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)
It was a good piece. One of my best, even. It highlighted the team’s efforts off the pitch and reminded the city of how much Roma does for the community.
And fine. Maybe it included a few extra words about Matteo Rossi.
It wasn’t as if it was intentional.
After all, it’s not my fault that he had been the last player standing with the kids long after the cameras had packed up.
And it definitely wasn’t related to his apology, either.
I’m in the middle of scanning through some emails when Mark appears beside my desk, his arms crossed and an insufferable smirk plastered across his face.
“Talk about a glowing review," he remarks, tilting his head. "I didn’t realise we were publishing love letters now."
"It’s a charity piece,” I scoff, trying not to look as surprised as I feel by his jibe. “What was I supposed to do - call them all media-hungry frauds and tell the world they don’t actually care about orphans?"
He shrugs.
"No, I get it. I just meant your descriptions of Rossi were… particularly generous. Almost poetic, really. He should be flattered."
My jaw clenches.
Mark is copied into all of the draft articles that I send to Richard, at his own request, so he’s had a few days to think about what to say to me about this.
"I wrote about him the same way I wrote about everyone else."
"Sure you did," he drawls, tapping his fingers against my desk. "You know, it’s no wonder Richard’s eating up all your work."
I set my laptop aside, already tired of this conversation.
"What do you mean, exactly?"
"Come on, Sinclair. Don’t act like you don’t know what’s happening here,” Mark says, leaning in and lowering his voice as if we’re sharing some kind of secret. “You and I both know how much people love a story - especially one with a little tension, a little rivalry. And your little dynamic with Rossi is basically clickbait at this point. A free soap opera."
Something in my stomach twists.
I know what he's doing. I know he’s trying to get a rise out of me.
And today?
Today, it works.
I’m almost surprised. After all, this is quite mild in comparison to some of the other crap I’ve been subjected to by this man and his cronies, so I’m not sure why it’s the thing that causes me to snap.
But it does.
"You know what?”
I slam my laptop shut and push my chair back abruptly.
“I'm sick of this bullshit.”
I move to stand.
“I work hard. I put in the hours, the time, the research, the effort. And if Richard is publishing my work, it’s because it’s good, not because of some fabricated drama that you and everyone else have decided to obsess over."
He raises an eyebrow, looking amused.
"Touched a nerve, did I?"
I don’t respond.
I just grab my bag and storm out.
*
I don't even attempt to complete any more work.
I can't.
My brain is too clouded with irritation, too filled with frustration at the way my efforts are constantly dismissed, as though everything I’ve achieved is down to some stupid narrative people have latched onto.
So, instead, I write.
And I write a lot.
The words come fast, pouring out of me as I work on my book, finally pushing forwards with the story that has been taking shape in my mind for months, years, even.
It’s cathartic, in a way.
If I can’t control what people think of me, at least I can control the story I create.
By the time the sun starts to dip, I realise I’ve been sitting at my desk for hours. My shoulders ache, my head is foggy, and I need air.
So I reach for a light denim jacket and step out onto the streets of Rome.
The city is alive in the evening glow, and I walk aimlessly, letting the sounds and sights wash over me.
I don’t know how long I wander, but for the first time all day, I finally feel calm.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Daphne
The stadium is buzzing.
Roma have done exactly what they needed to do tonight and delivered a dominant home win that has well and truly wiped away the bitter taste of their last match, and as a result, the energy is entirely different.
Instead of frustration and disappointment, there’s elation.
Relief.
Fans are still chanting as they spill out of the stands, their voices echoing through the concourses, carrying the high of victory with them into the night.
And I’m in a much better mood, too.
Not just because of the win, but because - mercifully - Mark has been nowhere to be found.
A truly stunning development.
I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder and check my phone for any new messages one last time before slipping it away.
Now all that’s left to do is the post-match interviews -
Which does unfortunately mean facing him again.
The last time I interviewed Matteo, he was furious; miserable and moody, stone-faced and sulking while doing his best impression of a thundercloud in football boots. He’d apologised, sure, but it doesn’t change what happened, or how it all went down.