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)
Come on. Live in the moment, remember?
I chew my bottom lip, his words from earlier echoing in my head:
He who hesitates is lost.
Fine. One dinner.
But if you talk about your goal-scoring stats even once, then I’m leaving.
I hate the fact that I’m smiling as I press send, almost as much as I hate the fact that my stomach clenches tightly as I await his response.
Thankfully - as with all of his messages - I do not have to wait long.
Deal. I’ll pick you up at seven.
I finally set my phone down, my heart thudding uncomfortably in my chest.
"What the hell am I doing?" I whisper to the empty room.
There’s no answer, of course.
Only the faint buzz of anticipation lingers in the air, like static electricity before a storm.
Chapter Forty-Six
Daphne
I wake up to the sound of my phone vibrating on the nightstand.
Groggy, I reach for it, squinting at the screen.
Richard: Call me ASAP. Brilliant stuff, Sinclair. You're on fire.
Richard: Have you seen the clip? The public's eating it up.
Richard: Seriously. Call me.
I blink and open my notifications.
A link to a video is at the top, sent by Priya with an accompanying message.
You're famous, bitch.
I sit up and click it.
The video loads, and there we are: Matteo and I during last night's post-match interview.
There’s a moment where he smirks and says "I thought you were supposed to ask me hard-hitting questions, Sinclair, not just swoon over me on live TV.”
The camera pans over just in time to catch my wide-eyed look, followed by my dry, "the day I swoon over you is the day I quit journalism."
The comments are relentless.
The chemistry here is INSANE.
Look at that eye roll - classic sexual tension.
I feel like I’m interrupting something here.
When's the wedding?
Despite the early hour and the fact that I’m still half-asleep, a smile tugs at my lips.
The views are climbing by the second, and Richard’s right - the public seem to be eating it up.
My own inbox has exploded with engagement metrics, and when I finally drag myself out of bed and into the office, I can’t help but feel smug.
For once, I'm not the outsider.
For once, my work is getting the attention it deserves.
Whether or not it’s for the right reasons is irrelevant for now.
Unfortunately, the feeling evaporates the second I see Mark leaning against his office door, arms crossed.
"Sinclair," he says, jerking his head towards his office.
I swallow hard and follow him inside. He shuts the door with a little too much force and takes his seat behind the desk.
I remain standing.
"Big day for you," he says, voice flat. "I saw the clip."
"Yeah. Richard seems happy," I reply, forcing a casual tone.
"Richard," he repeats with a sneer. "Yeah, he's messaged me about it. Thinks you're the best thing since sliced bread all of a sudden."
"I'm doing my job," I say matter-of-factly.
"Are you?" he arches a brow. "Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot like you're cozying up to a player."
My jaw tightens.
"Matteo Rossi is a footballer I cover as part of my job. That's all."
"Is he?" Mark says as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You're sure you're not seeing him outside of work capacity?"
"No," I snap. "I'm not."
"You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Sinclair?" he asks, voice softening in that patronising way that makes my skin crawl. "Because that would make things... difficult. Professionally."
"I'm not lying."
He stares at me for a long moment, tapping a pen against the desk.
Go to hell, Chapman.
The seconds drag before finally, he lets out a short laugh and shakes his head.
"I just can't make it make sense," he says. "Why Richard's so far up your ass these days. It must be one of two things - I just can’t seem to figure out which."
His eyes flick up to meet mine, cold and calculating.
"Either you're sleeping with Rossi... or you're sleeping with Richard."
The words hit like a punch to the gut, and I swear my heart stops as the air is physically sucked out of my lungs.
"What did you just say?" I whisper.
"You heard me," Mark says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.
He knows he’s got under my skin, and he’s infuriatingly pleased about it.
"Which is it? The footballer or the editor?"
Rage floods my veins. My vision blurs with it.
"You're disgusting," I spit. "And you're a coward."
His eyes narrow, but I don’t wait for a response.
I spin on my heel, fling the door open, and walk straight out of the office.
It’s busy and bustling as usual, and people turn to watch me as I pass, shooting curious glances in my direction. My face burns with humiliation, but I don't stop until I reach the street and gulp in the warm air.
My mind is whirring, completely in overdrive, but I’m functional enough to pull out my phone and open Matteo’s chat.