"In the fashion industry, you might be leading the trends today, but tomorrow, you're already outdated. How many people can truly escape that cycle?" Francesca Bianchi mused, swirling the last of her drink in her glass.
Aymar Zambo listened carefully. He understood what she was saying, but since he didn't fully grasp the inner workings of the fashion industry, he wasn't sure how to respond.
He had heard about similar things in Hollywood—celebrities maintaining carefully crafted public images, sometimes even staging fake relationships or marriages just to stay relevant. Their entire brand was controlled by agencies, leaving little room for personal freedom. It wasn't too different from what Francesca was describing. The entertainment world, regardless of the country, had its fair share of hidden sacrifices.
Francesca picked up her glass again, and Aymar clinked his against hers before taking a sip. To his surprise, she downed hers in one go with a small sigh.
He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't take you for a heavy drinker."
She smirked slightly, then leaned back against the seat.
"Can I ask you something?" she said suddenly, her tone shifting.
Aymar could tell she wasn't in the best mood, so he simply nodded. "Go ahead."
"You have to answer honestly. No overthinking."
"Alright."
She hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Do you think I'm fat?"
Aymar blinked, caught completely off guard. Francesca even straightened up slightly, her posture accentuating her well-toned figure.
He swallowed instinctively, then shook his head. "Not at all."
If a woman with her physique was considered fat, then every woman in the world would wish to be called fat.
Francesca let out a small, amused huff. "Well, that's not what they think. Apparently, this body type isn't in anymore."
"So what is?" Aymar asked, raising an eyebrow.
She hesitated before shaking her head with a sigh. "Who knows? All I know is that I have fewer and fewer jobs these days, while she is everywhere. And the worst part? The bigger she gets, the worse her attitude becomes."
Aymar leaned back, watching her carefully. He wasn't an expert on the fashion industry, but he understood competition. Football wasn't much different—when a younger, trendier name emerged, veterans were quickly pushed aside, no matter how skilled they were.
"So what are you going to do about it?" he asked.
Francesca bit her lip, clearly deep in thought. "Someone recently gave me an idea…" she said slowly. "He's a stylist, someone who's been pursuing me for a while. I've turned him down before, but he said if I just consider his offer, he could help me make a comeback."
She trailed off, almost disgusted at the thought. Even without her saying it outright, Aymar could guess what "consider his offer" really meant.
He exhaled sharply. "This happens in every industry, doesn't it?"
Francesca nodded, looking down at her empty glass.
Aymar studied her for a moment before leaning forward. "Want my honest opinion?"
She looked up at him, her deep eyes searching his face before nodding.
"If someone told me I wasn't fit to be a head coach, sure, I'd be disappointed. But if they told me I should marry someone I don't love just to further my career, I'd turn them down on the spot. Because that wouldn't be ambition—that would be betraying myself."
Francesca remained silent, listening intently.
"I love football. I love coaching. It gives me pride, satisfaction, and purpose. But if achieving success meant selling out my values, it wouldn't be worth it. And I refuse to let my career be dictated by what's trendy."
Aymar leaned back slightly, eyes locked on hers.
"If defensive football is in fashion, I should abandon attacking football? If everyone starts playing 4-4-2, I have to follow? And then tomorrow, when they switch to 3-5-2 or 4-2-3-1, I have to change again? Where does it stop?"
He shook his head. "That's not how success works. Trends come and go. But if you stay true to your own identity and refine your strengths, eventually, it won't be you following the trend—it'll be others following you."
Francesca stared at him, her expression unreadable.
"Even if no one supports you in the end," Aymar continued, "I will. I'll be your only fan if I have to."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, out of nowhere, Francesca grabbed his hand—as if she had just found something solid to hold onto in an industry full of illusions.
Aymar wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the weight of the conversation, but he didn't pull away.
...
...
As the morning sunlight seeped through the gap in the hotel curtains, Francesca Bianchi slowly opened her eyes, groaning as a dull headache throbbed in her temples.
She regretted drinking so much the night before. She could barely remember how she even made it back to her hotel room. The details were hazy—blurry flashes of laughter, clumsy steps, and… something else.
Had she said too much? Had she done something foolish?
Fragments of the night flickered in her mind. She vaguely recalled Aymar Zambo bringing her back, helping her to the bed, and…
Her eyes widened.
She remembered suddenly clinging to him—wrapping her arms around his waist, pulling him onto the bed. In her drunken state, she had been reckless, pressing herself against him, and then…
"Wait… My God… did we—?"
Francesca bolted upright, scanning the room frantically. But Aymar was nowhere to be seen.
