A/N: Yeah, I'm crazy.
Title: Shadows of Victory
Summary: After Real Madrid's win, Carlo Ancelotti's public rejection leaves his lover questioning their bond, as media pressure threatens to shatter their once-unbreakable connection.
Pairing: Carlo Ancelotti × Reader
Tags: Angst
The stadium buzzed with the lingering excitement of victory. Real Madrid had just secured a crucial win, and Carlo Ancelotti, as always, had been calm and composed throughout the post-game interviews, answering questions with his trademark measured patience. He carried himself with that effortless gravitas that made even his quietest words seem heavier, sharper. You waited at the sidelines, heart still racing from the thrill of the match, pride swelling in your chest. It wasn’t just pride for the team but for him. For Carlo.
You couldn’t help it. The moment the interviews ended and he turned toward you, his face relaxed but still shadowed with the weight of the game, you moved. Your heels clicked against the floor as you rushed to him, practically leaping into his arms. “You did it, amore,” you whispered, arms around his neck, pressing close, your heart beating against his chest. “You were brilliant. Like always.”
Carlo’s arms caught you, but his body was tense, his muscles rigid beneath his coat. His hand slid up your back, but it wasn’t the easy, familiar touch of a man greeting the woman he loved. It was restrained. Careful. His eyes darted over your shoulder, scanning the area, and when you leaned in to kiss him, to seal your congratulations with something intimate, something that belonged just to the two of you, he turned his head.
The kiss landed awkwardly on his cheek, the movement subtle but enough. Enough to send a wave of cold confusion rushing through you.
You pulled back slightly, blinking up at him, your smile faltering as you searched his face. His jaw was tight, his eyes glancing beyond you again, toward the cameras, the journalists lingering at the edge of the field, the whispers that were already forming.
“Carlo…” you started, but his hand slid down to your waist, firm but not tender. Controlling.
“Not here,” he murmured, voice low, but it cut through you like glass. His gaze finally settled on yours, but there was no softness, no warmth, only caution. Restraint.
Your stomach twisted. You knew why. It had been like this for months now. Since the media had caught wind of your relationship. Since the photos were splashed across every tabloid, dissected with words like shameful and disgusting. Since strangers online, people who knew nothing about you or the man you loved, decided that you were only with Carlo for his status, for his money, for his fame. Since you were labeled a gold digger and he, an old fool who had lost his mind over a woman half his age.
The comments had been vicious, relentless. The kind of hate that burrowed beneath your skin, that lingered in your mind long after the headlines faded. You’d tried to be strong. You’d tried to shrug it off. But it weighed on you, on both of you.
And now, Carlo wouldn’t even let you kiss him after his victory. Not in public. Not where they could see.
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile, trying to pretend the rejection didn’t sting, trying to pretend it didn’t twist into something ugly inside you. “Of course,” you murmured, stepping back, smoothing down your coat with trembling fingers. “I understand.” But you didn’t. Not really.
Because all you wanted was to be able to love him openly, to be able to share in his joy the way any other woman would with the man she loved. But it felt like you were always hiding. Hiding from the cameras, from the stares, from the world that refused to understand you.
Carlo’s eyes softened slightly, regret flashing there for a moment, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “We’ll talk later,” he promised, but his voice was strained, distant.
You nodded, though your heart felt heavy in your chest. “Sure.”
He turned, stepping away, and just like that, the distance between you stretched. Not just physical but something deeper. Something that had been growing slowly over the past few months.
You watched as he walked toward his players, greeting them, clapping them on the backs, his face warming in a way it hadn’t for you. And for a brief, painful second, you wondered if the media had been right. If the whispers had gotten to him. If he was already regretting this. Regretting you.
You tried to push it aside, to pretend that the sting of his rejection didn’t sit heavy in your chest. You stood quietly, a few steps behind Carlo as he moved through the post-match celebrations, his presence still commanding, still drawing the eyes of players and staff. You smiled when necessary, nodded when appropriate, but your heart wasn’t in it. Not when his eyes didn’t linger on you, not when his touch, when it came, felt measured and controlled.
You waited patiently as he gave his last interviews, his voice calm, precise, answering questions with that same composed gravitas that made him a legend. You watched as he congratulated his players, his smiles warmer, his tone lighter. And you stood there, a ghost at the edge of his world, waiting for a moment that felt like it would never come.
