Izan stepped off the private terminal at Valencia Airport, the air thick with humidity, carrying the weight of the storm waiting for him outside.
Miranda had moved swiftly, making sure his arrival was under wraps—no flight details leaked, no media tipped off.
But even as he walked toward the waiting car, he sensed it.
Something was off.
Miranda's phone buzzed in her hand. She checked it and let out a sharp sigh. "They know."
Izan's jaw tightened. He had been hoping for a quiet arrival, a chance to slip back into the city unnoticed. But it was impossible now.
"How?" he asked, glancing at her.
She was already scrolling through messages. "No idea. Maybe airport staff, maybe someone at the airline. But the press is outside. Cameras, mics, the whole circus."
Izan exhaled through his nose. Of course. This wasn't just a football story anymore.
A crisis. And his return to Valencia was another piece of the puzzle for journalists to pick apart.
