#mb22

You’re used to the looks. The double takes in restaurants. The sideways glances at airports. The way whispers follow your heels whenever you step into a stadium in head-to-toe designer and Marc’s jersey slung across your shoulders like an afterthought.

You’re used to it, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting sometimes.

Especially today.

You scroll through your phone while waiting in the car outside the training ground. The latest tabloid headline flashes across your screen with a photo of you and Marc holding hands after dinner last night. You wore a Balmain blazer. He wore sweatpants. You looked like a business deal. He looked like a teenager.

“Gold Digger Girlfriend? Bernal’s Beauty Boasts Luxury While He Keeps It Low-Key”

It’s not even creative. Just recycled accusations with new outfits.

You sigh and toss your phone into your purse as Marc slides into the passenger seat beside you, cheeks still flushed from training, curls damp and messy.

“Why do you look like that?” he asks, leaning over to kiss your cheek, voice light and soft and a little suspicious.

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Just the internet being the internet.”

His eyes narrow. “Did they post again?”

You hum noncommittally and reach for his hand instead. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

But Marc knows you. He knows the difference between your I’m fine and your don’t ask me because I might cry. He sits back in his seat and pulls your hand into his lap, thumb stroking slow circles across your skin.

“They don’t know you,” he says after a while. “They don’t know anything.”

You glance at him. “That’s what makes it so annoying. They assume just because I wear heels and fly first class that I must be using you.”

Marc scoffs. “They clearly haven’t met your mother.”

You let out a small laugh despite yourself. “She’d sue them for libel before I even got the chance.”

He grins. “Or challenge them to a duel.”

You laugh again, louder this time. “Can you imagine her in a fencing mask?”

“Yes. Terrifying.”

You squeeze his hand. “Still. I hate that it reflects on you. I don’t want people thinking you’re stupid or being taken advantage of.”

Marc’s voice is firm. “Anyone who thinks that doesn’t deserve to be near us.”

You blink a few times and then look out the window, biting back the emotion pooling in your chest.

You’ve been together for a little over a year now. And Marc’s been nothing but kind. Soft when you needed comfort, steady when your world went spinning. He never once acted insecure about the fact that you sometimes pay for dinner, or that your last name opens doors even his Barcelona badge can’t.

You remember the first time he came to your family’s estate in the south of France. You could practically see the panic in his eyes as the butler opened the door and someone handed him a glass of champagne.

Later that night, while curled up in your enormous canopy bed, he whispered, “I thought your family was rich, not Netflix series rich.”

You smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Does it freak you out?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But only because I thought I was spoiling you with those Prada earrings.”

You’d told him then, and you told him now, “The only thing I care about is you.”

Marc squeezes your hand again. “You know what I think we should do?”

You glance at him, wary. “What?”

“Post your real life.”

You raise a brow. “Marc, I literally just posted a reel of my trip to Santorini in Dior.”

“Yeah,” he grins, “but you left out the part where you took a call from the Spanish ambassador while picking out sea urchin.”

You snort. “So you want me to go full royal-core?”

“I want you to tell the truth,” he says, shrugging. “Let them choke on it.”

You look at him for a long time. He’s so calm. So unbothered. Like he’s never once questioned whether you’re with him for who he is or what he does. Like he’s already decided you’re real, and that’s that.

You smile. “Fine. But if we’re going public public, I’m posting your love notes too.”

His eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. ‘To my princess who scares me a little but kisses like an angel’ shall I continue?”

He tackles you across the middle console with a groan, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck.

“I take it back,” he mumbles. “Let them think you’re a gold digger. Just don’t read that one out loud.”

You giggle, tangling your fingers in his curls. “Too late. I already bookmarked it.”

He groans again but doesn’t let go.

And honestly, you don’t care anymore.

Let the world assume what it wants. Let the internet write stories. Let strangers call you shallow for having nice things and a boyfriend who happens to play in La Liga.

You know the truth.

You were raised in silk sheets and horseback riding lessons. You were taught diplomacy before you were taught math. You learned how to curtsy before you learned how to drive.

And yet, the softest thing in your life is Marc.

His hands, his voice, the way he looks at you like you’re made of stardust, not scandal.

Let them talk.