Between Pixels and Heartbeats

Chapter 1

When John Winterfell first met Catherine Everhart, he impulsively called her "Aunt." Their second encounter was quite different—a young John, now confident, waved at her from an eSports chair, thousands of miles away. The third meeting, however, was marked by tension as they exited the courthouse with a marriage certificate and John, eyes filled with unshed tears, called her “Mrs. Winterfell.”
On his first night at the Everhart residence, John found himself playing the part of a seasoned husband, but under the covers, his fists trembled with nerves. Eventually, he learned everything Catherine had to teach him, but somehow, they ended up divorced.
Three years later, John vanished from the scene but made a comeback during the championship night of the Valiant Gaming Division. In a drunken haze, he didn’t see it coming when he found himself pressed against a bathroom sink, face to face with his ex-wife, who gripped his wrist and asked, “Is this how low you’ve sunk?”
**—
John Winterfell always believed his marriage to Catherine Everhart stemmed from a wish of her grandfather’s, which would explain Catherine’s resolute decision to end the marriage while far away in another country. What he didn’t realize was that during the All-Star match in England back in 2010, he had struck a nerve—his critical three shots had not only secured him victory but had also captured Catherine’s heart.
**—
**Main Characters:**
Catherine Everhart × John Winterfell
A strong, passionate CEO x A charming, prideful eSports player
A tale of an older man who loves his wife, winning back the girl he once let slip through his fingers.
---
As John Winterfell pushed the door open to the VIP lounge, the flashing blue and red lights hit him hard, distorting his vision and sending his head spinning. With his stomach tumultuous and legs weak, he stumbled past someone blocking his path, making his way toward the Privy.
Tonight was a night to remember—the finals of the Valiant Gaming Division, and his team, The Outlaws, a newly formed underdog squad, had unexpectedly come out on top, shocking even the professional circuit by claiming the championship title.
Inside the suite, exhilaration consumed his teammates, and having been named MVP, John had drunk more than his fair share of whiskey and vodka. His alcohol tolerance had never been high, and as the ice numbed his senses, he couldn’t quite tell where the burn began. The more he drank, the more distant reality became.
Navigating through the dance floor on the way to the Privy was no simple task. The pulsating music pricked at his eardrums, as whistles and unwelcome hands brushed against him, trying to slow his progress.
Despite the sea of beautiful faces in the bar, he cut an impressive figure. His eyes, a unique blend of almond and heart shapes, complemented his understated double eyelids. With rich gray hair slightly tousled and framing his forehead, he exuded an air of alluring charm. Standing tall, he wore a white hooded sweatshirt that had inadvertently been stained in dark red—now taking on an artistic flair under the shifting lights.
With his hands stuck in his pockets, he sidestepped the wandering hands that reached out for him. At that moment, he felt indifferent; it didn’t matter—he was too drunk to care.
Finally, he managed to swing open the Privy door. It slammed against the wall, causing a commotion inside as someone exited, startled, and bumped into his shoulder with an irritated curse.
Regaining his balance, John stumbled towards the sink, splashing cold water on his face. The chill jolted him partially awake, easing his nausea but intensifying the heat in his cheeks.
The Privy was deserted, providing a rare moment of calm. He stared into the mirror as he combed his fingers through his damp, tousled hair, then used the back of his hand to wipe away the flush spreading across his face.
The bathroom door swung open again.
As he turned, a figure rushed in, and before he knew it, he was pinned against the sink.
John squinted, focusing on the face that swirled into view, and a harmless smile crept onto his lips. “What are you up to, Leonard Brookhaven?”
Leonard, his team’s manager, had tailed him into the bathroom.
The rugged man seized John’s wrist with one hand while the other rested firmly on his waist, guiding him toward the sink.
John perched himself on the edge of the sink, crossing his legs with a playful demeanor, raising an eyebrow at Leonard.
“Archer, you did amazing tonight,” Leonard murmured, his voice low as he brushed away the strands of hair clinging to John’s forehead, his fingertips lingering where water droplets had gathered at the corner of his eye. The haze of alcohol intensified in Leonard’s gaze.
“Thanks.” John’s eyelashes fluttered as he didn’t flinch away from the touch.
“You know, I’ve always admired you…” Leonard’s voice faltered, hesitation evident in his throat, but the underlying intention was clear as his eyes traced the glimmer of John’s pupils. They dropped lower, settling on John’s beautiful lips, marked by a small birthmark that resembled a rust spot on a rose petal, adding a unique vibrancy. Leaning in closer, he breathed in.
John tensed, planting a knee against Leonard’s abdomen, “Leonard, you’re my team manager. This crosses a line.”
But in their world, it wasn't uncommon for managers and players to blur the lines, dating or keeping casual flings. Leonard understood John’s words were more a dismissal than a solid boundary. He was intent on tonight.
Gripping John’s wrist tighter, Leonard moved closer, initiating a heated conversation whispered into his ear. “Little Alistair…”
Hearing his childhood nickname drawn from Leonard’s lips sent a chill down John's spine, washing away his earlier bravado. His stomach churned violently, rising up and bubbling as if ready to erupt. He prepared to shove Leonard away until suddenly, the bathroom door crashed open.

