Doting on My Younger Basketball King

Beverly Hills nights always sparkle like diamonds, but tonight was destined to be a silent torture for me.

My husband's first love had returned.

The music salon glittered with flowing lights, the air thick with champagne and decadence. Blake Morrison stood at the center of the crowd, his hand possessively caressing the waist of piano queen Scarlett Laurent, who had just returned from Europe. His eyes held an infatuation and tenderness I had never seen before.

"Look at our Scarlett, conquering Vienna's Golden Hall at just twenty-five." Blake's voice wasn't loud, but clear enough for the small circle around us to hear every word.

He turned his head, his gaze finally landing on me with grudging attention, scanning me up and down before his lips curved into a cruel smirk. "Victoria, you're thirty-four now, aren't you? Such a pity—some talents have an expiration date. When you get older, your fingers just aren't as nimble anymore."

Thirty-four years old. Those three words stabbed into my heart like knives. I was nine years older than Scarlett, and in Blake's eyes, that was my original sin.

"Blake always protects me like this." Scarlett cooed sweetly, her voice so saccharine it made my skin crawl. "Actually, cousin used to be quite good at piano too, but... she is getting a bit old. Women over thirty-four just learn everything so slowly, don't they?"

Three years of marriage, and he had never given me a single word of affirmation. Age-shaming, however, was routine. At thirty-four, I was like expired goods in their eyes.

I wore the dress Blake's assistant had sent—strikingly similar to Scarlett's outfit tonight. The same misty blue, the same silk material, even my hair was deliberately styled in soft waves to match hers.

I was like a carefully calibrated copycat, attempting to mimic the original masterpiece but only producing crude noise.

"Look, Mrs. Morrison's outfit tonight..." "Is she paying tribute to Miss Laurent? How... thoughtful." "It's like a cheap imitation. Almost forty and still dressing like a little girl."

The guests' hushed commentary pierced my eardrums like fine needles, finding the most vulnerable spots.

I straightened my spine, maintaining the aloof smile befitting a Sterling family heiress, while my nails dug deep into my palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks.

"Victoria," Blake said, as if just remembering my existence, using the dismissive tone one might use with a servant, "Scarlett's crystal glass is empty. Go get her another champagne. Remember, only Dom Pérignon Black Diamond—that's all she drinks. And also..."

He pulled out his phone, deliberately letting me see the divorce settlement draft on the screen: "When we get home tonight, we need to discuss the property division. The three million the Sterling family owes me can't just be written off because of a divorce."

In that instant, I felt every gaze in the room spotlight me like stage lights. Three million in debt, plus the threat of leaving with nothing—he was orchestrating my complete social destruction in front of everyone.

My body trembled slightly, but I quickly steadied myself. I couldn't lose composure, couldn't let this humiliation become even more complete. I nodded slightly, forcing out a stiff smile: "Of course."

Just as I turned toward the refreshment table, the music salon's grand doors were pushed open by two black-suited bodyguards.

A dazzling beam of light poured in from outside. The venue fell silent as if someone had hit the mute button, then erupted in even louder commotion.

"Oh my God! Is that Marcus Johnson?!" "The Lakers' MVP? What's he doing here?" "Wait... how old is he? Twenty-five?" "Those muscles... God, he's even more stunning in person than on TV!"

The crowd instantly buzzed with excitement. Female guests whispered with flushed faces while the men looked both thrilled and nervous. Media reporters frantically pushed toward the front, camera flashes erupting like a sudden downpour.

That man—NBA superstar, Los Angeles royalty, Marcus Johnson—walked in with unhurried confidence.

His perfectly tailored dark suit barely contained his athletic build, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, each step radiating the explosive power of a professional athlete. His young, handsome face featured strong brows and bright eyes, perfectly blending twenty-five-year-old vitality with mature masculine charm.

My heart stopped. Marcus... what was he doing here?

His gaze swept the room like a hawk's, finally settling on me—on my rigid posture, the empty tray in my hands, and the champagne glass I had just served to Scarlett.

In that moment, time seemed to reverse. I remembered the boy who had sweated on UCLA's basketball court three years ago, remembered his earnest but passionate confession: "Tori, when I make it to the NBA, I'll let the whole world know you're my girl."

But now, I was thirty-four and he was twenty-five. I was a bitter wife trapped in a failed marriage, while he was America's most celebrated superstar.

This age reversal embarrassed me beyond words.

Blake immediately put on an ingratiating smile and approached: "Mr. Johnson! What an unexpected honor! How do you have time to..."

"I heard there was an interesting performance tonight." Marcus's voice was deep and magnetic, carrying an unmistakable edge of mockery. His gaze moved past Blake to the Steinway piano prepared for Scarlett's performance. "Nice piano for a prop. Shame about the owner."

He strolled over, seemingly casually placing his half-empty water bottle on the glossy piano lid.

Before his words had fully registered, the water bottle "accidentally" tipped over, ice water instantly gushing out, streaming across the polished surface toward the keys!

"Oops. My mistake." Marcus's tone held no sincerity, but his gaze shot sharply toward Blake. "Seems some people only know how to show off their tools without knowing how to treasure real gems. Especially..."

He paused, his meaningful gaze sweeping over everyone present: "Those who think youth gives them license to trample others' dignity. In my book, true appeal has nothing to do with age."

The room fell dead silent.

Everyone caught the double meaning in his words. This twenty-five-year-old superstar was defending a thirty-four-year-old woman?

Scarlett's face instantly flushed red, while Blake's turned ashen.

"Mr. Johnson, what exactly are you implying?" Blake's voice barely contained his fury.

Marcus finally looked directly at him, his expression contemptuous yet carrying youthful defiance: "Exactly what I said. People with real class understand respect. It's basic... common sense, isn't it, Mr. Morrison?"

He deliberately drew out "Mr. Morrison," his tone dripping with obvious disdain.

The media's camera flashes went wild. This young superstar was openly challenging a business elite—tomorrow's headlines were already written.

Marcus didn't give Blake a chance to respond. He cast one last meaningful glance my way. That look was complex—angry, heartbroken, and something else... a depth of feeling I couldn't read.

Then he turned and left as confidently as he'd arrived, his bodyguards escorting him through the chaos and uproar.

Why... why now? Why when I was at my most pathetic? Most importantly, he was still so young, so brilliant—why stand up for me, this "old woman"?

Overwhelming grief and delayed humiliation crashed over me. My eyes burned uncontrollably, but I bit down hard, forcing myself to lift my chin and not let those pitiful tears fall.

That night, back at the Morrison house, I curled up on the sofa by the floor-to-ceiling windows, mechanically scrolling through my phone.

Trending #1: #Marcus Johnson Appears at Elite Salon to Defend Woman#

Trending #2: #25-Year-Old MVP Stands Up for 34-Year-Old Socialite - Suspected Older Woman Romance#

Trending #3: #Blake Morrison's Public Wife-Shaming Backfires#

The online comments were explosive:

"Older woman romance confirmed? Marcus is only 25!"

"Victoria Morrison is 34—that age gap... kind of hot."

"Young stud protecting his queen, I'm here for it!"

"Marcus has great taste. Mature women have that appeal."

Every comment made my heart race. An older woman romance? Marcus and me?

Just then, my phone screen lit up with an incoming text.

A number I thought I'd buried deep in my memory.

My breathing stopped instantly, my fingers trembling as I opened it.

Just one brief line:

[Tori, you still haven't learned to say no to people who don't deserve you. Age was never a barrier to love—you taught me that.]