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 take a step back from the mirror, pressing my lips together to even out the colour.
“Okay,” I murmur to myself. “You can do this.”
It’s just another work event. Just another evening spent surrounded by athletes, executives and successful journalists who have been doing this far longer than I have.
No big deal.
Oh, who am I kidding - yes, it is.
Maybe it’s because this is the first real social event I’ve been invited to since moving to Rome.
Or maybe it’s because a very specific footballer will be there tonight, and after how the past few weeks have gone, I really don’t want to give him another opportunity to get under my skin.
With a sharp exhale, I turn away from the mirror and grab my clutch bag from the bed, stuffing my phone and lipstick inside before heading to the door.
I just about make it down all of the stairs in my heels without breaking a leg - or my neck.
April in Rome is proving to be warm and humid during the day, but the evening air feels much cooler against my skin, a pleasant reprieve from how it had been earlier.
A taxi waits at the curb, and as I slide into the backseat and give the driver the address, I have to wonder what kind of disaster is waiting for me at this gala.
*
I keep my gaze looking out of the window as the taxi winds through cobbled streets and past ancient ruins until we approach the venue - a stunning palazzo that looks like something straight out of a period drama.
Ornate stonework decorates the building’s façade, with tall arched windows glowing warmly from the chandeliers inside. The entrance is flanked by two marble columns, and sleek cars are pulling up one by one as Rome’s elite step onto the red carpet leading inside.
I swallow. Hard.
This is without a doubt the most extravagant event I’ve ever attended, and if the building itself is intimidating, I dread to think how I’ll feel once I’m actually inside.
The taxi rolls to a stop, and I step out carefully, clutching my small black clutch in one hand. A few well-dressed guests linger near the entrance, the low hum of conversation floating through the warm evening air.
Squaring my shoulders, I skip the carpet (and the waiting paparazzi) and make my way to the entrance where a well-dressed man is checking names.
I clear my throat as I take my work badge from my clutch.
"Daphne Sinclair. Press."
His eyes flick to my badge, and after a brief pause, he nods and steps aside, allowing me in.
Stepping through the grand arched doorway, I take in my surroundings.
The entryway is just as breathtaking as the exterior, with polished marble floors, intricate gold detailing along the vaulted ceiling and a massive crystal chandelier casting a soft, golden glow over the space.
As I move forward, a waiter dressed in a crisp white shirt and black waistcoat stops beside me, expertly balancing a silver tray of tall, slender champagne flutes.
"Signorina?" he offers with a polite smile.
I hesitate for only half a second before taking a glass.
I have a feeling that I’m going to need it to make it through this evening.
The stem is cool between my fingers, and I take a small sip, the bubbles fizzing lightly against my lips. The taste is crisp, subtly floral - a luxury far above my usual go-to prosecco.
Holding my glass carefully, I continue forward, stepping past the marble columns that separate the entryway from the grand ballroom.
The interior is somehow both historic and modern at the same time; with soaring frescoed ceilings and gilded mirrors that meet sleek, contemporary furniture and strategically placed mood lighting.
It’s vast, filled with round tables draped in fancy linen and waiters moving seamlessly through the crowd with trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres.
I scan the room, looking for my colleagues. I spot Mark near one of the tables at the edge of the ballroom nursing a glass of something dark and amber-colored, and his relaxed posture and loosened tie tells me he’s been enjoying the open bar for a while now.
As I approach, he glances up and his eyes briefly widen in what looks like surprise.
"Well, Sinclair," he says. "Didn’t know you cleaned up this well."
I blink.
Mark Chapman just gave me a compliment.
I barely know how to respond.
"Uh, thanks?" I say, half-waiting for some kind of sarcastic follow-up. Instead, he just gestures toward the table.
"Come on, I saved you a seat."
I slide into the chair beside him, smoothing the fabric of my dress over my lap.
"How many of those have you had?" I ask, nodding toward his drink.
"Not enough," he quips, taking another sip. "Let’s hope this thing isn’t a complete waste of time. With Rossi and his team here, we should have some entertainment."
I exhale slowly, already bracing myself.
The ballroom continues to fill as more guests arrive, the air buzzing with conversation and laughter. As expected, a large portion of the attendees are athletes - footballers in perfectly tailored suits, their usual intensity swapped for easy confidence, clapping each other on the back and exchanging greetings.