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)
"Mark," I say, standing now, trying to project calm despite the tremor in my hands. "You're drunk. You need to leave."
"Why? So you can keep playing innocent?" he sneers, stepping closer.
I instinctively move back, bumping into the desk behind me.
"You're not some genius reporter, Sinclair. An you’re sure as hell not some fucking prodigy. You're a fraud. A nobody who only got ahead because you’re screwing the star player."
The words ring out through the silent press box.
"Yeah," he continues, voice slurring as his expression twists with disgust. "That’s right. She's been shagging Matteo Rossi. I've got the proof. Pictures. Videos. All of it. And tomorrow morning, my mate at Football Pulse is going to publish the lot."
My skin prickles with mortification as the world around me blurs, the weight of a hundred curious eyes pressing down on me like lead.
He spreads his arms wide, triumphant.
"Game over, Sinclair. Your career's finished."
His words hang in the air like poisonous smoke.
She's been shagging Matteo Rossi.
Part of me wants to run. To escape the stares, the humiliation, the whispered speculation already starting to spread like wildfire.
But another part of me - the journalist part - knows that running will only confirm his accusations.
So I narrow my eyes and lift my chin, channelling as much inner strength as I can muster despite the humiliation threatening to swallow me whole.
"Grow up, Mark," I snap, my voice cold even to my own ears. "You're embarrassing yourself."
His mouth falls open slightly, like he hadn't expected me to push back.
"You lost your job because you lied and took credit for other people’s work. My work. You harassed your colleagues and you humiliated every woman you came across. I didn’t ruin your career - you did that all by yourself."
Mark’s face contorts with rage, but before he can respond, two uniformed security officers arrive.
The young guard from the door stands behind them, wide-eyed but relieved.
"That's him," the guard says, pointing toward Mark, and the officers flank him as they each grab an arm.
"Hey - get off me!" he shouts, struggling against their hold.
His voice cracks with desperation as they drag him toward the door.
"You’ll see! Tomorrow morning! It'll be all over the internet. Daphne Sinclair, the journalist who fucked her way to the top! You'll all fucking see!"
The door slams shut behind them, and silence settles over the press box once more, thicker than before.
The urge to sink into the floor is overwhelming. My ears burn with shame, but I keep my expression neutral as I sit down, pick up my phone, and pretend to scroll through my messages.
I force myself to breathe.
And then, slight movement from my right makes me glance up.
A woman - a journalist I've seen at a few Serie A events - slides into the empty seat beside me. She has short, dark hair and wears a tailored blazer over a simple white T-shirt.
"Ciao," she says softly before switching to English. "Are you okay?"
Her voice is softer than I expect; a gentle intrusion into the storm inside my head.
"Yeah. I’m fine."
She hesitates, then nods.
"He's a piece of shit, you know. We've all heard the stories."
"Yeah," I whisper, still able to hear my heartbeat in my ears. "He is."
A small silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels like a quiet kind of solidarity.
I don’t know her name. But she knows exactly what just happened. And she understands.
And right now, that’s enough.
She doesn’t push further or ask if I want to talk about it. Instead, she leans back in her chair, reaching into her bag and pulling out her press badge, flipping it over in her hands absently as she watches the stadium with practiced ease.
I force myself to do the same.
Because that’s why I’m here.
For the game. Roma’s final match of the season.
The only thing I should be focusing on.
I take a slow, deep breath and tuck my phone away as the giant screens above the pitch flicker, the team crests appearing in full display.
A murmur ripples through the stadium as the players emerge from the tunnel, stepping onto the pitch to a deafening roar from the crowd.
My pulse jumps.
Then - like some magnetic force pulling me in - I find him.
Matteo Rossi.
Tall, strong, utterly composed as he strides onto the field, his expression unreadable beneath the stadium lights.
His focus is locked straight ahead, but I know him, and I know he’s aware of exactly where I am.
I watch as he moves, shoulders broad, muscles flexing beneath his jersey, his every step brimming with purpose.
And for the first time since Mark’s disgusting outburst, my heart doesn’t feel like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Matteo is here, and he’s going to win tonight.
I know it.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Matteo Rossi, it’s that when something belongs to him, when something matters to him, he doesn’t fucking lose.