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)
His gaze is unwavering, locked onto mine as he continues.
“You think I don’t know what it’s like to have to prove myself? To have to fight for respect, over and over again, just to get people to shut the fuck up?”
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his long, wavy hair.
“Don’t stand there and act like you know me, giornalista. Because you don’t.”
The silence between us is thick, charged.
I should say something. Should push back.
But for once, I don’t know how to argue with him.
And for the first time, I don’t know if I want to.
Matteo lets out a low breath - almost like he’s shaking something off.
And just like that, the moment snaps.
His smirk slides back into place, his posture loosening.
“Anyway,” he says, rolling his shoulders like the last thirty seconds didn’t just happen - like I’m not still standing here trying to piece together what the hell just happened. “If you ever need more advice, I charge by the hour.”
I let out a breath, half annoyed, half something else entirely.
“I think I’ll survive without it.”
He grins, but there’s still something unreadable in his eyes.
“We’ll see.”
Then, without another word, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there - heart racing, cheeks flushed, and completely, utterly off balance.
Chapter Sixteen
Matteo
I should have gone home.
Should have gone home. Should have gotten in my car, turned the music up loud enough to drown out the rage clawing at my insides, and let it go.
But I can’t.
And instead of driving home, instead of letting myself breathe, I’m here.
Back in the empty changing room.
Back where it all fucking started - where I became the player I am.
Where I built a career on being better, stronger, faster - on making sure I was the one who couldn’t be ignored.
And yet, despite our win, despite my performance, tonight wasn’t about me.
It was about her.
The room is empty.
My fists clench at my sides as I pace the length of the floor, every muscle in my body wound tight, strung together by the one thing I can’t shake.
Fury.
Undiluted. Unrelenting. Unstoppable.
I’m still gearing up for a fight. I wanted to hit him. Not just hit him - end him.
Destroy him.
And my body refuses to believe that I walked away before I could do precisely that.
Mark fucking Chapman.
The condescending, gutless piece of shit who stood there, looking down at her like he had some god-given right to humiliate her.
Like she wasn’t worth his respect, wasn’t worth her own space in this fucking industry.
Like she was nothing.
"You’re a vanity hire."
"That’s how this works, sweetheart."
My jaw locks so hard I feel it crack.
My vision blurs red, my blood burning, my pulse a steady, dangerous beat in my ears.
Sweetheart.
That one fucking word makes my fingers twitch, the knuckles on my right hand aching with the need to connect with his fucking face.
It wasn’t affectionate. It wasn’t even teasing.
It was meant to humiliate her. Meant to cut her down.
Meant to remind her that in his eyes, she’s just some young, pretty woman taking up space in his world.
And fuck, I should have stepped in sooner.
I wanted to. I wanted to rip him apart, slowly.
Wanted to grab him by the collar, slam him up against the wall and introduce him to the consequences of running his fucking mouth, to what real humiliation feels like.
But I didn’t.
Because Daphne Sinclair isn’t weak. She isn’t some helpless girl who needs a hero to save her.
She’s fire and sharp edges, built from something stronger than steel, and fuck if I don’t respect the hell out of her for it.
But respect doesn’t erase this fury. Doesn’t stop me from feeling like I could put my fist through a wall and it still wouldn’t be enough.
Doesn’t stop me from wanting to break something.
Correction - to break someone.
I slam my palm against the bench, the sharp crack of impact echoing through the empty room.
Not enough.
I throw a punch to the locker, the metal denting under the force. My knuckles sting, the pain sharp and instant -
But it’s still not enough.
I want to do more.
I want to break his fucking face. I want to feel his bones break beneath my hands and have his blood stain my knuckles.
Want to make sure that the next time he even thinks about speaking to her like that, he fucking remembers who the hell he’s dealing with.
I exhale sharply, my breath ragged, my chest heaving.
I try to shake it off. Try to push the rage down, down, down.
But it won’t leave me.
Not when I can still hear his voice, sneering, patronising, cruel.
“You made yourself look like a joke.”
“The second Rossi started smirking at you, every single guy in that room knew exactly what was happening.”
“Now, every time you write something about him, they’ll assume it’s biased. That he charmed you, flirted with you a little, and you fell for it.”