Chapter 76: Vanity Fair in Paris
Paris, Théâtre du Châtelet.
The two-century-old theatre had been transformed into a temple of world football. Spotlights on either side of the red carpet turned night into day, and the air was thick with expensive perfume and an almost suffocating opulence.
It was a banquet for victors, the pinnacle of the vanity fair.
A black stretch limousine glided to the end of the carpet. The door opened; a pair of gleaming black shoes touched the ground, and then the figure who struck terror into every European defender stepped out.
Lin Yuan.
Tonight he had swapped Chelsea's mud-stained jersey for a bespoke jet-black Armani suit, cut so sharp it traced the wide wings of his lats and the perfect V of his torso. No tie; the white shirt's collar sat open just enough to reveal the sensual collarbone and the wild, trademark scar above his brow.
He offered his arm to Anna—gorgeous in a deep-crimson backless gown that stole every breath—and together they took to the carpet.
Over here, Lin!
Tyrant! Look at the lens!
Shouts from the press rose and fell. Instead of waving and smiling like the other stars, Lin Yuan merely tilted his head, slid off his shades, and let those ink-black eyes rake across the cameras with an inborn detachment and arrogance.
Inside the Green Room the air grew even thinner; only the true elite of the ballot were admitted to this inner sanctum.
Lin Yuan had just lifted a flute of sparkling water when a colossal silhouette eclipsed the chandelier above him.
Hey, Chelsea's Butcher.
The English carried a thick Nordic lilt. Erling Haaland, wrapped in a wine-velvet suit like a polar bear draped in silk, grinned down at him.
How are the ribs? Lin Yuan asked without looking up, swirling his glass.
Haaland's hand instinctively brushed the left side of his ribcage—the spot Lin had crunched in last season's clash at Stamford Bridge.
All healed, Haaland laughed, clapping Lin's shoulder. But tonight you might be disappointed. Word is Roni's pulling a lot of votes.
Is that so? Lin Yuan turned to face the most feared striker on earth. If it's him, I've no complaint. If it's anyone else...
His gaze slid toward Mbappé nearby, eyes chilling.
A sudden stir rippled through the room.
The man had arrived.
At forty, Cristiano Ronaldo strode in wearing a classic black tux, Georgina on his arm. Time had carved lines into his face, but the kingly aura had only grown richer with age.
This was his last dance.
Cristiano Ronaldo ignored the sea of outstretched hands, raptor eyes sweeping the crowd until they fixed on the young man in black lurking in the corner.
Knew you'd wear black, Ronaldo laughed, pulling Lin into a bear hug. You look like a mafia don heading to a funeral.
Lin thumped the older man's back. It's to match you. Tonight might be the funeral of the old era—and your coronation.
Ready? Ronaldo released him, gaze blazing. That seat is hotter than you think.
I like things hot, Lin said, smoothing his collar. I don't drink lukewarm blood.
...The ceremony began.
Host Drogba stood centre-stage, each award pushing the tension higher.
At last the final moment arrived—the Ballon d'Or.
The big screen rolled the season's montage for the three finalists.
Cristiano Ronaldo: European Cup-winning captain, still lethal at forty, leadership off the charts.
Haaland: Premier League Golden Boot, a goal machine.
Lin Yuan: Premier League and Champions League-winning captain, the man who redefined defensive dominance.
Clips flashed—Lin lifting the trophy at Wembley bandaged, clearing off the line at Anfield, bulldozing Bellingham at the Bernabéu—all to thumping metal that had every guest's pulse racing.
Drogba opened the envelope.
The hall held its breath.
The 2024 Ballon d'Or winner is—
He paused, eyes sweeping the audience.
Cristiano Ronaldo!
Boom—!
Thunderous applause. Everyone on their feet.
It was the ultimate tribute to a legend, reward for leading Portugal back to European glory—a triumph of both sentiment and substance.
Cristiano Ronaldo stood, eyes glistening. Yet before heading to the stage he turned and hugged Lin.
I win this time, kid, he whispered. But you know it's more farewell than victory.
Go get your trophy, Lin said, nudging him. Don't keep them waiting.
Cristiano Ronaldo climbed the steps and lifted the heavy golden sphere.
At the same instant the screen flashed the Silver Ball—second place: Lin Yuan.
Even without the top prize, a defensive midfielder finishing runner-up ahead of Haaland and Mbappé at barely twenty was already miraculous.
On stage, Ronaldo gave his speech. After the thanks, he turned, hugged the trophy, and strode to the edge, eyes locking onto Lin in the front row.
Before I finish, I want to say this.
His voice rang through the hall, firm and unmistakable:
This is my last Ballon d'Or. I take it home to mark my era.
But starting tomorrow...
He stretched out a hand toward Lin:
That spot is yours.
Don't let the soft ones lay a finger on it. Guard what's ours—your way, the way that makes everyone afraid.
If it's you, I allow you to be greater than me.
Gasps swept the room—a public, unequivocal passing of the torch.
Every lens swung to Lin Yuan.
Lin rose slowly, straightening his jacket, an innate arrogance letting him meet the King eye-to-eye.
He looked at Ronaldo, a confident smirk curling his lips.
Without a mic, every soul read his lips—and the gesture he aimed at the golden ball.
His words:
That thing looks heavy.
But I can carry it.
That night the old king bowed out and the heir stood ready.
Under the Paris sky, Lin Yuan's name was etched into history—and everyone knew this was only the beginning. Next year, that silver sphere would turn to gold.
----------
Check Out P atreon For More Chapters:
P atreon.com/AnonymousWriter6