The applause echoed across Centre Court as the final point ended.

Roman Volkov didn’t celebrate.

He simply adjusted the grip on his racket, nodded once to his opponent, and walked toward the net. Cameras flashed from every direction. Reporters shouted his name. Children leaned over the barriers, begging for signatures.

World No. 1.

Another title.

Another trophy.

As he disappeared into the players’ tunnel, his manager caught up with him.

“One more stop.”

Roman sighed. “I already did the interviews.”

“This isn’t an interview.”

“What is it?”

“The tournament’s biggest sponsor wants a photo.”

Roman’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t take staged pictures.”

His manager lowered his voice.

“You don’t have a choice.”

⸻

Meanwhile…

Isabelle Laurent stood beside the sponsor’s backdrop, resisting the urge to check the time for the fifth time.

She hated these events.

Everyone assumed that because she was the only daughter of the Laurent Group’s billionaire founder, she loved the spotlight.

She didn’t.

She was only here because her father couldn’t attend Wimbledon this year.

A woman from the PR team rushed over.

“Miss Laurent, Mr. Volkov is on his way.”

“I know.”

“He’s… difficult.”

“So I’ve heard.”

The woman gave her an apologetic smile before disappearing.

Seconds later, footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Roman appeared.

Tall.

Broad shoulders.

Still wearing his white match kit, his hair damp with sweat, his trophy tucked beneath one arm.

He didn’t even look at her.

“Let’s make this quick.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow.

“You haven’t even said hello.”

“I wasn’t aware that was mandatory.”

She folded her arms.

“It isn’t. Basic manners usually come naturally.”

That made him stop.

For the first time, he looked directly at her.

Not at her tailored cream suit.

Not at the cameras.

At her.

“…You’re not the marketing director.”

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

“Isabelle Laurent.”

Nothing.

Then realization flickered across his face.

“The billionaire’s daughter.”

“The billionaire’s heir.”

A photographer interrupted.

“Perfect! Stand a little closer, please.”

Neither of them moved.

The photographer laughed awkwardly.

“A little closer.”

Roman looked at Isabelle.

“I’d rather not.”

She smiled sweetly.

“The feeling is mutual.”

The cameras exploded with flashes anyway.

By morning, every sports headline read the same thing:

WORLD NO. 1 TENNIS STAR CLASHES WITH BILLIONAIRE HEIRESS DURING WIMBLEDON.

Neither of them knew that the tournament had already signed them up for the next two weeks of sponsor appearances—together.