Doll

The flash of a camera was something Angel had grown used to, though she still blinked against the sudden, sharp light. Beside her, Michael Kaiser didn’t even flinch. He thrived in it. He thrived in the attention, the prestige, and the envy that followed him like a shadow.

Angel shifted on his lap, her small frame practically disappearing against his broad chest and long, muscular legs. She was wearing a pair of denim shorts that barely covered her curves and a cropped white tank top that showcased her flat, toned stomach. To the world, she was a living doll—perfectly symmetrical features, large doe eyes, and a petite stature that made every man who looked at her feel an instinctive, primal need to possess her.

She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Kaiser’s ear as she whispered, "Can we go soon? Your hand is getting a bit heavy, Michael."

Kaiser didn’t move his hand from where it was firmly planted on her upper thigh, his fingers digging slightly into the soft skin. His other hand was splayed across her back, pinning her against him. He looked down at her with a smirk that was half-affectionate and half-predatory.

"Patience, Liebling," he murmured, his voice low and vibrating against her skin. "Let them look. I want them to see exactly what belongs to me."

The photo taken at that exact moment—the height difference, the possessive grip of the world-class striker, and Angel’s delicate, whispering profile—went viral within seconds. The internet was ablaze with comments. *'The way he holds her like she’s made of glass,'* one read. *'I’d kill to be that hand on her thigh,'* said another.

But lately, the comments weren't the only thing Kaiser was watching.

Back in the locker room or in the quiet of their high-end apartment, Kaiser’s blue eyes would narrow as he scrolled through Angel’s Instagram notifications. A very specific name kept appearing.

Yoichi Isagi.

It started with a follow. Then a like on a bikini photo from their vacation in Ibiza. Then a like on a candid shot of Angel eating ice cream in a sundress. Isagi wasn't subtle, and the public had noticed. Fans were already making "edit" videos, theorizing a rivalry that extended far beyond the pitch of Blue Lock.

"Isagi is bold for someone who hasn't won a World Cup yet," Kaiser spat one evening, tossing his phone onto the bed.

Angel, who was sitting at her vanity applying lip gloss, looked at him through the mirror. "It’s just a like, Michael. Maybe he just thinks the photography is good."

Kaiser let out a sharp, mocking laugh. He walked over, standing behind her and placing his large hands on her narrow shoulders. "Don't be naive. He’s looking at you the same way he looks at a goal—with hunger. He wants to take everything from me. He wants my spot, he wants my crown, and now he’s looking at my girl."

The tension culminated at the annual End of Year Gala. It was the event of the season, a gathering of the elite from the football world.

Angel arrived on Kaiser’s arm wearing a dress that shouldn't have been legal. It was a shimmering, metallic pink mini-dress that hugged every curve of her small body. It was backless, held up by the thinnest of straps, and the hemline ended dangerously high on her thighs. She looked like a high-fashion doll, her hair styled in soft waves that bounced as she walked.

As soon as they entered the ballroom, the atmosphere changed. The murmurs followed them like a wake behind a ship.

"Look at her," a player from the French league whispered loudly enough for Kaiser to hear. "Kaiser really is a lucky bastard."

Kaiser’s jaw tightened. He kept Angel tucked under his arm, his grip borderline bruising. He was used to the stares, but tonight felt different. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and unspoken challenges.

"Michael, you're squeezing me," Angel whispered, trying to maintain her smile for the cameras.

"Stay close," he commanded, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on a familiar face.

Isagi Yoichi was standing by the bar, looking sharp in a navy suit. He wasn't looking at the drinks or the celebrities. He was looking directly at Angel. When their eyes met, Isagi didn't look away. He offered a small, knowing smirk and raised his glass in a silent toast.

It was the final straw for Kaiser’s ego.

Throughout the night, players approached them under the guise of talking shop with Kaiser, but their eyes always wandered down to Angel’s exposed skin. They were shameless. They complimented her perfume, asked for her handle, and lingered just a second too long when shaking her hand.

