Chapter 2
A sleepless night. As dawn broke outside my window, I still felt trapped in last night's endless nightmare.
The woman in the mirror had swollen, red-rimmed eyes, with fine lines at the corners particularly pronounced in the morning light. The exhaustion of thirty-four years couldn't be hidden anymore.
Bang!
My bedroom door was brutally shoved open as Blake burst in, carrying the lingering scent of alcohol and the crisp morning air, thick legal documents clutched in his hand.
"Look what your precious little brother has brought you!" He practically slammed his iPad in front of me. "The entire internet is buzzing about your taboo romance! My wife, Blake Morrison's wife, being talked about like some cougar who preys on young boys!"
The screen made my heart stop cold:
#Victoria Morrison Suspected of Sugar Mommy Relationship with 25-Year-Old NBA Star# #Trophy Wife's Boy Toy Exposed# #34 vs 25: What's Really Going on Between These Two?#
The comments were even more vicious: "Rich older women sure know how to play, always going for fresh meat." "How could someone as young and handsome as Marcus be interested in a nearly-thirty-year-old hag?" "Classic sugar mommy and boy toy storyline."
Every word stabbed like a knife. I wasn't a sugar mommy, and certainly not some old hag!
"This is the 'protection' your Marcus Johnson promised you?" Blake sneered, flipping through documents. "Now all of Los Angeles knows that Mrs. Morrison has a thing for young boys!"
He slammed the divorce papers down on my vanity: "Since you're so desperate for freedom, I'll grant it! But remember, the Sterling family owes me thirty million, not a penny less! Plus three years of living expenses, medical bills, clothing allowances..."
I stared at the agreement, the endless columns of numbers making my head spin. Five million in total debt? He wanted to bankrupt me!
"Blake, this is extortion!"
"Extortion?" He grabbed my chin roughly, his grip painful. "Victoria, you need to understand your position. The entire internet is calling you a cougar who cradle-robs. Do you think any other man would want you? Even that Marcus—he's twenty-five, at the peak of his career. You think he'd really want a nearly-forty-year-old woman?"
His words slithered out like venom, delivering the cruelest truth: "Face reality, Victoria. Besides me, who else would want a washed-up old woman like you?"
He slammed the door as he left, leaving me alone with that devastating divorce agreement.
I collapsed on the floor, staring at myself in the mirror. Thirty-four—was I really that old? Was the three-year gap between Marcus and me really so unacceptable?
My phone buzzed again—another vicious comment notification about Marcus and me. I was on the verge of breakdown.
Just then, a text message quietly appeared on my screen:
"Tonight 10 PM, UCLA back hill, our old spot. Sis, if you still remember how to climb the fence. —Your Marcus"
Sis? He actually called me sis?
Instantly, countless memories flooded back. Three years ago at UCLA, he always called me "Tori sis," saying I was more mature than him, like a little adult. Back then I found it sweet; now it stung.
UCLA back hill... that place requiring us to climb over a rusty chain-link fence to reach the abandoned court, hiding all our secret youth memories.
"Tori sis, jump! I'll catch you!" That tall boy, sweat-drenched in the sunset, always smiling and reaching out his hand from the other side of the fence.
"Tori sis, when I make it to the NBA, I'll let the whole world know you're my girl." Under the moonlight, he'd climb over the fence and hand me a bouquet of stolen roses, his eyes brighter than stars.
Back then I was thirty-one, he was twenty-two. Now I'm thirty-four, he's twenty-five. Time seemed to mock me, making me the "older" one in this relationship.
I couldn't go. I couldn't give netizens more ammunition, couldn't let Marcus's reputation suffer. A 25-year-old superstar with unlimited potential—how could I drag him down as an "old woman"?
But... I desperately wanted to see him.
As night fell, I found myself driving toward UCLA. The closer I got, the more uncontrollable my heartbeat became.
The familiar secluded path, the familiar scent of rust. That familiar perforated chain-link fence finally appeared before me.
Beyond the fence, the rhythmic sound of a basketball hitting the ground echoed steadily. "Thump... thump... thump..." Each beat perfectly synchronized with my racing heart.
Still with his back to me, but he was much taller than three years ago. Under his simple black basketball jersey was a physique sculpted by NBA-level training. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs—every movement explosive with power.
I stepped on the old tree by the fence, gripping the cold chain links. My thirty-four-year-old body wasn't as agile as before; I struggled.
The dribbling stopped abruptly.
He turned around, that young, handsome face even more captivating in the moonlight. Twenty-five-year-old Marcus was at the peak of masculine appeal, that blend of youth and maturity making me feel utterly inadequate.