Chapter 2

The force behind the newcomer was stronger than the drunken haze that had consumed John Winterfell moments prior. Yet the person who walked in was undeniably alert.
The figure moved heavily, tall and broad-shouldered; his narrow waist was accentuated by a finely tailored shirt. The intricate patterns shimmered under the dim lights, giving off an air of expensive sophistication. His long legs were neatly encased in dress pants, and the meticulous aura around him sent a shiver of recognition through John.
John’s face fell as he realized who it was—his ex-husband, Matthew Everhart, the man he hadn’t seen in three years.
Since deciding to return for the competition, John had braced himself for this moment, but he never imagined it would happen in such an embarrassing situation. He was slumped over on the marble floor of a depressing restroom, reeking of alcohol, caught in a somewhat intimate embrace with Leonard Brookhaven, the hoodie’s collar yanked awkwardly down, revealing a hint of the mark left by Leonard's fingers.
Matthew and John had made headlines back in the day—the president of the relentless Everhart Corporation marrying a rising star in the gaming scene. Their union boosted the Everhart Corporation's venture into the esports world, propelling John’s team, Thunder Squad, to the forefront of competitive gaming. John, a natural talent, had swept the awards for various games, making them a power couple in their own right.
Leonard recognized Matthew instantly. The oppressive atmosphere made him instinctively step back, creating distance from John.
Matthew’s gaze sharpened as he noted John rubbing his recently released wrist. His sharp features softened only slightly, revealing barely-there crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.
“Get out,” Matthew commanded, his voice low but laced with very real threat.
Following orders, Leonard retreated. John pushed himself off the floor and stood up, his hoodie swaying as he slid his hands into his pockets, meeting Matthew's gaze with a careless smirk.
As he stepped forward, Matthew moved to block John’s path, his focus now zeroed in on Leonard. “I’m talking to you,” he said pointedly.
Leonard pressed his lips together, aware he was outmatched, and began to squeeze himself past Matthew’s shoulder, ducking out of the restroom.
The next moment, John was taken aback to find Matthew shutting the door and locking it behind him.
The action was deliberate and unhurried, entirely in line with Matthew’s composed demeanor. Yet, after years of marriage, John felt an unmistakable tension—a storm was brewing.
The sound of the lock clicking felt like a bullet being chambered.
Matthew turned slowly, his eyes raking over John with an intensity that made the hairs on John’s neck stand on end. He traced down from John’s greying hair, over his earlobe with the small stud, and then further down.
John felt exposed under Matthew’s gaze, uncomfortable with the familiar intimacy, and attempted to sidestep him. But with a swift motion that felt predatory, Matthew seized John’s left wrist and pinned it above his head, leveraging him against the door with a force that rendered him immobile.
Dizzy and disoriented, John's head clashed painfully against the wood, blurring his vision as white dots swam in and out—like a television struggling for a signal.
Matthew's eyes glimmered as they locked onto the stark overhead light; they were fierce and heated.
“Three years away, and your taste has sunk this low,” Matthew stated, taking in the scene of John’s disheveled state, his glare indicative of the simmering anger beneath his cool façade. “Going after your own team’s manager. You’ve really hit rock bottom.”
John couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at the irony of it all, finding no desire to defend himself. “You don’t get a say in who I sleep with,” he slurred, still pressing against the door.
His gaze drifted to the faint white mark on Matthew’s left ring finger. The absence of a ring was palpable and mocking. “Is that your divorce certificate?”
Matthew rolled his eyes, a small laugh escaping him—part frustrated and part amused. “Excuse me?”
“Because all those skills in bed?” John leaned closer, adrenaline stirring inside him. “I taught you everything.”
The words hung heavy in the air, a jab laced with bitterness, yet something gnawed at John inside too. Matthew was his first in many ways; the body he learned every nuance with, the embrace that turned tentative touches into pleasure. Hours spent exploring their bodies, Matthew relishing every bit of attention John could muster, all of it flooding back in a wave of nostalgia that was both unnerving and bittersweet.
But his bravado wavered as Matthew's voice shifted, softer, almost like a plea. “Little Alistair.”
Hearing that name sent a rush of emotion through John, memories transitioning from warm to painful abyss. That name, uttered during their blissful moments or when they had fought but still found solace in each other’s arms. Now, however, they were two strangers standing in a locked restroom.
Straightening up, John managed a cold laugh. “Yeah, I’m desperate. Anyone will do tonight…”
The sentence faltered as a hot kiss cut him off, Matthew's lips crashing into his with a hunger that seemed years in the making.
John’s eyes widened, confusion crashing over him in a flurry. The moment felt surreal, as if he had stepped into another world—his protest drowned in the taste of blood as they broke apart, fingers gripping tightly at his slender neck, lifting his chin to meet Matthew's unwavering gaze.
Caught in the grasp, John had no choice but to submit, the kiss deepening painfully yet intoxicatingly, every sensation making him feel alive.

