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)
I let out a dry laugh before I step out of the front door.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Daphne
The children's home is tucked away on a quiet street, a worn-out but well-loved building with bright murals painted along the outer walls.
There’s a massive, colourful sun with cartoonish rays stretching out over a patch of flowers, and just below it, a group of smiling children holding hands.
Someone - a very ambitious artist, clearly - has attempted to paint a footballer mid-bicycle kick. His proportions are slightly off, and his face looks alarmingly like an owl, but the effort is there.
I let out a slow breath as I take it all in. The window sills are lined with tiny potted plants, no doubt messily tended to by little hands, and even from the entrance I can hear the faint sound of laughter and shouts from inside.
It’s the kind of sound that’s both comforting and a little chaotic, like the place is constantly alive with energy.
Mark clears his throat from where he appears beside me, and my lips curve into a polite smile as I turn to face him.
For some bizarre reason, he has decided to dress as if we’re attending a shareholders’ meeting rather than visiting children.
A pristine navy-blue suit. Tailored, and not a wrinkle in sight. A crisp white dress shirt tucked in so tightly it could be vacuum-sealed to his body, a designer watch gleaming obnoxiously on his wrist along with an expensive-looking pair of sunglasses perched on his nose.
Oh, and his shoes are shiny, black, and polished to within an inch of their life.
He looks like he should be negotiating a multi-million-dollar deal, not walking into a place where at least one child will inevitably wipe their nose on him.
I stare at him for a long second, genuinely wondering if he’s lost his mind.
“Bit underdressed, aren’t you?” Mark comments, looking me up and down.
I glance down at myself. I’m wearing a pair of high-waisted, flared black trousers, a short-sleeved dark blouse and a pair of flat shoes. My hair is tied up into a ponytail, and I’ve opted for minimal makeup.
My entire look is practical - something Mark clearly doesn’t understand.
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “I forgot this was a black-tie event.”
“Just saying,” he smirks. “You could’ve put in a little more effort.”
“I’m dressed for the occasion,” I tell him before motioning vaguely at his watch. “Meanwhile, that thing alone is probably worth more than this entire building.”
Mark checks his watch like he’s genuinely contemplating whether or not that’s true.
“I like to look presentable.”
“You like to look rich,” I correct. “Which is… your choice. I just hope you’re prepared for one of these kids to throw up on you.”
He laughs like I’m joking.
I am absolutely not joking.
With a dismissive wave, he strides toward the entrance.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I follow after him, shaking my head.
“Mark, we’re about to enter a building filled with tiny, chaotic human beings. This isn’t ridiculous, it’s inevitable.”
He doesn’t respond, and I let out a sigh.
Fine. Let him learn the hard way.
If I’m lucky, I’ll get a front-row seat to some jam-covered toddler absolutely ruining that suit.
It’s the least he deserves for making me listen to him and his cronies whine on about women in journalism sleeping their way to the top.
We step inside, and the warmth of this place is immediate. The air smells like a mixture of crayons, baby wipes, and something sweet.
A little girl with curly pigtails runs past us, giggling as another child chases after her. The walls are covered in drawings, some more abstract than others, and at the end of the hall, I spot a bulletin board pinned with pictures of past events and visits.
We’ve literally just stepped through the door, and it’s already clear that the staff here do everything they can to make this place feel like home.
For a moment, I push aside my irritation at Mark and just take it in.
In the end, this is what really matters.
Not the players showing up for PR.
Not Mark’s ridiculous outfit.
The kids.
The ones who live here, who don’t have families waiting for them at home.
They don’t care about press, about cameras, about football careers - they just want someone to play with them, to listen to their stories, to treat them like they matter.
Something tugs in my chest, but I shake it off before it can settle too deep.
A staff member approaches, all smiles. She greets us in Italian and we all share quick kisses on cheeks.
As she moves to lead us over towards a private room where we’ll wait for the others to arrive, I square my shoulders and mentally prepare myself.
I already know that one of those people is Matteo Rossi, and since I’m going to have to deal with him today on top of everything else, then I’m going to need a lot more patience than I currently have -