I froze on the fence, suddenly realizing how ridiculous this scene was. A nearly-forty woman, climbing fences at midnight to meet a boy nine years her junior?
"Need help, sis?" His voice carried gentle teasing, but that "sis" made me shiver.
Marcus said nothing else. He dropped the basketball and strode to the fence. When he extended his hand, I saw the defined muscle lines on his forearms and the million-dollar Patek Philippe on his wrist.
"Still as clumsy as ever, Tori sis." He chuckled softly. "Jump. I'll catch you."
Tori sis... this endearment made my emotions incredibly complex.
I closed my eyes and let go.
Familiar sensation, familiar embrace, but his body was much more solid and powerful than three years ago. Those arms now possessed the strength of a grown man, lifting me effortlessly.
"You've gained weight." He grinned mischievously. "Been stress-eating lately because you're upset?"
"Marcus!" I blushed, hitting his chest, only to feel the hardness of his pectoral muscles.
"Just kidding, sis." He chuckled, setting me down gently. "You're still so easy to embarrass."
When my feet touched the ground, the height difference between us made me uncomfortable. He was now 6'6" while I was only 5'4". Having to crane my neck to look at him made me realize that the man before me was no longer the big boy who needed my care.
He looked down at me, his gaze carefully scanning my face. In those eyes I saw heartache, anger, and a hint of... burning intensity I couldn't quite read.
"Tori sis." He spoke, his voice deeper and more magnetic than three years ago. "Is this how he treats you? Humiliating you in front of all Los Angeles?"
Just that one call of my name shattered all my pretended strength. Three years of grievances, humiliation, and today's vicious online comments came pouring out like a broken dam.
"Marcus, I..." I choked up. "Those comments online... they're calling me an old woman, saying I'm keeping a boy toy... I'm not! I really am not!"
His expression darkened instantly, his jawline tensing. "Who dares say that about you? Show me!"
"Don't look..." I grabbed his phone. "Those words are too cruel."
"Tori sis, listen to me." His warm, calloused fingertips gently wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Age has never been love's shackles. What's nine years? I've seen couples with twenty-year gaps who are still deeply in love."
He paused, his eyes becoming intensely serious: "Moreover, in my eyes, you'll always be that intelligent, elegant, cherished Tori. Not some old woman—you're my goddess."
"But Marcus, you're only twenty-five..." My voice trembled. "You're at your life's peak, with countless young, beautiful girls who adore you. And I'm already thirty-four. Those people online are right, I really am..."
"Enough!" He suddenly interrupted, his voice carrying unprecedented anger. "Victoria Sterling, I won't allow you to demean yourself like this!"
He cupped my face in both hands, forcing me to meet his eyes: "Three years, Tori sis. Every single day these three years I've wondered why you pushed me away back then. Now I understand—you were protecting me, weren't you?"
I avoided his gaze; that secret buried for three years made me unable to face him directly.
"You were afraid I was too young, afraid my career would suffer, afraid gossip would destroy me." His voice grew increasingly tender. "My silly sister, do you think I care about any of that?"
He gripped my hands tightly, his palms burning hot: "Now, I'm back. Not as that little boy who needed your protection, but as a man capable of protecting you."
"Marcus, but our age difference..."
"Age?" He smiled softly, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "You know, many people envy me for having such a mature, wise sister. They say a man who can win over a woman older than himself is a real man."
My face instantly flushed: "Marcus!"
"I'm stating facts." He looked at me seriously. "Tori sis, you taught me what real love is. Not some childish infatuation, but the kind of feeling you want to cherish for a lifetime."
He paused, his voice becoming even more resolute: "So these three years, I've trained like crazy, competed, invested, built connections. I wanted to become strong enough to protect you, strong enough to silence everyone who questions us."
"What... what have you done?" I stared at him in shock.
Marcus pulled out his phone and showed me a photo. It was today's Sports Illustrated cover—him in Lakers jersey, holding the MVP trophy, with the headline: "The 25-Year-Old King: Marcus Johnson Makes History."
"This season's MVP, championship, Finals MVP." He said casually, as if commenting on nice weather. "Oh, and Forbes' number one under-30."
I gaped, completely speechless. This was my Marcus? That big boy who three years ago worried about tuition?
"But it's still not enough." He put away his phone, looking deeply into my eyes. "I need more—enough to let you stand confidently by my side without caring about anyone's judgment."
"Tori sis," his thumb gently traced my knuckles as he asked the question that had spanned three years: "Now, will you give your little man a chance to prove that age really doesn't matter?"
Little man... this endearment made my heart race, my cheeks burn.
Looking at his young, handsome face, feeling the warmth from his palms, I suddenly realized that maybe... maybe I really had been caring too much about outside voices.
Love—did it really have age boundaries?