Chapter 3

Before John Winterfell fully regained consciousness, the bright autumn sunlight spilled through the gaps of the deep gray curtains, creeping up to his eyelids. Frowning, John slowly opened his eyes, but his mind was still hazy. He vaguely saw a tall figure in front of the full-length mirror, deftly tying a Windsor knot with slender fingers.
As the figure turned around, it revealed Catherine Everhart’s face.
Still in a daze, John felt no anger or irritation. Catherine approached him, her cool lips brushing against his forehead in a kiss, just like every ordinary morning after their marriage. He felt a fleeting illusion and closed his eyes again, instinctively lifting his arm from the soft covers to wrap around her neck. Catherine hesitated for a moment, then leaned down, kissing him on the lips in response.
His back sank deeper into the bed as John immersed himself in this tender morning kiss. But soon the fresh scent on Catherine’s face broke through the sluggishness, clearing his mind.
With the sound of Catherine closing the door, John Winterfell finally grasped his current reality.
He found himself in a stark, cold-feeling villa where black, white, and gray dominated the color scheme. The sparsely decorated walls relied mainly on contrasting colors and lighting to create an artistic effect. The ceiling soared high above, showcasing an expensive molecular chandelier, and a row of elegant white wardrobes added a touch of sophistication. Undoubtedly, this was Gardenview Manor, Catherine's home, her bed. Three years ago, it had been his home, his bed too.
It was almost amusing; for three months before their divorce, they hadn’t shared an intimate moment—he had turned into something lifeless, and Catherine had long lost interest in him. Yet now, three years after their split, he woke up in his ex-wife's home, feeling the telltale red splotches on his skin and the aches in various parts of his body reminding him of the passionate night that had unfolded while his mind swayed in and out of clarity.
He suddenly sat up wide-eyed, rubbing his disheveled dark gray hair. Naked as the day he was born, he felt comfortable on the soft sheets. On the nightstand lay Catherine's favorite perfume, half a bottle of amber-colored liquid in a clear blue glass. He knew without even opening it that the top note was oceanic, the heart was bergamot, and the base was amber.
Next to the bottle was his phone. He picked it up to check and saw several missed calls from teammates. Then he opened up messaging; Catherine had sent a message to his teammates using his phone, saying, “Not coming home tonight, will contact in the morning,” and had taken the liberty of adding her friends to his contact list. Luckily, he had changed his lock screen photo before returning to Serovia, or else Catherine would have seen the picture of them and he couldn’t imagine how humiliating that would have been.
Last night. Last night. He massaged his aching temples from a hangover.
In truth, there were many chances he had to refuse. Catherine was strong-willed but not one to push an issue. However, the irresistible kiss had eroded his already weakened state of mind from the alcohol, igniting his body into an eager response. Bits and pieces came back to him about being guided out through the back door and pushed into his specially modified black Maybach, which muffled sound and sight from the outside, where the kiss continued unabated, fingers roaming without restraint, making sure the driver heard everything all the way there.
Upon emerging from the parking garage, they had stumbled in, still reluctant to separate. In the entryway, Catherine had scooped him up by the back of the knees, a familiar position that brought a surge of memories from a long separation. In the darkness, he still knew exactly where to place his hands.
Eventually, John Winterfell couldn’t hold himself up any longer, and Catherine supported him until they hit the bed.
At that point, apart from her zipping up, she appeared immaculate and unyielding, while he lay exposed, feeling bare and vulnerable. He hated seeing Catherine like this, as if it were only his heart that felt alive amid the brief rush of passion. Just instinct pushing him to rise had him pressed back down, an endless cycle of struggle.
He might’ve cried, or perhaps it was sweat; regardless, in the perfectly conditioned ambiance, he felt damp and stifled, with Catherine like an inescapable summer heat, consuming nearly a quarter of his life's moments.
John Winterfell had first met Catherine when they were ten, in the fourth grade.
Back then, he lived in a little bungalow with his grandfather, surrounded by lush greenery, highlighted by the magnolias that bloomed vibrantly every spring, bright red roses climbing against the walls, and two fish ponds flanking the yard. On the clothesline were a cage of finches and another of parakeets.
He barely remembered his parents. His father had been a police officer, killed on duty when John was two, and his mother passed a year later. Raised by his grandfather, Edward Winterfell—a retired soldier and well-read man—John’s life was generally secure, so he never felt a lack of anything and was doted upon rather liberally.
That day, while playing marbles under the banyan tree at the end of the lane, drenched in midday heat, he pushed open the gate to find a tall figure standing under the magnolia, bending forward and teasing a parakeet with a finger.
The parakeet seemed quite fond of him, nudging its fluffy head against the bars of the cage, allowing the man's fingers to stroke it just right, producing delicate ripples of blue feathers with a gentle touch.
John took a moment to pause, uncertain if he had walked into the wrong yard, only to realize he hadn’t. He stepped closer, gazing up curiously, his breath still heavy: “Who are you?”
The man straightened up. He was very tall; the flowery petals from the magnolia barely brushed his shoulder. He had striking features, a defined jawline, and calm-looking almond-shaped eyes, below which were subtle dark circles. When he turned his gaze toward John, it felt like gazing into the sky, with his bright, sparkling eyes—almost like they were made of a shimmering violet hue.
It was easy to tell who he was speaking to. The man inclined slightly, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye: “Guess.”

