Betrayed and Drained, I Choose the Tycoon Queen

There are less than twelve hours left until the seventh decisive battle of the world championship.

Outside the window, the whole city was in a frenzy of cheers.

As the team's ace pitcher, I've been scheduled to start tomorrow. This is the most important game of my career.

If I win this match, I will be the world champion, the undisputed Cy Young Award winner. I will become the greatest athlete this city has seen in half a century.

So when my wife, Scarlett, who is also the team's head coach, called me into her office under the pretext of a "final tactical meeting," I was completely unprepared.

She poured me a glass of water and sat down opposite me.

"The opponent's first three batters tomorrow have a high miss rate on high fastballs."

She chatted with me casually about the other person's attacking habits.

I nodded, drank the water, and was about to say something in agreement when I started to feel dizzy.

I took a deep breath, thinking it was just pre-match jitters. After all, no one can sleep on a night when they're just one step away from achieving legendary status.

Scarlett stood up and walked behind me.

She placed her hands on my shoulders and gently massaged my tense trapezius muscles.

I obediently closed my eyes, thinking that this was my wife, with whom I had fought for seven years, giving me a final, tender encouragement on the eve of the decisive battle.

Until a "click" sound came from outside the door.

The sound of the door opening was particularly jarring in this private office.

I opened my eyes and saw the person who pushed open the door and walked in.

It's Marcus. The least experienced backup pitcher in the bullpen, who just coasts along by pitching the rest of the innings.

But what truly stung my eyes was his clothing.

He was wearing my number 1 starting jersey for tomorrow. The large red fabric was draped over his body, but my name—"Carter"—was prominently printed on the back.

My first instinct was to stand up.

But my legs wouldn't obey me at all, as if all my marrow had been drained, limp and nailed to the chair.

I wanted to speak, to ask him why he was wearing my jersey, but my tongue felt like it was filled with extremely heavy lead, and I couldn't even utter the simplest syllable.

There's something wrong with that glass of water.

I sat frozen in place, staring at Scarlett with eyes blazing with fury.

She showed no guilt or panic.

She simply walked slowly to me, squatted down, and with the same hands that had just been massaging me, gently stroked my trembling cheeks one last time.

"The results of your arm MRI are in; the ligaments are severely worn."

There was no comforting, no pity.

Scarlett looked into my despairing eyes, her tone utterly cold:

"The doctor's report says you can only last another season at most."

“But Liam, I’m a coach. Putting aside my role as a wife, my first priority is the future of this team.”

I stared at her intently, my heart pounding with disbelief.

For the sake of a future that might be ruined, she wanted to personally drug me on the eve of my deification, breaking my wings that allowed me to soar high?

Following Scarlett's gaze, I saw her turn to look at Marcus.

His eyes revealed undisguised admiration and ambition.

“Marcus’s arms are younger and have more potential than yours. I’ve made my decision; starting tomorrow, he will be the team’s new ace.”

What an absurd excuse.

Because I'm almost exhausted, do I not deserve to finish the empire I built up over the entire season?

But that's not the most disheartening thing.

Scarlett stood up, casually pointed to what Marcus was holding, and calmly instructed me:

"As for the old glove your grandmother left you, I've given it to Marcus as a lucky charm. Tomorrow, he'll need it more than you do."

Upon hearing those words, the breath I had been holding onto completely dissipated.

His eyes instantly turned red.

That was a memento left to me by my grandmother.

No matter where I transfer to, for the past seven years, that old glove has been the only talisman I always carry with me.

Scarlett knew perfectly well what this glove meant to me.

She knew that was my fate.

But not only did she give my position and honor to someone else, now she's even handing over my only hope as a gift to please her new lover.

They met my red and painful eyes.

Marcus strode up to me, looked down at me, who was limp as a board, and laughed triumphantly.

"Thank you, Liam. Really."

He patted the jersey stripe on my shoulder, a spot he had once looked up to with immense admiration, and said lightly:

"I've mastered that curveball that you've been teaching me for the past six months. Tomorrow, I'll use it to strike out the last batter and win that championship ring for you."

I couldn't refute him.

Because the medication has fully taken effect, I can't even lift a single finger now.

What made me even more desperate was Scarlett's reaction.

She gently walked to Marcus's side, stretched out her arms, and hugged his neck tightly.

There was not the slightest bit of avoidance.

Right in front of me.

The two closed their eyes and kissed passionately without restraint.

This is the wife I loved with all my might, obeyed with all my might, and brought honor to all my heart.

After the kiss ended, Scarlett didn't even glance in my direction again.

She casually turned off the overhead light on the wall.

Marcus and I walked out the door side by side, and with a "click," we locked the door completely from the outside.

The footsteps in the corridor grew fainter and fainter.

And I, like a still-breathing corpse, was mercilessly abandoned in the bottomless darkness.

The drug left me completely paralyzed, but cruelly, my mind remained perfectly clear.

I opened my eyes and stared at the pitch-black ceiling.

I heard the sound of a night shift waiter pushing a linen cart past in the corridor outside the hotel.

I could hear the sports news on the TV in the next room, just one wall away, still loudly reporting on my "fairytale love" and mutual devotion with Scarlett over the past seven years.

I could even hear my own heartbeat.

Each sound shattered, bleeding, until finally, numbness and coldness set in.

I want to shout.

No sound came out of his throat.

I want to move.

His limbs, however, seemed to have been encased in cement.

Is it ridiculous? It's absolutely ridiculous.

Tomorrow at dawn, the outside world will be filled with flowers and revelry for 60,000 people.

My seven-year marriage, my entire youth, and even the glove I risked my life for, have all turned into a meaningless joke in this cold, impersonal office.

I lay quietly in the darkness until my tears dried.

As if resigned to my fate, I slowly closed my eyes.