In which 34 year old Marco Reus, one of the world's most celebrated footballers, accidentally-on-purpose falls in love with Sahara Tereschenkova, his late lover's mysterious little sister.
The problem? Marco's married with a young daughter, and Sah...
A/N: not sure if anyone reads this after an entire year with no updates (my bad!!), but if you do happen to find yourself here i hope you enjoy this new chapter. I'm trying to get back into writing more!! thank you all for being so supportive and kind, even in my arbitrary absences 🤍🤍🤍
TW: age gap (10+ years), discussion of death certain dynamics of this story are meant to provoke and discomfort, hence the observation of the relationship between Andreas and Sahara as well as how strongly Marco reacts to it because of his own twisted desires. Aurelie's character is of course featured in the Dirty Laundry story, but you don't have to read one page of it to understand Sahara's plot. Cheers ❣️
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It was the first time anyone had ever seen her laugh. For the last 15 minutes of today's afternoon training, Sahara had been playing peekaboo with Inessa Reus; she sat a ways back in the observer stands, while Inessa was a few rows ahead of her in an injured Marco Reus's lap.
"Boo!" Sahara made yet another funny face while Marco wasn't looking, causing Inessa to burst into an infectious fit of giggles. Hastily, perhaps for the tenth time, Marco looked around to see what his 7-year old was giggling at—when his eyes landed on Sahara, she was straight-faced, despite her pink cheeks. He turned back around, maintaining his protective hold on his first and only child. Sahara struck again, decisively whisper-screaming down Inessa's way.
"Boo!"
This time, though, Sahara got sloppy with her timing—Marco caught her right in the act, head snapping around so quick that Sahara was still mid-smile when his eyes met hers. Inessa only giggled. "Papa, look at the funny girl!"
Funny girl was correct, for all intents and purposes. It had been a week since Marco last saw the young Sahara, spilling his drink all over her sundress and soiling her adorable outfit. For the rest of that party, she had no choice but to exist in humiliation; her bright satin dress—one of Juliette's, no doubt—marred by the mess Marco had made of her. Though they didn't exchange so much as eye contact for the rest of that night, Marco snuck plenty of glances. Without having ever had a functional conversation with her, she was like his trophy. The footballer would be lying if he said he didn't feel a rare warmth in his stomach whenever anyone commented on her stained dress. Poor thing, they all said, or something along those lines. She doesn't even have it in her to clean herself up. Why doesn't she just go back to where she came from?
Of course, it was Scarlett who masterminded the rhetoric and gossip surrounding Sahara. She'd already let one Tereschenkova best her, and now, there was another one. She wouldn't make the same mistake of being so callous, so friendly and welcoming, to Sahara.
