Mateo chokes out, his voice a raw, ragged rasp from the back of his throat. He yanks my arm, his massive, muscular frame pulling me straight down against his chest. "Don't call... anyone." "Mr. Moretti, please!" I gasp, my phone slipping from my fingers and thudding onto the carpet. "You're sick! You need a doctor!" "No doctors," he mutters deliriously, his hot, panting breath fanning across my neck as he traps me against his body. His breathing grew even more erratic, as though merely speaking was costing him every ounce of strength he had left. He is completely lost to whatever fever is burning through him, looking at me but seeing absolutely nothing. "Just... stay. Don't leave." Before I can even process the breathtaking gravity of the moment, his grip shifts, his large hands anchoring into my hair, and his lips crash onto mine with a desperate, heavy, and completely unhinged intensity. His entire body trembles violently—as though whatever is consuming him has finally won.