Golden Facade

Sunlight scorched the Sterling estate, bouncing off the crystal-blue pool. Chlorine and fresh-cut grass thickened the air—a picture of manufactured perfection. Glenn Sterling lounged poolside, reclined in a padded chair beneath a striped umbrella. His signature silk robe, embroidered with golden thread, hung loosely around his shoulders. Across the back, stitched in bold letters, was the moniker that had defined him for decades:

THE GOLDEN BOY.

Glenn sipped champagne, oversized sunglasses masking his gaze. Condensation dripped onto the glass table, next to a bowl of untouched fruit and a neatly stacked pile of fan mail—set dressing for a life of excess.

This was the life he had built.

This was perfection.

Or at least, that was what Glenn told himself.

He reached lazily for the latest issue of Wrestling Insider Weekly, delivered earlier with the morning mail. Glenn normally ignored the dirt sheets, dismissing them as bottom-feeding tabloids, but something about this one caught his eye.

Right on the cover, in bold, unforgiving letters: THE GOLDEN YEARS OR THE END OF THE GOLDEN BOY?

Glenn’s smirk froze.

Sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, he focused intently on the words beneath the headline.

Once the crown jewel of Southern wrestling, Glenn Sterling now finds himself a relic of a bygone era… His undeniable talent is overshadowed by an outdated ring presence… His act feels less ‘classic’ and more ‘out of touch…’ Photos from the event suggest that the Golden Boy’s luster is fading—not just figuratively, but literally, as critics couldn’t help but notice signs of age creeping into his once-impeccable physique…

His grip tightened. Then, the real dagger—a mid-match photo. Face flushed red, sweat glistening, posture hunched. And below it—the betrayal. A slight curve over his waistband, immortalized in print.

Glenn’s jaw clenched.

He tilted the magazine toward the sunlight, as if better lighting would somehow change the image.

"A bad angle," he muttered defensively, though no one was around to hear.

"You’re holding that like it personally offended you," a smooth voice purred from behind him.

Glenn exhaled sharply, but he didn’t need to turn. He knew that presence—polished, practiced, inescapable. Vivian Sterling stepped into view, ivory silk cinched at the waist, auburn hair draped like a statement. In one manicured hand, a glass of red wine.

She was stunning even at her age, but more than that—she was calculating. Her beauty was not just an asset; it was a weapon she wielded with precision.

Glenn didn’t need to look at her to know she was smirking.

"You’re reading the dirt sheets again, aren’t you?" she teased, taking a slow sip of her wine. "I told you, darling, never let the opinions of peasants weigh on wrestlings royalty."

Glenn set the magazine down with more force than necessary. "They called me outdated, Viv," he muttered. "Said I looked like a parody of myself. And this—" he jabbed a finger at the photo. "This is what they print? Some cheap shot that makes me look… washed up?"

Vivian arched a perfectly sculpted brow and leaned against the lounge chair beside him.

"That’s because they want you to look washed up. Wrestling has changed, Glenn. It’s all about flipping and flying and…" She waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever nonsense these children call wrestling now. They don’t respect grandeur anymore."

Glenn ran a hand through his hair, still thick but not as effortless as it used to be. "They think I can’t keep up."

Vivian’s smirk widened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “Then remind them.” She let the words settle, precision-cut for his ego—sharp enough to wound, sweet enough to heal.

Glenn looked at her then, finally meeting her gaze. "You really think I still have it?" His voice was quieter than before, the crack in his confidence barely audible.

Vivian stepped forward, setting her wine glass on the table with an exaggerated clink. She placed a hand on his chest, fingers lightly tracing the gold embroidery of his robe.

"Darling," she whispered, tilting his chin so their eyes met. "You were born to be worshipped. And I refuse to let them bury you before you’re done."

A flicker of something reignited in Glenn’s eyes. A challenge. A purpose. A refusal to fade.

Vivian leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Now, stop pouting and start winning."

She picked up the magazine and tossed it into the pool without a second glance. The pages bloated, ink dissolving—doubts drowned before they could spread.

Vivian smiled. "See? Problem solved."

For the first time that morning, Glenn chuckled.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe he just needed to remind the world.

Vivian Sterling had always known how to keep him believing in himself—even when reality threatened to say otherwise.

And that, above all, was why he needed her.