Chapter Twenty-Four
Daphne
I fasten my earrings, the delicate gold catching the warm glow of my bedroom lamp as I tilt my head, checking my reflection in the mirror one final time.
The dress I finally settled on is a sleek, black number. It’s simple but elegant, with thin straps that leave my shoulders bare and a neckline that skims just above the line of being too daring. The fabric hugs my waist before flowing down to the floor in soft, effortless waves, it has a slit up one leg, and my favourite part -
It’s completely backless.
I smooth my hands down the front of it, nerves buzzing beneath my skin.
I’ve spent a lot more time than I’d like to admit styling my auburn hair into soft, polished curls that cascade over my shoulders. The contrast against the dark fabric of my dress along with my light tan is striking, making the green of my eyes pop even more beneath the subtle shimmer of my makeup.
Satisfied with the final result, I swipe on a coat of deep red lipstick to finish off the look.
It’s much bolder than what I usually wear, but something about tonight feels like it calls for a little extra confidence.
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 facade, 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.
Among them are high-profile coaches, team executives, and various celebrities, all mingling over cocktails.
At the far end of the room, a small stage is set up, flanked by enormous floral arrangements and a banner with the charity’s name. A band plays live music to the crowd, and further back, an auction table displays luxury items and signed memorabilia.
I take another sip of my champagne, glancing around.
It’s strange being here and not working. At events like these, I’d usually have a press badge clipped to my dress, a notepad in my hand, and a clear purpose: meet people, get some comments from them, capture the atmosphere, report on the key moments.
But tonight, I’m just…here. Floating .
I awkwardly follow Mark as he moves to stand and begins to weave through the crowd, greeting people he knows. He’s clearly in his element, schmoozing and making easy conversation with various reporters, PR reps and sports executives.
He’s also working his way through the free drinks at an alarming pace.
I can already see it in the way his movements are getting looser, his words a little more exaggerated. It doesn’t help that his usual crowd of sports journalists - all equally arrogant, all equally insufferable - are just as deep into their drinks.
They’re currently standing in a loose group, laughing loudly and throwing around inside jokes I don’t understand.
"Come on, Sinclair, don’t just hover," Mark says, handing me another glass of champagne despite the fact that I’ve not even finished my first. "Loosen up a little."
I force a small smile.
"I’m fine, thanks."
He rolls his eyes.
"You’re acting like you’ve never been to one of these before."
"I’ve worked events before," I correct him. "But I’ve not… attended them for fun."
"Fun is what you make it,” he says. “Just stick close to us. We’ll take care of you."
I don’t find that particularly reassuring, especially when one of his equally inebriated friends leans in closer than necessary and murmurs, "yeah, we’ll take real good care of you."
I go rigid while Mark just laughs, and I make a mental note to start keeping my distance.
Before I can come up with an excuse to slip away from the small group, the air in the room shifts, and I don’t even need to turn around to know why.
I hear it first.
The sudden lull in voices, a ripple of attention moving through the crowd like a stone dropped in water. Conversations pause as subtle glances are exchanged, and people instinctively adjust their posture as if preparing for a show.
Then, the atmosphere changes.
A certain energy crackles through the room, a gravitational pull toward whatever - or should I say whoever - has just arrived.
Despite myself, I finally turn, and -
Yep . There he is.
Matteo Rossi walks in like he owns the place.
Even from across the room, I can see it. The easy confidence in his stride, the slow, deliberate way he scans the space as if already aware that most people are watching him. He’s flanked by a few of his teammates, all dressed in sharp tuxedos, but it doesn’t matter.
Matteo is the one who commands attention.
His dark hair is slightly tousled in a way that looks both effortless and intentional, and his perfectly tailored black tux does nothing to disguise the lean muscle beneath.
Everything about him - his posture, his expression, even the lazy way he adjusts one of his cufflinks - suggests he’s completely at ease.
His gaze moves across the room slowly, his dark eyes scanning the crowd, and dammit, my breath hitches when they finally land directly on me.
Of course that stupid smirk of his appears the moment our eyes meet.
I exhale sharply, already regretting every decision that has led me to this moment.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that tonight just got a lot more complicated.