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)
Mark’s words from our earliest meeting gnaw at me.
He doesn’t think women belong in football journalism.
And now look what I've done.
I’ve proven his point entirely. I’ve become exactly what Matteo and Mark and every other arrogant, sexist asshole in this industry expects:
The naive girl who lets herself get swept up by a handsome footballer.
I could vomit.
That’s not who I am. That’s not why I’m here.
I came here to prove myself. To get away from D-list celebrity gossip, to write, to make a name for myself -
To be taken seriously.
And now I’m just another name Matteo Rossi can add to his long list.
For a second - just a fleeting second - I could have sworn that there was something more in his dark eyes. Something deeper. Something meaningful.
Stupid.
I exhale sharply, determined not to let myself spiral over this.
It happened, it’s done, and it will not happen again.
I need to focus. On work, on my articles, on my novel - on anything and everything that doesn’t involve Matteo Rossi and the way he made me come completely undone last night.
I pick up my phone again and type out a response to Richard.
Glad you liked it. I’ll let you know when I have something scheduled with him.
I don’t know when I’ll see him next, but when I do, I’ll be ready.
*
My entire weekend is spent in forced relaxation.
I spend most of Saturday doing my best impression of a functioning human by going for a long walk and treating myself to dinner at a little café near the Spanish steps, pretending I’m completely unbothered by everything that happened at the gala. I call Priya that evening, letting her talk my ear off about her upcoming trip to Monaco along with her tale of a recent disastrous date.
I laugh at all the right moments and nod along, but I don’t tell her about Matteo.
Not because I don’t want to. But because I can’t.
She wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t see it for what it is.
Priya doesn’t know Matteo: she’d romanticise it and try and convince me that there’s more to it than just sex, that I’m not just a fuck-and-chuck to tick off on the sports stars never-ending list of women.
That, and I know that the moment I actually say it out loud - the moment I acknowledge it more than just in my mind - it becomes real.
By Sunday night, I convince myself I’ve successfully shoved it all to the back of my mind.
After all, it’s done. It’s over.
There’s no use fretting or dwelling on it.
And then Monday comes.
I don’t actually need to be in the office. All of my recent articles and interview clips have been completed and submitted, and I could technically work remotely for the next few days.
But the idea of dodging Mark Chapman indefinitely feels pathetic. Cowardly, even.
And after everything that happened at the gala, I just want to see him in person and get the awkwardness over and done with so that we can return to normality.
So, I go.
The office is as chaotic as ever when I step inside. I nod and smile at a few colleagues as I make my way to what I’ve now unofficially claimed as my desk, but before I even get the chance to sit down, I hear my name being called by a familiar voice.
"Sinclair."
I freeze, my eyes raising immediately.
Mark’s standing a few feet away, dressed in his usual button-down and looking as smarmy as ever.
If he feels even an ounce of shame for how he acted at the gala, he doesn’t show it.
“Can I see you for a minute?” he asks, tilting his head towards his office.
I hesitate, but then I square my shoulders.
Might as well get this over with.
Mark’s office is sleek and impersonal - very much like him in many ways. I stand just inside the doorway with my arms crossed over my chest, waiting for him to start.
For a second, a stupid part of me assumes that he’s going to start off with an apology.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he lets out a small, almost pitying sigh.
“Look - about the gala,” he says, sounding as though he’s very much feigning concern. “I think we both had a little too much to drink. And as your senior - as your mentor - I wanted to say I’m sorry if things got misinterpreted.”
I blink.
Misinterpreted?
“I -” I start, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off.
“Look, Daphne, I actually quite like you. You’ve got all of the signs of being a talented writer, and you’ve got a lot of potential in this industry.”
He exhales, like this conversation is some great, tasking burden on him.
“I’d hate for something like this to create unnecessary… friction.”
Something cold and sharp settles in my chest.
I see it now.
The way he’s twisting it, the way he’s rewriting the narrative and making it sound like I was the one who got the wrong idea.