The Match He Let Her Win

Flashes popped nonstop.

I faced their prying—almost gloating—stares and kept my voice steady.

"I've studied Julian's logic for five years. I know how tight his risk models are. An intern fresh back, no major comps, breaking through his system at three key stages? That doesn't make sense."

The crowd blew up.

Someone asked what proof I had.

Others turned to the cameras, guessing if Julian threw the match.

I didn't answer. Just a small nod, then I headed for the parking lot.

The second I yanked the car door open, my phone blew up.

The screen lit up: Julian Vale.

I picked up. Didn't even get a word out.

"Clara Clermont, have you lost your mind?" His voice came in hot. "Telling the media the match was rigged? You trying to ruin my career?"

Same edge. Same impatience. The same tone he used for five years—every time I lost and he frowned, said I "wasn't good enough."

Leaning on the car door, I almost laughed. "Ruin your career? Since when are you this insecure?"

"I've got enough trouble losing. You have to make it worse?"

Usually, when he sounded like that, I'd back down.

Not this time.

"That intern—Nadine Grace—had three flaws. You would've caught them in three minutes. So how did you lose?"

He snapped. "Stop being ridiculous. The result's final. I just didn't perform well. You really gonna keep pushing this?"

I laughed. My eyes burned anyway.

"We've been together five years. Twenty-seven matches, big and small. Every time you won, I told myself I just wasn't there yet. But today I get it. It's not that I wasn't good enough—you never planned to let me win."