The Ugly Side

“No,” I said flatly, without so much as a second thought, after Noah, currently lounging in my office and refusing to let me work, pitched what might be the worst idea I’d heard all day.

Noah let out an amused chuckle. “Come on, Elara. It’s not going to be a disaster like last time.”

The way his voice lilted with mischief made it clear he was recalling exactly how bad “last time” went. I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the screen, fingers tapping out a not-so-urgent email just to avoid engaging.

Bored of being ignored, Noah clicked his tongue and slammed my laptop shut mid-sentence. I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut in quickly, grinning. “Come on, Elara. Please? It’s just a badminton match. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I shot him a sharp look. He blinked and quickly backtracked. “Okay, okay… I get it.” He scratched the back of his neck, feigning sheepishness. “Last time you played, you got… a little overzealous.”

I raised an eyebrow.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. You went slightly unhinged and nearly decapitated Ryan with a racket. But hey! That was six years ago! You’ve matured since then, haven’t you?”

“Wrong,” I said coolly. “I’m still the same. And I’m still not playing with you.”

“But I need a solid partner!” Noah groaned dramatically, clasping his hands together like he was about to drop to his knees. “Do you know who Ryan is teaming up with? Lucian! Lucian! My own brother would rather pair up with our cousin than with me.”

I blinked. “That’s because you suck, Noah.”

His jaw dropped slightly. “Wow. Harsh.”

“It’s true,” I said, shrugging. “We only won last time because of me. You were as useful on the court as a broken shuttlecock.”

He gasped. “That’s low, even for you.”

“Is it?” I arched a brow. “You missed five serves in a row. I thought I was playing solo for half the match.”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, pointing at me as if I’d just proven his point. “This is why I need you! You’re ruthless, terrifying, and unfairly talented with a racket. Come on, Elara! Only you can help me win. Please!” His expression was pure desperation, puppy dog eyes and all.

I’m good at badminton, no, scratch that, I’m great at it. The only catch? I’m also fiercely competitive. Too competitive, if I’m being honest. Once I’m on the court, it’s like I lose all sense of who I’m playing with. Winning becomes everything, and I forget that I’m supposed to be having fun.

The last time I played with the Whitmore family, things got… ugly. Poor Ryan, Noah’s cousin on his dad’s side, was on the receiving end of my sharp tongue and even sharper serves. He was gracious enough to laugh it off, pretending not to mind my frustrated outbursts, but I was mortified. The moment we left the court, I vowed never to play with them again.

Of course, the Whitmores found the whole thing endlessly amusing. They kept inviting me back, but I declined every time. I couldn’t bring myself to face them, not on a court, not after that meltdown.

For the Whitmores, tennis and badminton are practically family traditions. I’ve watched them play plenty of Sunday tennis matches, but I’ve only ever participated in their badminton games. In fact, I got so good at it because I used to play regularly with Noah, Viv, and a few of their cousins and friends when we were younger.

I’ve seen almost every Whitmore in action, except Lucian. He rarely joins their Sunday games, and according to Noah, that’s a shame, because he’s supposedly just as good as me. Maybe even better. This Sunday, however, Lucian is playing. One of those rare occasions. And that… for reasons I can’t quite explain… makes me more nervous to go play with them on Sunday.

I don’t know why, but something about it feels deeply off being so casual, so unfiltered, in front of my boss. There’s a line I’ve always tried to keep intact, and this… this blurs it. If I go there and lose my temper again, like some angry, overzealous bull, how am I supposed to show my face at work the next day? How do I look that same man in the eye, the one I practically insulted over a badminton game?

No. I can’t do that.

And honestly, I don’t even think I’ll be able to play with Lucian around. It would just be too awkward. Especially after the way I’ve been acting around him lately… skittish, off-balance, like I’m tiptoeing around landmines of my own making.

“Elara, please. Listen, if you won’t come, I’ll talk to Mom and Dad. I’ll make them bring you,” Noah said, his tone half-joking but laced with seriousness. I looked up at him, startled by the threat.

He knows. He knows exactly how hard it is for me to say no to Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore. All the other times I bailed on those badminton games, I used some made-up commitment as a shield. But now, he’s cornered me. Now he knows I’m free this Sunday.

God, I’m such an idiot. When he casually asked what I was doing this weekend, I didn’t even hesitate. I just told him I was free. I thought he wanted to catch up or maybe hang out like we used to. I didn’t expect… this. And now he won’t let it go.

A few more minutes passed, and Noah was still pleading like a stubborn child who just wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Okay, you don’t have to stay long,” he said gently, trying a different tactic. “Just one game. That’s all. And I swear I’ll make sure your competitive side doesn’t take over too much, alright? Please? It’s been six years, Elara. I’m sure you won’t react the same way you did back then.”

Maybe he was right.

That was a long time ago. I was younger. Hot-headed. I’m not that person anymore, at least, I hope I’m not. I took a slow breath and exhaled it like it might release the anxiety tightening in my chest.

“Fine,” I muttered, my voice low and reluctant.

Because maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

I was wrong.

