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)
But my mind is still on her.
Always on her.
I don’t know how long I let myself get dragged around before I decide enough is enough.
She’s not going to leave this party without having at least spoken to me.
Not tonight.
Not while she’s in that fucking dress.
And definitely not while Mark Chapman is still standing too close, talking too much, looking at her like he has a right to.
So I finish my drink, hand my glass off to someone passing by, adjust my tuxedo jacket, and start making my way towards her.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m about to ruin her night.
And I’m going to enjoy every fucking second of it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Daphne
I am officially avoiding Matteo Rossi.
Not that I have a choice, really. Mark and his colleagues have a habit of pulling me into their conversations before I can escape, and - surprise, surprise - Matteo seems far too busy charming his way around the room to notice me.
Which is fine.
Totally fine.
I’d rather focus on trying to navigate this godforsaken event anyway.
The gala is in full swing now. I thought the room was full of them before, but now there seems to be a constant flurry of waiters gliding effortlessly through the ballroom, carrying silver trays of champagne and canapés and gathering up empty glasses and plates.
Every time I turn, I see some CEO or high-ranking official shaking hands with a footballer like they’re closing a business deal instead of pretending to care about tonight’s cause.
Not that I have much time to think on any of it, because Mark is still firmly attached to my side.
"That’s Alessandro Conti," he murmurs in my ear, tilting his chin toward a greying man laughing at something one of the club’s executives has just said. “One of the biggest financial backers of the team.”
I nod like I care.
“Old money,” he adds, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "The kind of guy who could make or break someone’s career if they pissed him off."
"Good thing I don’t plan on pissing him off," I say dryly.
Mark chuckles, then lifts a hand, signaling to a passing waiter for another drink.
That makes… what, five now? Six?
I try not to think about it as I sip my champagne, conscious of making it last as long as possible, but it’s hard to ignore the way his voice has changed and his shoulders have dropped into a much more relaxed than usual posture.
It’s even harder to ignore the way his friends are getting progressively louder, their jokes a little cruder, their laughter a little meaner.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, forcing a polite smile as yet another man dressed in a tuxedo approaches our group.
Another handshake, another round of schmoozing, another wealthy donor chuckling at a joke that wasn’t even remotely funny.
This is what the night is going to be, isn’t it? Endless ass-kissing and forced pleasantries while Mark and his cronies get drunk on the free alcohol.
I glance around the room, trying to subtly locate the nearest exit.
I don’t mean to find him, but across the ballroom, Matteo is deep in conversation with a man I vaguely recognise from some previous interviews. A club director, maybe?
Whoever it is, he seems completely at ease, gesturing animatedly as the other man nods along.
Mark’s voice drags my attention back to our group, and I quickly look away before he catches me staring.
"What do you say, Sinclair? Time to start putting those networking skills to use?"
I blink.
"What?"
"You’re ambitious, aren’t you?" Mark’s mouth curves into a smirk. "All these powerful men in one room. Seems like a good time to start making connections."
“Seems like a good way to start something, alright,” one of the other men pipes up.
The comment crawls under my skin, though I try not to show my discomfort.
“Or,” I say sweetly, “I could go throw myself into traffic. Same level of enjoyment.”
Mark throws his head back with a laugh, his hand briefly landing on my shoulder as he shakes his head.
"You kill me, Sinclair."
I force another polite smile, but my skin feels hot where his fingers touched.
I need a break.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, stepping away. “I need the restroom.”
Not that anyone is listening. Mark and his friends are already absorbed in another conversation, their voices blending into the background noise of clinking glasses and classical music.
I don’t wait for permission. I just go.
*
As soon as I step into the hallway, I can finally breathe.
The main ballroom may be modernised, but out here, the building’s history is on full display. The polished marble floors echo softly beneath my heels as I make my way through the corridors, and I exhale, letting the quiet settle over me.
It’s beautiful. The kind of beauty that makes you stop and think, that makes you feel small in the best possible way.
If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine another time. A different century, when the halls were filled with artists and scholars, when the world moved a little slower.