Chapter 4

Edward Winterfell stepped out, accompanied by an elderly man clad in a traditional Chinese robe. The man's flowing silver hair belied his vigor. As Edward introduced him as Matthew Everhart, a former comrade, John Winterfell finally understood why Edward had eagerly risen early to go to the market for fruits, meats, and eggs, as well as the identity of the sleek black car parked at the corner.
With a sigh, Edward raised his hand in greeting, "Little Alistair, call him over."
John Winterfell pursed his vibrant lips nervously but obediently called out, "Hello, Grandpa Everhart."
He then turned to the unfamiliar man beside him, "Hello, Uncle Everhart."
His soft, bright voice elicited laughter.
"This is my brother," Edward explained, gesturing towards Catherine Everhart. "Catherine Everhart, meet your big brother."
Heat crept to John Winterfell's cheeks as he stole a glance at Catherine Everhart, who was laughing with a jade petal gripped playfully in her shoulder-length black hair. Her eyes, dark and warm, were gentle yet steady.
Once inside the house, John settled into a chair, attempting to appear mature. However, a mere ten minutes later, he found himself squirming in his seat, his gaze fixated on the fruit platter set on the small table across from him. Rising from her spot, Catherine Everhart reached over and offered him a bunch of fresh, glistening purple grapes. As she pulled her hand back, he caught a whiff of the tart, refreshing scent they left behind.
Edward mentioned that they had traveled four hours to visit and insisted on treating everyone to a meal, but Matthew Everhart declined, having already reserved a table. After some back-and-forth, Edward agreed, taking the car keys to head out.
Matthew arrived with a driver, leaving the backseat crammed with two elderly gentlemen and John. With Catherine's taller frame also fitting awkwardly in the backseat, she volunteered, "I'll hold John on my lap for the ride—there’s more space up front."
Edward nodded in agreement, "It’s not far. Just take it easy."
Just before stepping into the vehicle, he added, "No need to be so formal. Just call him Little Alistair."
Catherine leaned down toward John, asking gently, "Little Alistair, is that okay?"
John had swapped his slippers for a pair of clean white sneakers as he stepped outside, and now his tiny feet landed perfectly in the shadow Catherine cast. Feeling nonchalant towards her, he stretched his arms out, pretending to be picked up. In his short-sleeved T-shirt, he revealed a pale patch of skin along his waist as he raised his arms.
Catherine bent down to meet him, noticing a faint beauty mark on his lower lip. She smiled and lifted him easily into her embrace as they entered the car together.
Inside, the air conditioning provided a refreshing coolness compared to the sweltering heat outside. Catherine adjusted her position, wrapping John snugly in her arms.
John reciprocated by curling up closer, resting his head against her chin. He inhaled a soft, refreshing scent as he nuzzled into her shoulder, also detecting a hint of spiciness that lingered.
He pressed his spine against Catherine’s chest, moving closer to confirm this pleasant sensation.
Catherine gently squeezed his shoulder, asking, "Little Alistair, are you uncomfortable?"