The sun hung lazily above the Whitmore estate, casting long shadows over the smooth, manicured grass and the gleaming private badminton court nestled between rows of trimmed hedges. This was just one of several on the property, because of course, the Whitmores had more than one. Only a handful of people were around: Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore sitting comfortably under a large parasol, watching the games unfold with amused smiles. The others mingled by the refreshments table or lounged on the garden chairs.

Lucian wasn’t here. Not yet, at least. The absence made the air feel slightly less suffocating… though not enough to survive a match with Noah.

Ryan and Carl had taken over one side of the court, already knee-deep in their match. The sharp smack of the shuttlecock echoed as they traded volleys with laser focus and a touch of reckless energy. Carl had a solid stance and surprisingly good footwork, but Ryan played like someone with a point to prove… quick, agile, merciless. Every now and then, they’d let out a competitive shout, but there was no audience to impress. Just family, old friends, and a few witnesses to their over-the-top intensity.

Meanwhile, I was regretting all my life choices.

“I would rather stare directly into the sun and permanently lose my vision than watch you play, Noah,” I said flatly, hands planted on my hips like I was bracing for impact.

Noah just laughed, unfazed as ever, twirling his racket like he was about to serve up pure magic instead of yet another disaster.

“Noah,” I said louder, more exasperated this time, “A monkey could play better than you. And it would probably have better footwork.”

“Wow,” he replied with mock offense, pressing a hand to his heart. “I’m really feeling the love today.”

“Move, Whitmore, move!” I yelled as the shuttlecock dropped, again, right at his feet. “When you see it coming, you don’t just stand there looking pretty. You move your ass and actually play!”

From the other court, someone, probably Ryan, snorted loud enough for me to hear it.

“I swear, it’d be less embarrassing if you just burned your racket and walked away with your dignity,” I grumbled.

“Oh, come on, I’m not that bad…”

“If I could erase one thing from your memory,” I cut in, “It wouldn’t be your high school haircut. It would be badminton, because clearly, you never learned anything about it in the first place.”

He groaned. “I can’t even argue. I brought this on myself by asking you to come.”

I ignored him. The match was more important. And we were already losing, thanks to his tragic attempts at athleticism.

“You look like a scarecrow standing out there,” I snapped. “Just standing there like you’re posing for a horror movie poster. Even the wind has more game than you.”

And then… salvation.

The shuttlecock soared into the air… a perfect lob, soft and slow, practically gift-wrapped.

I could feel hope rise in my chest like a fragile balloon. “Noah Whitmore,” I warned, eyes wide, “you better not miss that one.”

He swung.

He missed.

Again.

I dropped my racket and looked up at the sky, silently begging for divine intervention. Or maybe for a lightning bolt to strike him. Or me. I wasn’t picky.

From across the court, Carl called out, “Noah, seriously, my five-year-old daughter would’ve nailed that one.”

Noah grinned, sheepish but still annoyingly pleased with himself. “I’m just warming up!”

“Since the last decade?!” I shot back.

“Girl, what did life do to you? You’ve gotten meaner,” Noah said, half-laughing, half-winded as he walked off the court.

I only rolled my eyes while Ryan and Carl chuckled nearby, wiping sweat from their brows and watching us with mild amusement.

I didn’t know much about my competition, except that Ryan and Carl were brothers. Carl being the older, steadier one, and Ryan the youngest and sharpest on his feet. And, unfortunately for us, they were both really good at badminton.

“I haven’t played in a long time. That’s why I’m lacking,” Noah said, dropping onto the bench and grabbing his water bottle.

“Please,” I scoffed, stepping over and snatching the bottle from his hand without asking. “You weren’t good before either.”

I chugged half the bottle, letting the cold water soothe my parched throat, while Noah watched me with a tired grin. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a soft chuckle, this time quieter, different. There was no teasing behind it.

“I missed this,” he said under his breath, voice almost lost to the breeze.

I glanced at him. His eyes weren’t dancing with mischief like they usually did. They were… calm. Sad. His lips pulled into a half-smile, the kind that wasn’t meant to be convincing.

“Thank you for not changing, Elara,” he said quietly. “I would’ve been so bummed if you’d changed too.”

The bite I’d felt earlier from the match, the frustration and sarcasm, all dissolved. His words didn’t come from a place of lightness. They felt heavier than they should have, like they carried more meaning than he was letting on. He looked away, eyes drifting across the court, as if the surrounding quiet might swallow whatever emotions he was trying not to show. I sighed softly, unsure of what to say. I suddenly felt bad. For the way I’d been snapping. For not noticing sooner.

Noah cleared his throat, standing up and brushing his hands against his shorts. “As much as I needed this break,” he said with a small, forced smile, “I’m not playing the next round with you.”

“Hey!” I said, frowning. “You can’t just bail on me like that. Sure, you’re pathetic, but come on, give it one more try.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nah. I can’t with you, girl. You’re too much for me.”

Then, his gaze flicked past me. He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I think Lucian can handle you better than I can.”

That made my heart jolt, a strange, uneasy flutter in my chest. Something about the way he said it. The way he looked at me. Before I could ask what he meant, he nodded behind me. I turned, and there he was.

Lucian Whitmore.

Standing at the edge of the court like a shadow, finally stepping into the sun.