She exhaled in relief—only for her breath to catch again.
Her clothes were scattered all over the floor.
And she was completely naked under the sheets.
A rush of heat filled her cheeks. But as a woman who valued her dignity and self-respect, she instinctively knew her body hadn't been touched. If something had happened, she would have felt it.
At most… she had kissed him while drunk.
Her blush deepened. The more she recalled the night, the more mortified she felt.
Francesca had always slept without clothes, believing it was good for her skin. But last night, she had stripped in front of Aymar—completely uninhibited, lost in her intoxicated haze.
"Dio mio… what is wrong with me?" she muttered, running a hand through her tousled hair in frustration.
She had never imagined she would act so recklessly when drunk.
Still sitting in bed, uncertain about how to deal with the situation, she suddenly heard a knock at the door.
Her heart jumped.
"Is it… Aymar?"
She hesitated, not knowing how to face him.
Technically, nothing had happened, but… he had seen her. All of her.
And that was humiliating enough.
She considered not answering, hoping he would just leave. But after a brief pause, the knocking started again.
Francesca sighed, gathered her courage, and told herself, "It's just a conversation. No big deal… right?"
She threw on her silk robe, quickly tidied her room, and walked over to open the door.
"Good morning, Miss Bianchi!"
Francesca froze—it wasn't Aymar standing there. Instead, it was a hotel staff member holding a tray.
She let out a small, disappointed sigh before composing herself. "Good morning. Is there something you need?"
"Yes, ma'am. Before leaving, Mr. Zambo specifically asked us to wake you at 8 AM and to bring you hot water and breakfast. He also asked us to remind you that you drank a lot last night, so he suggested you have some porridge this morning."
Francesca blinked, taking in the words.
"Wait… before leaving? He's gone?"
"Yes, Miss. Mr. Zambo received a phone call late at night and left early this morning. He wanted to apologize for not waking you—he didn't want to disturb your rest, so he asked us to pass on his farewell instead."
The staff member handed her the tray, which contained a bowl of lean pork congee and a cup of hot water.
Apparently, Aymar had personally requested the kitchen to prepare it for her.
Francesca stared at the tray in silence.
Her fingers lightly traced the edge of the bowl.
"That coward," she thought, smirking to herself. "He ran away to avoid the awkwardness, huh?"
And yet, despite everything, she felt strangely touched.
He hadn't taken advantage of her vulnerable state. Instead, he had taken care of her—thoughtfully ensuring she would wake up with something to ease her hangover.
A rare, genuine kindness.
As she took her first sip of the warm, soothing porridge, she thought of Aymar again.
"Damn him…" she mused, "this actually tastes good."
...
On the train from Milan to Verona, Aymar Zambo suddenly sneezed loudly.
"Damn… is someone talking about me?" he muttered, rubbing his nose. A slight chill ran through him—probably a combination of the wine from last night and the cold air creeping in overnight.
His thoughts drifted back to the events of the previous night, and he couldn't help but find the whole situation both amusing and frustrating.
It was ridiculous, really. Francesca Bianchi's boldness had completely caught him off guard. Aymar was only human, and when a woman like her stripped right in front of him, it would be a lie to say he wasn't tempted.
For a brief moment, he had been right on the edge—just as any man would be in that situation.
And then… the worst possible thing happened.
His phone rang.
Not just once—but continuously, over and over, breaking through the tension of the moment. Pippo Glaviano and Pierino Fanna had called him back-to-back.
For nearly half an hour, he had been stuck on the phone as they informed him that Torino and Parma—two Serie A clubs—had extended formal invitations for face-to-face meetings. Both clubs wanted to discuss a potential coaching role, and the meetings were set to take place in Verona.
By the time he had finally ended the call, Francesca was already fast asleep.
Aymar had sighed in frustration, but the sudden reality of his career decisions had pulled him back to focus. He needed to figure out his future, and he couldn't afford distractions.
So, instead of lingering, he booked the earliest train out of Milan and left at dawn.
And now, sitting on the train on his way back to Verona, he let out another heavy sigh.
In the grand scheme of things, leaving had been the right choice.
But at this moment?
"Damn it, I should've just bitten my tongue and stayed."
What Aymar didn't know, however, was that his unexpected departure had left Francesca with a very different impression—one of a rare, self-disciplined, honorable man who had chosen restraint over impulse.
A reputation that, if he had known about it, would've only made him regret leaving even more.
That was an interesting Chapter, l was having fun writing that. What do think of the dialogue, did l do that well?
If you have any ideas about my story, you can just comment, l read all the comments of the readers
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GOT IT