He shook his head, too timid to move, as perspiration began to bead in his palms resting on her thigh.
As the vehicle rolled out, the two elderly men animatedly reminisced about the fires of war they had endured together so many years ago.
After a moment, John spoke softly, "It's the qi of the Qilin."
Catherine tilted her head closer to him, her silver hair brushing against her neck like a playful puppy. "What was that?"
"It’s the qi of the Qilin, not the strange ‘qi.’"
Catherine chuckled lightly, as if suddenly grasping the child's whimsical language, "Got it. The qi of the Qilin."
Upon arriving at the restaurant, they chose a place known for its light Jiangsu cuisine, mindful of the elders' preferences.
As drinks flowed and emotions deepened, Matthew Everhart praised Edward for once dragging him out of danger during the tumult of battle. Edward toasted him, choosing silence over words as the warmth of the moment washed over them.
John, clueless about the heavy conversations swirling around him, knelt on his chair, extending his small arms to reach for a dish. Catherine expertly peeled shrimp for him, her long fingers deftly revealing the delicate pink meat, asking if he wanted to dip it in vinegar. John's cheeks were stuffed like a chubby hamster as he nodded enthusiastically.
As dinner reached its climax, Catherine shaped a small mound of food in John's bowl, wiped her hands and neatly adjusted her napkin, then stood to wash her hands.
Her every action exuded poise and grace. Edward praised Matthew for his business acumen, enviously complimenting how well he'd raised his children. Catherine offered a slight bow of gratitude before stepping away.
John finished the last of his meal, resting his chin in his hands as he stared longingly at the door, waiting for Catherine to return.
Finding himself bored, he jumped off his chair, struggled to open the door to the private room, and dashed into the corridor to find her, sweetly asking a passing server in the corner where the bathrooms were.
When he reached the sink, no one was there. He pushed open the stall door only to find it empty as well.
After waiting, he noticed a wall nearby, which had a garden-like, fanciful window carved into it, offering a glimpse of green bamboo inside. He approached and saw Catherine leaning against the wall, a long leg bent casually, a cigarette nestled between her fingers as smoke swirled around her eyes, which seemed deep and contemplative.
In that moment, John realized the spiciness he had caught a whiff of earlier and why she wore perfume to mask it.
A sudden thought struck him: she wasn’t just following the rules; she had deceived Grandpa.
His sister, Catherine Everhart, was a rebellious spirit.
At just 20, she was already trying to hide her vices, daring to smoke and gather secrets far beyond her years, molding herself into a figure pleasing to their parents.
John stepped back slightly, his shoes echoing on the tile floor. Catherine raised her gaze towards him, her expression serious, a hint of fierceness flickering in her otherwise soft demeanor.
John felt an urge to cry, but just then, she extinguished the cigarette on the wall and greeted him with an infectious warm smile.
"Are you scared of me?"
John took a few steps closer, eyes widening, "Who’s scared of you?"

