Chapter Forty-Six
Daphne
I wake up to the sound of my phone vibrating on the nightstand.
Groggy, I reach for it, squinting at the screen.
Richard: Call me ASAP. Brilliant stuff, Sinclair. You're on fire.
Richard: Have you seen the clip? The public's eating it up.
Richard: Seriously. Call me.
I blink and open my notifications.
A link to a video is at the top, sent by Priya with an accompanying message.
You're famous, bitch.
I sit up and click it.
The video loads, and there we are: Matteo and I during last night's post-match interview.
There’s a moment where he smirks and says " I thought you were supposed to ask me hard-hitting questions, Sinclair, not just swoon over me on live TV .”
The camera pans over just in time to catch my wide-eyed look, followed by my dry, " the day I swoon over you is the day I quit journalism. "
The comments are relentless.
The chemistry here is INSANE.
Look at that eye roll - classic sexual tension.
I feel like I’m interrupting something here.
When's the wedding?
Despite the early hour and the fact that I’m still half-asleep, a smile tugs at my lips.
The views are climbing by the second, and Richard’s right - the public seem to be eating it up.
My own inbox has exploded with engagement metrics, and when I finally drag myself out of bed and into the office, I can’t help but feel smug.
For once, I'm not the outsider.
For once, my work is getting the attention it deserves.
Whether or not it’s for the right reasons is irrelevant for now.
Unfortunately, the feeling evaporates the second I see Mark leaning against his office door, arms crossed.
"Sinclair," he says, jerking his head towards his office.
I swallow hard and follow him inside. He shuts the door with a little too much force and takes his seat behind the desk.
I remain standing.
"Big day for you," he says, voice flat. "I saw the clip."
"Yeah. Richard seems happy," I reply, forcing a casual tone.
"Richard," he repeats with a sneer. "Yeah, he's messaged me about it. Thinks you're the best thing since sliced bread all of a sudden. "
"I'm doing my job," I say matter-of-factly.
"Are you?" he arches a brow. "Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot like you're cozying up to a player."
My jaw tightens.
"Matteo Rossi is a footballer I cover as part of my job. That's all."
"Is he?" Mark says as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You're sure you're not seeing him outside of work capacity?"
"No," I snap. "I'm not."
"You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Sinclair?" he asks, voice softening in that patronising way that makes my skin crawl. "Because that would make things... difficult . Professionally."
"I'm not lying."
He stares at me for a long moment, tapping a pen against the desk.
Go to hell, Chapman.
The seconds drag before finally, he lets out a short laugh and shakes his head.
"I just can't make it make sense," he says. "Why Richard's so far up your ass these days. It must be one of two things - I just can’t seem to figure out which."
His eyes flick up to meet mine, cold and calculating.
"Either you're sleeping with Rossi... or you're sleeping with Richard."
The words hit like a punch to the gut, and I swear my heart stops as the air is physically sucked out of my lungs.
"What did you just say?" I whisper .
"You heard me," Mark says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.
He knows he’s got under my skin, and he’s infuriatingly pleased about it.
"Which is it? The footballer or the editor?"
Rage floods my veins. My vision blurs with it.
"You're disgusting ," I spit. "And you're a coward."
His eyes narrow, but I don’t wait for a response.
I spin on my heel, fling the door open, and walk straight out of the office.
It’s busy and bustling as usual, and people turn to watch me as I pass, shooting curious glances in my direction. My face burns with humiliation, but I don't stop until I reach the street and gulp in the warm air.
My mind is whirring, completely in overdrive, but I’m functional enough to pull out my phone and open Matteo’s chat.
Something urgent has come up. I can’t do dinner tonight. I’m sorry.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Everything good?
I stare at the screen, my throat tight.
Yeah. Just work stuff.
I turn off my phone and walk the rest of the way home in a daze.
This is the second time I’ve stormed out of that office, and the thought alone is embarrassing enough.
I never had any drama like this back in London, never had any issues of this kind before. I’ve always kept my head down, always focused on the job. I never gave anyone any reason to doubt me or question my work ethic. I wrote what I was asked to write, turned it in on time, and moved on.
Simple. Straightforward.
No distractions. No chaos.
And now? Now, my biggest success in this industry so far isn’t because of my reporting or my analysis.
It’s because of a flirtatious interaction with a footballer.
The world isn’t talking about my articles - they’re talking about my banter with Matteo Rossi.
And my novel? The one I swore I’d finish while I was here?
I haven't even opened the document in over a week. It’s gathering digital dust while I get sucked further into this ridiculous circus.
By the time I reach my apartment door, I’m suffocating under the weight of it all.
The pressure of trying to succeed in a job where no one respects me.
The frustration of working tirelessly only to have someone else take the credit.
The humiliation of knowing that, to people like Mark, my success will never be about talent - it will always be about which man they think I’m having sex with.
I just about manage to lock the door behind me before I sink to the floor, my back sliding against the wooden surface as I drop to the ground. The tears come before I can stop them; hot, angry sobs that wrack my body and leave me gasping for breath .
Because Mark's words aren't just vile. They're a reminder that no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, this industry will always find a way to reduce my success and link it to a man.
And the worst part? The part that really makes me want to scream?
He’s fucking right.
I am sleeping with Matteo.
Not that it’s gotten me anywhere professionally. If anything, I’ve tried to resist him. I’ve tried to keep things professional.
But I failed.
And then another thought slams into me with the force of a freight train - one that really has the tears flowing.
Mark warned me about Matteo from the start. He warned me that he doesn’t respect women, that he doesn’t take women seriously -
That he doesn’t believe women should be involved in football journalism.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing the tears to stop, but they won’t.
How could I have been so stupid ?