CHAPTER 3 — THE CHAIRMAN'S OFFICE

The executive floor was nothing like the rest of Blackridge FC.

Downstairs, the building buzzed with noise. Boots on concrete. Laughter echoing through corridors. The constant thrum of a football club alive and breathing. Up here, there was only silence. Thick carpet swallowed every footstep. The air smelled like leather and old money. The walls were lined with framed photographs. Trophies gleamed inside glass cases. Signed shirts from legends who had worn the black and red decades before Luca Moretti ever laced his boots.

Evelyn had walked these halls as a child. She remembered skipping ahead of her father while he took phone calls, her small fingers tracing the glass cases, her reflection ghosting over the silver trophies. Back then, this floor had felt like a palace. Magical. Full of stories.

Now it just felt cold.

Damien's assistant led her past a row of offices. Through the glass walls, she could see executives in suits, their faces illuminated by laptop screens. Two of them stopped talking as she passed. A woman with a Bluetooth headset glanced up from her desk and immediately looked away.

Everyone knew who she was. Everyone knew she had been summoned.

They reached the corner office. The door was dark wood, unmarked except for a small brass plate. Damien Ashford. Chairman.

"He's waiting," the assistant said. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her alone.

Evelyn knocked once.

"Come in."

---

The office was exactly as she remembered it.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the training ground below. The pitch stretched out like a green canvas, dotted with players going through their afternoon drills. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room. On it sat a single laptop, a leather-bound notebook, and a framed photograph of Evelyn's mother. The only personal item in the entire office.

Damien Ashford sat behind the desk. He was in his late fifties now, silver hair cropped short, his suit perfectly pressed. He did not stand when she entered. He did not smile. His grey eyes, the same shade as hers, regarded her with the same cool assessment he gave everyone.

"Sit."

One word. Not a greeting. Not a question. A command delivered so calmly it was impossible to disobey.

Evelyn sat.

For a long moment, her father said nothing. He simply looked at her, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable. Then, finally, he spoke.

"I heard you stood your ground against Moretti this morning."

She stiffened. "How do you already know that?"

"I know everything that happens in my club." He said it without pride. Without menace. Just a simple statement of fact. "The captain is not an easy man to work with. Most people back down when he pushes. You didn't."

"I needed one more take. He gave it to me."

"Yes. After you reminded him of his contractual obligations." A flicker of something crossed his face. Not quite approval. Something more calculating. "You handled it well."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I didn't bring you here for compliments."

The words landed like a door closing. Evelyn folded her hands in her lap and waited.

---

Damien leaned back in his chair. Behind him, through the window, the players were running sprints. Tiny figures in black and red, their breath misting in the cold air.

"Blackridge FC has a problem," he said. "Our performance on the pitch is strong. The league table reflects that. But off the pitch, our image is slipping."

"What kind of slipping?"

"Sponsors are unhappy. Three of them have expressed concerns about our online presence. Our engagement numbers are falling. Our content is stale. Meanwhile, our rivals are dominating every platform." He paused. "Do you know what people call us online?"

"I've seen the comments."

"Then you know it's not flattering. Cold. Corporate. Out of touch. That's the perception. And perception becomes reality if you let it fester long enough."

Evelyn nodded slowly. "You need a rebrand."

"I need a revolution." Damien's grey eyes locked onto hers. "I didn't hire you because you're my daughter. I hired you because you turned a struggling club in New York into one of the most followed teams in the league. You built their brand from nothing. You made people care."

"I had a good team."

"You had yourself. The team followed your lead." He leaned forward. "I need you to do the same thing here. Not in a year. Not in six months. Now. The board is watching. The sponsors are watching. Every move you make will be scrutinized."

"And if I fail?"

"You won't." He said it the way someone might say the sun will rise. Not encouragement. Certainty. "Failure isn't an option, Evelyn. Not for you. Not for this club. And not for me."

The weight of his words settled over her like a second skin. It wasn't a threat. It was simply the truth as Damien Ashford understood it. He had built an empire by making impossible decisions. He expected the same from everyone who carried his name.

"I understand," she said.

"Good."

She stood to leave. Her legs felt steadier than she expected. The meeting had gone exactly as she imagined it would. Cold. Professional. Transactional. That was who her father was. That was who he had always been.

"One more thing."

She turned at the door.

Damien hadn't moved. His hands remained steepled beneath his chin, his unreadable gaze already back on the documents in front of him.

"Keep your relationship with Captain Moretti strictly professional."

Her heart stopped.

"I don't have a relationship with the captain."

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm giving you advice." He didn't look up. "Luca Moretti is the face of this club. His image matters. Your image matters. Anything that complicates either of those things becomes my problem. And I don't like problems."

"Dad—"

"We're done here. Close the door on your way out."

Dismissed. Just like that.

---

Evelyn walked out of the office on legs that didn't quite feel like her own. The door clicked shut behind her. The corridor stretched ahead, empty and silent, the trophies gleaming in their glass cases like relics from another life.

How did he know?

She had given nothing away. No lingering glances. No whispered conversations. Luca had treated her like a stranger in front of everyone. And yet somehow, impossibly, her father already knew there was history between them.

A chill crawled down her spine. Not fear. Something closer to dread.

Damien Ashford did not make idle comments. He did not offer advice unless he had a reason. If he was warning her about Luca, it meant he knew more than he was saying.

And that meant she was already being watched.