Chapter 5

Catherine Everhart's smile widened as she lifted her hand towards him. Instinctively, John Winterfell closed his eyes and turned his head, trying to avoid the unwanted contact that was coming. He felt her dry fingertip brush against the corner of his mouth.
"This is syrup from a spiny perch," Catherine said, her tone laced with teasing fear, leaving his stubbornness unchallenged.
Catherine kept her fingers moving in that playful gesture for a moment before turning away to wash her hands in the sink. Her hands were elegant and defined, the lights reflecting off her knuckles as she let the water cascade over them.
When she reached for the soap, the scent of mint filled the air.
"Does smoking taste good?" His fingers, as restless as a fish out of water, wriggled in the broader grasp of another. He tilted his chin up, looking at Catherine, wondering if what he caught a whiff of was the same as what she inhaled. "My teacher says smoking is bad."
"Your teacher is right," Catherine replied. "It’s bitter and spicy."
"Then why do you smoke?"
"Because once you've tasted something even bitterer and spicier, this seems sweet."
Years later, John Winterfell would realize Catherine lied. He had tasted much worse, but smoking was still bitter.
Especially before their divorce, when Catherine handed him that cigarette, the bitterness was unbearable.
Catherine got home at three, and to make sure he could leave early, he had piled all his work into the morning, using his lunch break to train the newly appointed CFO. He was starving and exhausted.
But just thinking about the home waiting for him—filled with John Winterfell—turned each familiar decoration into a multitude of possibilities, igniting an excitement that jolted his weary nerves.
But now, the house felt hollow; John Winterfell was gone.
The kid still didn’t like making his bed, just like three years ago. The blankets were twisted into a ball, still holding the half-moon shape that wrapped around his waist, like a stone weathered by the winds.
Even longer ago, last night, it had become a "comfort blanket," held tightly in John's hand, bracing for the impact of his return.
No matter how composed John appeared, through the brow furrowed and the tension of his little body, Catherine could sense the uncharted territory his body had not explored in three years.
He felt satisfied, though there was one thing he was not happy about—the agent, Leonard Brookhaven, who dared to covet him.
The closet door was ajar; John wouldn't have left it that way. Clearly, he had taken something from inside. Catherine pushed it open and noted a missing pair of joggers.
Last night, they were both eager, like two thirsty plants yearning for water. He unburdened the resentment of three years without any word from John since their divorce. He hadn’t noticed the things ruined in the heat of the moment. Now, looking back, it appeared to be John's long pants.
On the bedside table, he found John's earring, which Catherine had taken off while he slept, evidently without John noticing. In his rush to leave in the morning, he must have forgotten it. It was a pair of shiny silver adornments, one shaped like the letter T and the other like S.
TS represented the first team John had built, and it held immense significance for him. However, after the divorce, he hadn't taken the team with him. It faded into obscurity while the original TS squad remained under Everhart Corporation’s esports investment, stripped of its soul as its former members scattered. Now, it held nothing but a title, having once claimed consecutive league championships.
Catherine held the earring, warming its coldness with his grip, thinking about the person who had left without a word, the cruelty of it all, yet constantly wearing something that felt sentimental.
His gaze shifted to the gaming room across from the bedroom. The door lock bore signs of being touched, and if one looked closely, a faint fingerprint remained. It was clear John had only tried one number before giving up on entering that room.
Catherine understood; John knew the code, he just didn't want to unlock the memories sealed inside.
The question loomed—was John avoiding the past self he once was, or was he avoiding facing him?
Because everything inside belonged to Catherine. Some was purchased by him while much of it John had pleaded for—pouting, being affectionate in bed, celebrating birthdays and holidays, sprinkling wishes wherever he went. With Catherine indulging him, they always came true.
After one night, John had left Gardenview Manor without a sound, taking only the essentials, offering no backward glance, leaving everything else behind.
His departure was not unexpected for Catherine. If he had wanted to keep John, all he had to do was lock the door, but he hadn’t. To him, it was about nurturing a bird that could soar above the valleys and lakes, to see him spread those wings beautifully.
Tossing the car key in his hand, Catherine made a decision. He placed the earring into his pocket, turned, and headed down the stairs. He drove out toward Rainbow Court, twenty kilometers away.
Today, John was all the rage. For Catherine, finding news about him was easy. He didn’t even need to dig; his secretary would bring all of John's details right to him.
Rainbow Court was now the training camp for The Outlaws.
Waiting in the car, he made a few calls. Upon arrival, Richard Thorne, an investor in the team, was already there, ready to greet him.
When Richard answered Catherine’s call, he felt a rush of anxiety. From the moment he had brought John on board, he feared a day like this would come. When Catherine and John divorced, it was anything but pretty.
One vanished from the scene entirely, while the other hadn’t stepped into the public eye for half a year.
Rumors spread—John dumped Catherine.
Three years may have passed, but with someone as proud as Catherine, it was unimaginable to predict whether he felt rage or resentment. If he truly sought retribution against John, he would be the innocent fish caught in a whirlpool, any investment he made would surely go down the drain.
Yet when Richard saw Catherine step out of the car, he seemed in good spirits, walking up the steps in the evening light, extending his right hand cheerfully. "Richard, give me a tour."
Richard released a breath of relief but remained shrewd, guiding him smoothly to The Outlaws' training room. Through the glass door, Catherine gazed at John, headphones on, left hand gripping the mouse, his wrist moving swiftly, fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard, an expression of concentration etched deep on his face, an imposing air surrounding him.

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