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)
“Oh, come on,” the blonde continues.
Apparently, he’s not prepared to take my silence for an answer.
“You must at least appreciate that he’s easy on the eyes. That’s probably why you got a question in.”
A few more laughs echo around us, and I will myself to stay composed, to bite back the hundred cutting responses sitting on my tongue.
Because the reality is that no matter how unfair or ridiculous it is - and no matter how much I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his opinion - it wouldn’t make a difference.
To them, I’m still an outsider. I’m still the woman in a room full of men.
And I’m convinced that the only thing worse than being dismissed in this world is proving them right by losing my temper.
Still, I have to say something.
“That’s funny,” I respond flatly. “I didn’t see him paying much attention to any of you.”
The smirk on the blonde’s face falters just slightly, and before I can feel too triumphant, Mark sighs, rubbing his temples like I’m giving him a headache.
“Fucking hell, Sinclair. Just - let’s go. I don’t have the patience for this today.”
I’m not prepared to let them see that they’ve gotten under my skin, so I nod, schooling my features into something indifferent.
“Of course, Mark. Lead the way.”
Chapter Fifteen
Daphne
Safe to say, Mark is pissed.
He walks ahead without waiting for me to catch up, his long strides exuding impatience as we weave through the press area.
He’s not said a word, but he doesn’t need to - the anger is literally radiating from him.
Instead of his usual swagger, his shoulders are rigid. His hands have formed tight fists at his sides, and I can practically see the steam rising from his head as he makes his way over to the exit.
I follow in silence, my own jaw clenched so tightly it hurts.
Every step I take feels like a countdown to the inevitable moment he snaps. The tension in my shoulders is almost unbearable, but I refuse to let myself react.
Not yet.
Not here.
I’m aware of the way people not-so-subtly glance in our direction as we move through the room.
A few of the other journalists - most of them men who Mark’s been laughing and chatting with all evening - shift their gazes towards us, and though it’s not quite enough to be overly obvious, it is enough that I can practically feel their curiosity prickling against my skin.
It’s funny, in a way. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard men in this industry complain about how much women love to gossip.
But right now, they’re the ones watching us intently, and it’s clear how much they’re dying to know what’s going on.
Their conversations slow and their eyes track our movement as they wait for something interesting to happen. The last thing that I want or need is unnecessary attention on me, so I keep my chin high, pretending not to notice their prying eyes.
Mark suddenly veers left, out of the press area and into a quieter corridor away from everyone else.
Away from witnesses.
My stomach tightens as I follow after him, a sense of dread hanging over me as I step over the threshold of the room.
Here goes nothing.
*
It’s slightly anti-climatic in that Mark doesn’t turn on me immediately.
Instead, he continues to make his way through the stadium before he comes to a sudden stop in the middle of a deserted corridor.
Without warning, he turns on his heel - his face set in a scowl - and I barely have time to register where we are.
“What the fuck was that, Sinclair?”
I freeze.
I’d expected irritation, maybe some of his usual condescending jabs, but not this.
Not actual aggression.
Mark steps closer, his voice low but sharp, like a blade pressed just beneath the surface.
“Do you have any idea how unprofessional that was? How ridiculous you just made me look?”
I blink, caught off guard by the sheer force of his frustration.
“I - what?”
“What a fucking joke. You sit there, making eyes at Matteo Rossi like some lovesick intern -”
“I was not -”
“- and then you go completely off-script and ask some ridiculous, embarrassing question that just proved to everyone that you don’t belong in that room.” His nostrils flare. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To prove everyone right and show me up in the process.”
I want to fire back, to tell him that’s not what happened at all, that he’s blowing this up out of proportion and completely twisting things in his mind; but I can’t even get the words out past the shock.
“You were the one who invited me to ask a question, Mark.”
“It was a test, Sinclair,” he says, nostrils flaring and voice tight with barely restrained fury. “You weren’t supposed to make a scene. You weren’t supposed to show me up in front of my colleagues. But congratulations - you did just that.”