Chapter 1: The news
The rain didn’t fall so much as it attacked, a relentless, wind-driven assault that turned the long gravel drive into a muddy stream and lashed against the leaded windows of the manor. Inside, the silence was a thick, insulating blanket. The only sounds were the distant hum of the dishwasher and the soft, repetitive thud of a football being kicked against the wall of the upstairs playroom in a steady, patient rhythm.
Juda Bellingham stood at the French doors, watching the storm twist the branches of the ancient oaks. Her oversized cashmere sweater swallowed her frame, and she held a cooling mug of tea in both hands. Peace. This was what she’d built. This quiet, sprawling fortress of green hills and high walls. A world away from screaming stadiums and flashing cameras. A world for him.
Her phone, face down on the worn Chesterfield sofa, began to vibrate. Not a call. A rapid, insistent series of buzzes that spoke of texts, alerts, notifications piling on top of one another. The digital world clawing its way in.
She ignored it. The thump-thump-thump from upstairs was a better melody.
Then her agent’s name, MARNIE, flashed on the screen, piercing the quiet. One ring. Two. Juda set the mug down with a soft click and picked it up.
“Before you see it,” Marnie’s voice was tight, a wire pulled taut, “I’ve got the team on it. We’re issuing a statement about the right to private life. Standard stuff. Non-committal.”
Juda’s stomach did a slow, cold roll. “See what?”
A beat of silence. “Oh, shit. You haven’t.”
“Marnie.”
“It’s a photo. From yesterday. The Borough Market shot. You and… him. Looking very cosy over the raclette stall.”
The floor beneath her feet felt slightly less solid. Yesterday. The impulsive trip into London, the thick scarf and beanie she thought were disguise enough, the laugh she’d shared with Jakob as melted cheese dripped onto the cobbles. His large hand, steadying her elbow. A simple, normal thing. A human thing.
“How bad?” Juda asked, her voice oddly calm.
“It’s everywhere. The framing is… perfect. It looks like a date. Because it was a date, Jude. For God’s sake, of all the people to be seen with…”
“He’s a friend.”
“He’s Jakob Haugen. The heavyweight boxer who quote ‘channels the spirit of a Berserker’ unquote in the ring. The tabloids are already calling it ‘The Beauty and the Beast.’ It’s not clever, but it’s catchy.”
Juda pinched the bridge of her nose. The quiet of the house now felt fragile, a glass dome about to crack. “Where’s the leak? The market? A fan?”
“Does it matter? It’s out. The narrative is writing itself. Reclusive football icon finally steps out after years of silence since mystery son’s birth. With a fighter. It’s catnip. Your mentions are already a warzone.”
“Keep Leo out of it.” The sentence came out sharp, an iron command. “That is the line. My personal life is mine, but Leo is not a part of the story. Not ever.”
“That’s the line,” Marnie agreed, her tone softening slightly. “We’ll hold it. But Jude… they’ll connect dots. They’ve been speculating about his father for five years. This just kicked the hornet’s nest. They’ll be digging everywhere.”
“Let them dig. There’s nothing to find.” The lie was practiced, smooth as stone.
She ended the call and finally opened the news app. There it was. Not buried. Splashed across the top.
BELLINGHAM’S BERSERKER? Football’s Golden Girl Spotted with Boxing’s Haugen.
The photo was shockingly clear. She was caught mid-laugh, her head tilted back, eyes crinkled. Jakob was looking at her, not at the camera, a small, uncharacteristically soft smile on his normally stern face. He was holding two paper trays of food. It looked intimate. Peaceful. A stolen slice of her real life, now sliced up and served for public consumption.
The comments were a torrent. Supportive emojis from fans, vile speculation, memes, jokes about their respective ‘footwork’. And, already, the questions: What about Erling? Wasn’t there always something there? Who’s the kid’s dad, really?
The thump-thump-thump from upstairs stopped. A moment later, small, quick footsteps thudded down the main staircase.
“Mummy! I scored a volley! Did you hear it?”
Leo skidded into the room, a miniature cyclone in football pyjamas, his cheeks flushed. Her world instantly snapped back into a single, perfect focus. She dropped the phone onto the sofa cushions as if it were hot.
“I heard the whole thing,” she said, sweeping him up. “Top bins. No keeper’s saving that.” She buried her nose in his hair, smelling of shampoo and boy-sweat. Her anchor.
The landline in the kitchen began to ring. Then her phone buzzed again on the sofa. And again.
Leo pulled back, his sharp brown eyes, so familiar, looking at her with curiosity. “Who’s calling?”
“Just work, bug.” She set him down. “Go tell Maria you’re ready for your snack. I’ll be there in a second.”
He trotted off, blissfully unaware. Juda looked at her buzzing phone. One notification, a text, sat atop the pile.
It was from Erling.
The message was just a link to the article. No comment. Just the link.
She didn’t open it. She knew what it was. She typed back, her fingers stiff.
Juda: It wasn’t a planned thing. Got papped.
Three dots appeared. Then his response.
Erling: I saw. The photo is good. You look happy.
She stared at the words, trying to parse the tone. Was it a dig? A genuine observation? With him, it was always impossible to tell.
Juda: I was. Now it’s a circus.
Erling: For you. Not for him. He is Norwegian. We don’t have circuses. We have bad weather and common sense.
A faint smile touched her lips despite herself. Classic Erling. Deflecting with dry practicality.
Erling: Leo okay?
Juda: Unaware. My priority.
Erling: Good. Call if you need.
That was it. No interrogation. No drama. Just a lifeline, offered in his typically terse way. It was why they worked as co-parents. It was also why it had never worked as anything more—all the unspoken things lodged like stones in a river, changing the flow but never seen.
The doorbell rang, a sonorous chime that echoed through the hall. Not the electronic buzz for the gate at the drive, but the actual, physical doorbell. Someone was at the main door.
Through the distorted, rain-blurred glass of the sidelight, she could see the hulking shape of a man, hood up against the downpour. Not paparazzi. They’d be at the gates with long lenses. Her heart hammered, one swift, hard knock against her ribs.
She walked to the door, the grand, chilly hallway suddenly feeling vast and exposed, and pulled it open.
The wind howled, ripping the words from her. Jakob Haugen stood on the stone steps, water streaming from his leather jacket. His knuckles were raw, the skin split—from training, not a fight. He held up his phone, screen facing her, displaying the same article.
“I was in the gym. My coach showed me.” His voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the storm. “I came straight here. I am sorry. This is my fault.”
“Your fault?” Juda shouted over the gale. “For buying a cheese toastie?”
“For being seen with you.” His blue eyes were grave, intense. “I did not think. My world is… it is not like yours. The attention.”
“You think mine is?” she shot back, a flare of defensive anger cutting through the shock. “I spend my life avoiding this.”
A flash of light, white and sudden, pierced the gray gloom from the direction of the main gates. Then another. They were here. The vultures had found the nest.
Jakob didn’t even turn. He just looked at her, rainwater dripping from his sharp jawline. “So. What do we do?”
Inside, the sound of Leo’s laughter floated from the kitchen. Outside, the intermittent flashes grew more frequent, a silent, staccato assault. The quiet of her fortress was gone, shattered by one picture, one moment of normalcy. The past was in her phone, in Erling’s terse text. The future was on her doorstep, getting soaked. And the present was a small boy in the kitchen, whose world she had to protect at all costs.
She stepped back, holding the door open wider against the pushing wind.
“You’d better come in,” she said.