Finally, after the last handshake, the last cheer, the last lingering photo, Carlo’s hand found yours. His fingers laced with yours in a grip that was firm but still felt hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure if even this was too much. He didn’t say much as he led you to his BMW, his jaw tight, his posture rigid. Silence stretched between you like an invisible wall.
The drive started quietly, the city lights blurring past the windows as the car cut through the night. Carlo’s hand remained on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road, while yours lay in your lap, fingers idly tracing the hem of your coat. You stared out the window, letting the quiet hum of the engine fill the silence.
It wasn’t until he turned down the familiar route to his house that you spoke, your voice soft but firm. “I want to go to my own house tonight.”
Carlo’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes as he glanced briefly at you. “Why?” The question was simple but weighted, the quiet concern in his voice unmistakable.
You kept your gaze on the road ahead, forcing yourself to sound casual, unaffected. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”
But Carlo wasn’t a man easily fooled. His hand tightened on the wheel for a moment before he relaxed it, his gaze flicking toward you again, studying you the way only he could. The way that made you feel stripped bare, exposed.
“Tesoro…” His voice softened, roughened with something tender. “Is it about before? About… the kiss?”
You shook your head quickly, too quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “No. Don’t be silly. I told you, I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
He didn’t speak immediately. You could feel the weight of his gaze, feel his mind turning over your words, reading between them, sensing the lie for what it was. Carlo had always been able to read you better than anyone. Sometimes better than you wanted.
“Dolcezza,” he tried again, voice lower, coaxing, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It wasn’t about you. It’s just…” He paused, his jaw flexing, as though the words didn’t come easily. “I didn’t want more attention. More headlines. You know how they are.”
“I know,” you said quickly, your voice sharper than you intended. You hated the way it cracked, how the hurt bled through despite your best efforts to swallow it down. You sighed, shaking your head. “Carlo, really, it’s fine. I’m fine. Just take me home.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Weighted. Carlo’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking between you and the road, uncertainty darkening his features. He hated this distance, this tension, but neither of you seemed to know how to bridge it.
Still, he didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just gave a slow nod and changed direction, his hands steady on the wheel but his knuckles pale from how hard he gripped it. The tension didn’t ease until the car finally pulled up outside your apartment.
He parked but didn’t turn off the engine. The hum filled the air, the low vibration seeping into your skin. His hand hovered over the keys, his body still tense, caught between wanting to say something and not knowing how.
You reached for the handle, already half out the door when his voice stopped you.
“Tesoro,” he said, softer now, rougher, almost pleading. “If you’re upset, tell me.”
You hesitated, fingers curling tightly around the handle. “I’m not upset,” you said, but it was a lie, and you both knew it.
Carlo let out a slow breath, his hand rubbing over his face as though trying to scrub away the frustration. “I love you, amore mio,” he murmured, almost like it hurt to admit it, like saying it made it more real, more vulnerable. “You know that, don’t you?”
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, pressing your lips together against the surge of emotion that wanted to break free. “I know,” you said, softer this time, but it didn’t sound as sure as you wanted it to.
Carlo’s hand lifted as if he wanted to reach for you, to pull you back, but it hesitated in the air, faltering. “Don’t let them come between us,” he said quietly. “Don’t let their words mean more than mine.”
You swallowed hard, fighting the tremble in your throat. “I just need some space tonight,” you said. “Just tonight.”
The words seemed to hit him harder than you expected. His shoulders slumped slightly, and when he nodded, it was slow, reluctant. Like he didn’t quite believe you but wasn’t willing to push you further.
“Alright,” he said, though it sounded like defeat. “But tomorrow… come home. To me.”
You nodded, offering a small, forced smile before stepping out, closing the door softly behind you. You didn’t look back as you walked up the steps to your building, but you felt his eyes on you the entire time.
And when you reached the top, when you turned the key in the lock and slipped inside, you let the mask fall. The ache, the heaviness in your chest, it settled like stone as you leaned against the door, staring into the dim silence of your empty apartment. You loved him. God, you loved him.
But sometimes love wasn’t enough to drown out the noise.
