Chapter Forty-Three
Daphne
S pending the night at Matteo Rossi’s home was never on my agenda.
Nor was riding him the next morning, his hands gripping my hips so tightly as he lifted his hips to meet my thrusts - almost as if he was afraid I'd disappear if he didn’t physically hold me down.
Neither was being bent over the counter of his expansive kitchen island, my palms pressed flat against the cool marble while his deep, gravelly voice whispered filthy promises in my ear as the sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Promises that made my knees weak and my mind fuzzy, like, " I’m not stopping until your legs fucking shake," and, " You're going to think about this every time you set foot in a kitchen, bella. "
Annoyingly, he’s probably right.
But here I am, standing in said kitchen a few hours later, sipping a cup of coffee while wearing his shirt and last night's makeup, wondering how exactly I got here.
Matteo, ever the smug bastard, is lounging across from me on one of the bar stools, shirtless and grinning like he’s won some sort of prize.
"You look good in my shirt, you know," he drawls, raking a hand through his messy hair.
"Don’t get used to it," I shoot back, though my heart stumbles in my chest when his eyes darken with amusement.
My shoulders sag a little as I look over at the clock hanging on the wall.
"I should probably get going."
"Mmm," he hums, taking a lazy sip from his own mug. "But you haven’t ridden me on the sofa yet."
I practically choke on my coffee, cheeks burning as I set the mug down.
"You’re such an ass."
"And yet," he smirks, standing and sauntering toward me, "you’re still here."
He’s right, and I hate it.
I should be gone by now. Hell, I should have been gone hours ago.
But there’s something magnetic about Matteo Rossi, and despite his arrogance, I can’t tear myself away from him.
"I really do need to go," I insist, stepping back as he cages me against the counter.
"Fine," he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush mine. "But next time, don’t pretend you don’t want to stay."
I don’t reply. I can’t .
I don't want to admit it to myself - but deep down, I already want there to be a next time.
When I finally make it home later that morning, I collapse onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, replaying the events of the past twelve hours in vivid detail.
Matteo had taken my phone before I left, saving his number with a winking emoji next to his name and made me promise to text him this evening.
"Just in case you need a quote for an article," he said with a mischievous grin.
"Yeah, that’s exactly what I’ll need it for," I’d muttered, earning a laugh that had lingered long after I walked out his front door.
I don’t text him, though. Not that day, or the next.
I tell myself it’s because I’m busy with work, catching up on match reports and stats, preparing pieces that Mark will inevitably try to nitpick.
But in truth, I’m scared of what texting him will mean.
Of what this thing between us is becoming.
*
Two days later, as I sit at my desk with a lukewarm cappuccino and a blank Word document mocking me, my laptop chimes with an incoming video call.
It’s Richard.
I click on it to answer and his face appears on the screen, framed by the familiar clutter of his London office.
"Sinclair," he greets, direct as always. "How's life in Rome treating you?"
"Morning. Can’t complain," I reply, forcing a casual tone. "Just trying to soak up as much of the city as I can before I have to come home."
"That’s right - it’s your last month," he muses. "Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, you've actually done a cracking job so far. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but our readers are still loving the dynamic between you and Rossi."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as he continues on.
"Engagement stats are through the roof. Your latest interview got more comments than we’ve ever had."
"Well, what can I say? He certainly knows how to wind me up."
"Just make sure that whatever you're doing, you keep it up," Richard says.
He glances off-screen for a moment before continuing.
"And, look, I know Mark's been helping you along the way, but I was kind of hoping you’d be writing your own pieces by now. Especially the match predictions - they seem to be the other thing that brings us the most engagement."
My brow furrows.
"Mark? Helping me?"
"Yes. Mark. Your supervisor…?” he says, like I’m stupid and don’t know which Mark he’s referring to. “He's mentioned how much time he's been dedicating to helping you out. Said that’s why he's had to cut back so much on his own pieces to help get yours across the line."
I sit up straighter, heat rushing to my face.
“I - what ?”
“Now, Sinclair, don’t go and get your knickers in a twist. I know you didn’t need this level of help when you were here, but that was different, wasn’t it? You were just doing the fluffy gossip stuff back then - easy work, really. But this? This is proper journalism . Stats, tactics, real analysis. It’s only natural you’d need a bit of guidance. ”
I sit there, stunned, the words washing over me like icy water as my brain scrambles to process what Richard is saying.
