The day Wyatt Lum won the Open title and completed his Grand Slam, I couldn't even get him on the phone. I was his fiancée, after all. But his phone went straight to voicemail. Meanwhile, his childhood friend Rosalind Jones was busy posting trophy selfies all over social media. Her caption practically screamed off the screen. Rosalind: [You promised we'd share this moment.] There it was, barely visible in the corner of the frame. Wyatt's hand resting on her shoulder. Casual. Possessive. Deliberate. I typed out a comment before I could stop myself. Clover: [What a perfect pair. Should I go ahead and order the wedding invitations?] My phone rang within seconds. Wyatt's voice came through tight and cold. "Delete it. Right now." Funny how things work out. I had walked away from my own tennis career to support his dreams. Every early morning practice. Every tournament across three continents. Every time he doubted himself, I was there. But somehow I ended up being the crazy ex. Empty hands and a broken heart were all I had to show for it. When I tried to start over in a new city, a semi-truck made sure I never got that chance. As the world went dark around me, one thought kept circling back. 'That damn tennis court. Why did I ever walk away from it?' Then a miracle happened. I opened my eyes and I was twenty years old again. My fingers wrapped around the familiar grip of a racket. This time around, the world would remember my name. I planned to claim every title alone. Then some cocky rookie named Ian Bright crashed into my life and messed up all my plans. Jovannia Tennis Academy. Present day. Sweat dripped into my eyes as I stared at the ball sitting dead on the baseline. My lips felt cracked every time I tried to swallow. I wiped my palm on my shorts, grabbed another ball, and took a swing with everything I had. This was my first month back at twenty years old. My first month returning to tennis after more than a decade away. My father had passed away when I was young. My mother, Sylvie Green, worked as a tennis coach and poured everything into my younger brother Lucas Hill. All the funding went to him. The elite coaches, the international training opportunities, the expensive equipment. Everything. I got stuck being his hitting partner. The problem was that I kept beating him every single time we played. Then my mother would blow up at me like I had committed some terrible betrayal. The few tips I ever got came from her colleagues, thrown my way when she wasn't watching. Talent has a way of refusing to stay buried. Even with barely any training compared to everyone else, I fought my way to my first title in less than two years. By sixteen, I had earned my spot on the Jovannia regional squad. They called me the rising star. I dominated the provincial championships without breaking a sweat. When the national qualifiers came around, the coaches set up practice matches to prepare everyone. I was in the middle of my swing when my racket shattered. No warning. No slow c***k. Just a snap that left me standing there with half a handle in my hand. My mind went completely blank. I looked around at the crowd, searching for someone to help. Every single person looked away. A teammate finally tossed me a backup racket, but my shots went wild. It felt like swinging a lead pipe. That match ended in total defeat. I spent days trying to retrain my muscle memory. The harder I pushed, the worse I played. After that, the losses piled up one after another. Nobody cared why I had started losing. They just decided the prodigy had fallen, and that was the end of it.