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)
For now, I'm here. With him.
Living in the moment, and all that jazz.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Daphne
Walking into the office on Monday morning feels strange.
Not because anything looks particularly different. If anything, everything looks exactly the same.
The same outdated carpet, the same flickering overhead light near the break room, the same faint hum of conversation from my colleagues.
But for the first time since arriving in Rome, I'm not walking in with a pit of dread lodged in my stomach.
Because Mark Chapman is gone.
I don't have to brace myself for condescending comments. I don't have to anticipate him cornering me by the printer to question my sources or undermine my ideas.
And I don't have to sit through yet another lecture about how women don't know what they’re talking about when it comes to sports journalism.
I step into the newsroom with a coffee in hand and a faint smile on my lips.
Mark's office is still empty. The blinds are open, revealing the shelves that are now bare except for a single abandoned coffee cup on the window ledge. His desk remains, along with the computer monitor, a few stray sticky notes, and one large cardboard box filled with the remains of his belongings.
And the sight of this room no longer sends anxiety curling through my veins.
I glance at the empty chair, give it a mental middle finger, and then walk to my desk and sink into my chair with a sigh of relief.
I open my laptop, take a sip of coffee, and savour the small, simple pleasure of a Mark-free Monday morning.
Until someone clears their throat behind me.
I freeze at the deep, masculine sound, my fingers poised above the keyboard.
I turn slowly -
And nearly spill my coffee down my blouse.
"Richard?"
"Morning, Sinclair."
Richard stands there in his usual navy suit and red tie, his hair slicked back with a little too much gel and his expression somewhere between smug and exasperated.
"What, surprised to see me?"
"Ah - yeah," I admit. "A bit."
Richard has never once mentioned coming to Rome. His domain is the London office, the executive suite with the view of the Thames, and he’s made it clear just how much he hates traveling unless it's out of Europe.
"What are you doing here?"
He gestures toward Mark's empty office with a jerk of his chin.
"Come on. Let's talk."
*
Richard shuts the door behind us with a click.
The sound echoes, making the space feel uncomfortably claustrophobic.
I sit on the chair across from the desk while Richard perches on the edge of it, folding his arms across his chest.
"I had to come out here to handle things personally," he says. "The executive board isn’t exactly thrilled about everything that went down last week. Chapman’s firing isn’t something we can just brush under the rug."
"I gave you everything you needed," I say cautiously.
"You did," Richard agrees. "And believe me, your statement was helpful. But there’s more to it than that, Sinclair. Questions have been raised about the office culture here. Scrutiny from some of the board members."
He grimaces.
"A couple of the other women who came forwards with complaints about Chapman are hinting at going public, and the last thing the company needs is a scandal."
"Maybe they wouldn't be threatening to go public if they'd been taken seriously sooner," I say before I can stop myself.
"Careful, Sinclair,” Richard's eyes harden. "Anyway," he continues, the irritation lingering in his tone, "that's why I'm here. I need to make sure everything’s clean. Above board. No lingering issues."
"Okay. So… what does that have to do with me?"
Richard's mouth twitches into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and I shift in my chair, the previous comfort of the morning now long gone.
"I'm glad you asked."
He turns and picks something up from the desk beside him. It's rectangular, black, with gleaming silver lettering that catches the light as he places it on the surface in front of me.
It takes me a second to realise what I'm looking at.
A nameplate.
Daphne Sinclair, Senior Sports Correspondent.
My mouth hovers open, though it’s a struggle to form words.
"What… what is this?"
"Exactly what it says on the tin." Richard straightens and clasps his hands together. "The position's yours if you want it. Permanent. Full-time. Here in Rome."
My heart thuds against my ribcage.
"Permanent?"
"Yep." He rocks back on his heels. "The board signed off on it last night. Figured it was the easiest way to keep things stable after all the drama with Chapman. You're a woman, which is a huge bonus. You’re already familiar with the team, the league and the setup here; plus your name has gotten us so much traction online with the Rossi interviews. Made sense to lock you in."
I blink at the nameplate again.
Senior Sports Correspondent.
It’s more than just a job title.
It’s a step up - a massive one at that.
No more being a junior. No more chasing after celebrity gossip or writing filler pieces about footballers' family holidays.