Mark’s been telling him he’s been helping me?
Writing my articles?
The same Mark who dismisses my ideas in meetings and barely acknowledges me unless it's to make a condescending remark about football being too complicated for me?
My initial disbelief morphs into simmering anger.
How long has this been going on?
How many times has he smiled to my face while taking credit for my words behind my back?
“Just maybe try and let Mark get back to his own work, yeah?" Richard, oblivious to my spiraling thoughts, ploughs on. "Poor bloke’s been run off his feet trying to keep up with it all.”
"Richard," I say sharply. "Mark hasn't helped me with anything."
He frowns, tilting his head slightly.
"Look, Sinclair - it’s fine. I mean, I know it's all a bit technical with the stats and analysis and whatnot. Easy to lose track of who’s done what when you’re still getting the hang of it."
"No, I’m - honestly, I mean it,” I tell him. “Every word, every article, I've written them myself . I’ve not had any help. Especially not from him. "
Richard exhales and leans back in his chair, scratching his chin.
"Well, that's... odd . Mark and I meet pretty regularly, and he’s said how it's been a real team effort. Isn’t that why you’ve been copying him into all your emails? Because you’ve been writing them together?"
My heart pounds, heat spreading through my chest.
" No , I didn’t - he specifically told me to do that. I was just following instructions! Are you - has he seriously been taking credit for all of my work?"
Richard's mouth pulls into a half-grimace.
"I mean, that's not exactly what he said. But, well... he did mention having to step in quite a bit to support you. And to be fair, Sinclair, this isn't your usual territory, is it? Football's a bit of a lad’s game. Bit dry for someone more used to red carpet gossip."
I grip the edge of my desk so tightly my knuckles turn white.
"He hasn't helped me. Not once ," I snap, anger simmering beneath the surface. "If anything, he's been trying to undermine me since day one. He’s made it very clear that he thinks I don’t belong here."
Richard sighs, rubbing his temples.
"Right, Sinclair - look, I get it, you’re frustrated. But Chapman is a highly respected journalist. He’s been in the game for years, and people here trust him. That’s a pretty bold accusation you’re throwing around. Are you absolutely sure you’re not just getting a bit overwhelmed with all the football jargon?"
"I’m absolutely sure that he's lying ," I say.
"Alright, alright," Richard says, raising his hands like he's calming a hysterical child. "No need to get emotional about it, Sinclair. Just - leave this with me. I'll look into it."
"Thanks," I say, voice tight.
"In the meantime, just keep doing what you're doing," he adds with a patronising smile. "Don't let this crap get in your head and mess things up. I’ve got to present to the executive board at the end of the month, and they’re obsessed with the engagement numbers. Your work speaks for itself... well, with a little help, obviously."
My jaw practically drops.
“Look, I -”
“I’m joking, ” Richard interrupts, laughing heartily as though he’s actually funny. “You should see the look on your face, Sinclair. Priceless. Anyway - lighten up a little. I’ll look into this, and you keep that content with Rossi coming. I’ll catch up with you soon.”
The call ends, and I sit motionless for a moment, my mind racing.
I can’t quite believe it.
Mark Chapman has been stealing credit for my work this entire time.
Every late night, every carefully crafted article - he's claimed as his own contribution.
The same Mark who has done nothing but belittle me from day one, making sly, snide comments about how women don’t understand football, how I’m only here to get close to players like Rossi.
The same man who had the audacity to corner me at the gala, reeking of whiskey as he propositioned me, only to try and twist it all to look as though I had been the one who was drunkenly coming on to him .
The same Mark who laughed along with the others when I suggested doing a tactical analysis piece, brushing it off as too technical for a so-called lifestyle writer like me -
And yet he’s been feeding Richard this story that he’s the mastermind behind my work.
That he's been guiding me through every step of the process while I flounder like some clueless rookie.
He’s been included on every email under the guise of supervising my work when in reality, he’s been passing it off as his own.
The fury bubbling inside me solidifies into pure, unrelenting determination.
Mark Chapman thinks he can take me down from the shadows, that he can discredit me, make me question my abilities and steal my work to boost his own reputation whilst I sit back and say nothing, do nothing.
Yeah.
Not a fucking chance.
This man is about to learn just how wrong he is about me.