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)
This is the kind of role I’ve worked my ass off to get towards - the kind of role that traditionally takes a lot more time and experience to reach.
I should be thrilled.
Overjoyed, even.
But all I feel is a jarring mix of disbelief and uncertainty.
"I don't… I don't know what to say," I manage.
"Take your time." Richard checks his watch with a sigh. "I mean - not too much time, obviously. I need an answer before the end of the week so I can update the board. They want reassurance that you’re committed to the publication. That you won’t… you know, run your mouth like some of the others are threatening to."
My eyes snap up to his.
"You mean the women who reported Mark for sexual harassment?"
"We've got to protect the publication, Sinclair,” Richard shrugs. “I’m sure you understand."
The words leave a sour taste in my mouth.
"Anyway," he continues, brushing invisible lint from his suit sleeve. "Like I said, it's yours if you want it. Salary bump, a proper contract, the works. Just, ah - not the apartment you’re in now."
"What?"
"That place was part of the temporary assignment package," Richard says with a dismissive wave. "If you stay on permanently, you'll need to sort your own accommodation. The Tribune can’t house you indefinitely. But hey - at least you'll be getting paid enough to live somewhere decent."
I press my lips together to stop myself from snapping something sarcastic.
"Take a day or two to think it over," Richard says. He moves toward the door and opens it before glancing back at me with a smirk. "But like I say, don’t take too long. Wouldn’t want you overthinking it."
With that, he steps out and pulls the door closed behind him.
I stare after him, the sound of it closing still reverberating through the room.
The empty room.
The chair behind the desk is all plush black leather, the view from the window overlooks the beautiful, bustling street below, and the desk still smells faintly of Mark’s terrible aftershave -
But the surface is clean now, save for the nameplate sitting dead centre.
I lean forwards and trace the letters with my fingertips.
Daphne Sinclair, Senior Sports Correspondent.
Why does it feel like my world has just tilted sideways?
*
The moment I get home, I kick off my shoes, throw my bag on the sofa, and collapse onto the cushions with a groan.
The nameplate Richard gave me feels like it’s burning a hole in my bag, even though it’s just a small, inanimate object.
Daphne Sinclair, Senior Sports Correspondent.
It sounds absurd. Like an elaborate prank.
With a sigh, I pull out my phone and open my messages.
Priya, are you around? I need to talk.
The dots appear almost immediately.
Give me 5 mins. Just left the beach club. It’s been insane here since the Grand Prix.
I smile despite myself. Of course it has.
Monaco during Grand Prix weekend? Pure chaos.
The perfect mix of billionaires, celebrities, and the sort of drama Priya thrives on.
While I wait for her call, I wander to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
My reflection catches my eye in the window, and I realise I’m still frowning.
Senior Sports Correspondent. Permanent position. Full-time, right here in Rome.
Shouldn’t I be jumping for joy right now?
Before I can spiral further, my phone buzzes with an incoming video call, and I swipe to accept.
"Hey, you."
Priya’s face appears on the screen, glowing with a golden tan, oversized sunglasses perched atop her head.
The background shows pale stone buildings, palm trees swaying in the breeze and the faint blur of boats in the distance.
"Hey, babe," she greets. "Okay, what’s going on? I can practically feel the anxiety from here."
I sink back onto the sofa. "I got offered a job today."
"Wait. A job?” she repeats. “But you already have a job."
"Yeah, but this one’s permanent. As a full-time Senior Sports Correspondent."
Priya lets out a squeal so loud I have to hold the phone away.
"Daphne! That’s incredible! Senior? At your age? Babe, that’s unheard of!"
I smile, but it feels thin.
"I know. It just… feels weird."
Her brow furrows.
"Weird? Why the hell does it feel weird? You’ve been working your ass off and having to deal with that idiot! You deserve this!"
"I know, but -" I pause, struggling to find the right words. "It's just so sudden. I came here expecting to do a three-month stint and then go home. And now Richard’s flown all the way out here to offer me a permanent contract."
"And you're hesitating why, exactly?" Priya sits back against a wicker chair, propping her sunglasses atop her head. "Daphne, come on. What’s tying you to London?"
"I mean... it’s home," I say lamely.
"Is it, though?" she challenges. "Really?"
I open my mouth to argue, but Priya barrels ahead.
"Your parents are never there. They’re always gallivanting around on another river cruise or discovering themselves in Bali or whatever midlife-crisis nonsense they’re into this month."