Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
"What time is it?"
I twist my head to check the alarm clock on my bedside table.
"Six-thirty."
"Shit," Matteo groans, rubbing his face with one hand before sitting up with obvious reluctance.
The sheets pool around his waist, exposing the sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders. I roll over so that I’m fully facing him, still a little dazed by the sight of him here, in my bed, like he belongs.
"Training?" I ask.
"Yeah." He scrubs a hand through his hair, making the dark strands stick up at odd angles. "Final prep before next week's match. We’ve got a media circus around us already - though you already know that."
He turns to me, eyes suddenly serious.
"You sure you’re okay?"
I nod. "I'm fine."
Matteo’s brow furrows.
"You said that last night, too. I’m going to need a little more conviction than fine, Daphne."
I try for a smile.
"I promise. I’m okay."
He doesn't look convinced. Matteo leans forward and cups my face with both hands, his thumbs brushing across my cheeks as his gaze searches mine.
"If anything changes," he says quietly, "if Mark tries anything, if you feel even the slightest bit off, you call me. Immediately. Got it?"
"Got it."
"And you’re not just saying that?"
"Matteo -"
He kisses me, cutting off my protest with the firm press of his lips.
It’s not the kind of kiss designed to distract me or spark something more. Instead, it’s grounding - protective, even.
A silent promise that he’s with me, no matter what comes next.
When he pulls back, his jaw is tight.
"I’m serious, Daphne. Don’t downplay this. You don’t have to handle it alone anymore."
My throat tightens at the sincerity in his voice.
"Okay," I whisper. "I won’t."
"Good." He lets out a slow breath, as though convincing himself to leave. "I really did just come round to check on you last night, you know."
I snort softly.
"Yeah, we really nailed the whole just checking in thing."
His lips twitch. "Hey, that was all you. You were irresistible in those ice-cream-stained pajamas."
"Shut up," I say, stretching out my arm so that I can bat lightly at his chest, but warmth floods my cheeks.
"Speaking of ice cream," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead. "I brought pizza. It's in the fridge. I figured you'd need lunch today after all your hard work last night."
His voice is laced with suggestive amusement, and I roll my eyes knowingly.
I watch as he pulls on his clothes - his jeans from the night before and a black hoodie he must’ve brought with him. He leans down and presses another kiss to my lips and then another to my forehead before he finally moves to leave.
I settle down against the pillows, my eyes just about to drift back to a close when he pauses at the door. I blink up at him and note that his face is suddenly serious again.
"Promise me you’ll be okay today," he says.
"I promise," I tell him without hesitation.
His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer, but then he nods once and heads out of the room.
I listen to the sound of his footsteps retreating through the living room, and I hold my breath until I hear the soft click of the front door closing behind him.
The apartment feels unnervingly quiet in his absence.
I sigh and fall further back against the pillows, his scent still lingering on my sheets. For a few minutes, I let myself just be, but then the tight coil of anxiety in my stomach returns with full force.
I can't stay here all day, wallowing in it.
And I can’t keep hiding from Mark, or the situation.
If I want this resolved, I need to do something about it.
So, I do what I always do when I need to clear my head: I shower, letting the hot water scald my skin as though it might wash away the weight of the past few days.
I scrub shampoo into my hair until my scalp tingles, then stand there with my forehead against the tile as the water cascades over me.
The memories swirl.
Mark sneering in his office, his voice thick with condescension.
The way he made me feel small. Like I didn't belong.
Like every accomplishment I’d worked for meant nothing.
And for what? So he could steal credit for my work? So he could push me out of the industry entirely?
Fuck that.
I turn off the shower and step out, wrapping myself in a towel and standing in front of the fogged-up mirror. My reflection stares back at me, eyes shadowed with exhaustion but sharpened with new resolve.
I’ve worked too hard for this. I didn’t move to Rome and uproot my entire life for three fucking months just to be intimidated by a bitter, small-minded man.
Mark is nothing but a bully.
And I won’t back down.
I dry my hair before I throw on a pair of light trousers and a sleeveless black tee that I tuck firmly down into them. I begin to pace my living room as I map out my next steps, mimicking Matteo’s movements from yesterday evening.