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)
Something urgent has come up. I can’t do dinner tonight. I’m sorry.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Everything good?
I stare at the screen, my throat tight.
Yeah. Just work stuff.
I turn off my phone and walk the rest of the way home in a daze.
This is the second time I’ve stormed out of that office, and the thought alone is embarrassing enough.
I never had any drama like this back in London, never had any issues of this kind before. I’ve always kept my head down, always focused on the job. I never gave anyone any reason to doubt me or question my work ethic. I wrote what I was asked to write, turned it in on time, and moved on.
Simple. Straightforward.
No distractions. No chaos.
And now? Now, my biggest success in this industry so far isn’t because of my reporting or my analysis.
It’s because of a flirtatious interaction with a footballer.
The world isn’t talking about my articles - they’re talking about my banter with Matteo Rossi.
And my novel? The one I swore I’d finish while I was here?
I haven't even opened the document in over a week. It’s gathering digital dust while I get sucked further into this ridiculous circus.
By the time I reach my apartment door, I’m suffocating under the weight of it all.
The pressure of trying to succeed in a job where no one respects me.
The frustration of working tirelessly only to have someone else take the credit.
The humiliation of knowing that, to people like Mark, my success will never be about talent - it will always be about which man they think I’m having sex with.
I just about manage to lock the door behind me before I sink to the floor, my back sliding against the wooden surface as I drop to the ground. The tears come before I can stop them; hot, angry sobs that wrack my body and leave me gasping for breath.
Because Mark's words aren't just vile. They're a reminder that no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, this industry will always find a way to reduce my success and link it to a man.
And the worst part? The part that really makes me want to scream?
He’s fucking right.
I am sleeping with Matteo.
Not that it’s gotten me anywhere professionally. If anything, I’ve tried to resist him. I’ve tried to keep things professional.
But I failed.
And then another thought slams into me with the force of a freight train - one that really has the tears flowing.
Mark warned me about Matteo from the start. He warned me that he doesn’t respect women, that he doesn’t take women seriously -
That he doesn’t believe women should be involved in football journalism.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing the tears to stop, but they won’t.
How could I have been so stupid?
Chapter Forty-Seven
Daphne
The day passes in a blur of self-pity, ice cream and bad reality TV.
I lose count of how many spoonfuls of Häagen-Dazs I shovel into my mouth as I sprawl across the sofa in my pajamas: tiny grey shorts and an oversized, faded university tee. My hair - still matted from restless naps - is scraped into a messy bun on top of my head, and the dark circles under my eyes are proof of the emotional meltdown I'd indulged in earlier.
In other words, I look like pure and utter shite.
Deciding that I’m ready to escape into someone else's problems for a while, I pull my laptop onto my knee and open the document titled Untitled Fantasy Novel.
My fingers clack along the keyboard, and before I know it, my heroine is in the middle of an argument with the brooding, misunderstood villain-turned-reluctant-hero.
She's starting to fall for him, hard - and she's furious about it.
Relatable.
I get lost in the words, typing feverishly as my heroine tries - and fails - to resist the pull of the villain’s sharp wit and undeniable intensity. The hours slip by unnoticed as I’m consumed by the world that lives only in my head -
Until there's a knock at the door.
I freeze, hands hovering over the keyboard.
I glance at the time on my screen. 9:17 p.m.
Who the hell would be knocking at this time?
I ignore it, hoping they'll go away, but the knock comes again - louder, this time. More insistent.
My heart races as I pad toward the door, each step cautious.
My apartment is small, and the coffee table in the living room offers a full view of my afternoon carnage: an empty ice cream tub with the spoon still inside, two crumpled chocolate bar wrappers and a half-empty bottle of rosé.
The knock comes again, and I curse under my breath.
"Okay, okay," I mutter, running a hand over my face before unlocking the door and pulling it open, silently praying that it isn’t Mark -
Only to find Matteo Rossi standing on my doorstep.