When a midfielder from the Italian national team leaned in and whispered something in Angel’s ear that made her giggle, Kaiser reached his breaking point. He didn't make a scene—not a physical one. He simply grabbed Angel’s wrist, his face a mask of cold, blue fury.

"We’re leaving," he said, his voice a sharp blade.

"But the awards haven't even—"

"Now, Angel."

The car ride home was silent and suffocating. Kaiser stared out the window, his chest heaving with suppressed rage. Angel sat beside him, feeling the heat radiating off him. She knew this mood. It was the dark side of being his prize. He didn't just want to love her; he wanted to consume her so that no one else could even catch a glimpse.

The moment the door to their penthouse clicked shut, Kaiser turned on her. He didn't yell. He just looked at her, his eyes dark and dilated.

"Take it off," he ordered.

Angel blinked, her heart racing. "Michael, I—"

"The dress. All of it. I can still smell their eyes on you," he growled, stepping into her space. He was so much taller than her that he completely eclipsed the light from the hallway. "You liked it, didn't you? Seeing Isagi watch you? Seeing those idiots drool over what’s mine?"

"I only want you," she whispered, reaching up to touch his chest. "You know that."

Kaiser grabbed her hands, pinning them above her head against the door. He leaned down, his nose brushing against hers. "Then prove it. Remind me why I shouldn't go back there and break Isagi’s legs."

He let go of her hands and sat down heavily on the edge of the velvet sofa in the living room, spreading his legs. He didn't take off his suit jacket. He just watched her with that hungry, distorted intensity.

Angel understood. She knew the only way to soothe the monster in him was to give him everything.

She reached back, unzipping the pink silk. The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a pair of sheer lace panties. She looked tiny in the vast, modern room, a splash of soft skin against the cold glass and steel.

She walked toward him on her tiptoes, kneeling between his knees. Kaiser’s hands immediately went to her hair, his fingers tangling in the blonde strands as he forced her head back to look at him.

"Fix this," he commanded.

Angel didn't hesitate. She reached for the belt of his trousers, her small hands trembling slightly as she worked the buckle. She slid his zipper down, and he sprang free, thick and pulsing with the adrenaline of his anger.

She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to lick the length of him, tasting the salt and the heat. Kaiser let out a low, guttural groan, his head falling back against the cushions.

"Yes," he hissed. "Just like that."

Angel took him into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she worked. She was small, and he was built like the elite athlete he was, the contrast striking even in the dim light. She used her hands to cup his weight, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head before sliding down to lick his balls, her movements rhythmic and practiced.

Kaiser’s hands tightened in her hair, pulling her closer, deeper. He wasn't gentle. He needed to feel the submission, the absolute focus of her on him.

"Look at me," he gasped.

Angel looked up, her eyes watering, her mouth full of him. She looked exactly like the doll he wanted her to be—vulnerable, beautiful, and entirely his.

The anger that had been simmering in his gut all night began to coil into something else. He watched her work, watched the way her small hands struggled to encircle him, and felt a surge of triumph. Isagi could like all the photos he wanted. The world could stare until their eyes bled.

But this—this was a reality they would never touch.

"I'm going to..." Kaiser choked out, his hips beginning to twitch involuntarily.

Angel picked up the pace, her tongue flicking against him, her throat opening to take as much of him as she could. She hummed against him, the vibration sending him over the edge.

Kaiser let out a sharp, strangled cry as he came, his body tensing as he pumped into her mouth. Angel didn't pull away. She stayed there, taking every drop, her eyes locked on his as he slowly came down from the high.

When he finally slumped back, his breathing ragged, he reached down and wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. His anger was gone, replaced by a smug, satisfied glow.

"Good girl," he whispered, his voice thick with possessiveness.

He pulled her up from the floor and onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her small frame. She rested her head against his shoulder, the pink dress forgotten on the floor.

"You're mine, Angel," he murmured into her hair. "Don't ever forget it."

Angel closed her eyes, feeling the steady thrum of his heart against her ear. Outside, the world was still talking about her, still liking her photos, still dreaming of a girl they could never have. But here, in the quiet of the penthouse, she was exactly where she was meant to be—locked in Kaiser’s golden cage.