Chapter Nine
Daphne
I t isn’t until the next morning that I finally have a few hours to myself.
No press events, no interviews and no frantic scribbling to meet deadlines since I already typed up all of my notes and drafted an article about yesterday’s press conference.
I’ve made a mental note to really explore more of the city this morning.
After all, I’m not here just to work. I’m here to experience Rome, to let it seep into my bones and fuel the part of me that still dreams of writing my novel.
I pull on a comfortable pair of high-waisted jeans, a cute cropped tee, a soft cardigan and sandals. Typical tourist attire, I’m sure, but I don’t care.
The early spring air has a slight chill at such an early hour of the morning, but the sun peeks out from behind a haze of clouds and casts a soft light on the cobblestone streets. I let myself get lost in the rhythm of the city, wandering down narrow alleys and wide piazzas as I follow the map on my phone.
I might have been here for a good few days now, but I still can’t help but marvel about how the hum of life is so much different here. How it’s slower and more deliberate, with a sense of history woven into every stone, street and corner.
I wander through the city for what feels like forever, and eventually, after a few hours have passed, I find myself standing in front of the Colosseum.
It towers over me - a relic from another time - and the sheer scale of it takes my breath away.
The mass of tourists is thick in the area, but honestly, it’s kind of nice to be surrounded by other people who are just as appreciative of the wondrous sight before them. I’m meeting Mark after lunch, which means that I unfortunately don’t have the time to pay for a full inside tour of the monument today.
So instead, I find a small pizzeria over the street with tables that boast a perfect view of the Colosseum.
I take a seat, the sun warming my face as a waiter approaches and takes my order. As I sit there, waiting for my lunch to arrive, I let my mind wander.
A strange feeling settles over me as I blink over at the stone building.
This is real history. The kind that can’t be replicated, no matter how many monuments are built in the future.
There are hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of people who’ve stood in this exact spot over the centuries. So many lives, so many victories and struggles…
It’s humbling in a way that’s almost overwhelming.
The aroma of freshly baked pizza pulls me out of my reverie.
I smile up and thank the waiter before I take a bite. It’s hot and crispy with just the right amount of cheese, and as my eyes flutter to a close, I feel a spark of something deep inside me.
I pull out my notebook, scribbling a few lines down, and then stop.
This .
This is it.
The sense of wonder, the admiration for the past, the beauty of the city - it’s exactly what I need for my novel.
Maybe the protagonist doesn’t need to just be caught up in a love story, but in the richness of the world around her, the weight of centuries of stories in her very bones.
For the first time in days, I feel a flicker of excitement about my book.
I’m not just chasing deadlines. I’m getting back to why I started this in the first place.
I smile to myself, feeling a little less lost and a little more at home in Rome than I did yesterday.
*
I finish my lunch and spend the next hour wandering the streets, letting the inspiration keep flowing. Ideas continue to spring to mind - little words and phrases, even some dialogue - and I scribble them down, not wanting any of it to slip away as it has so many times before.
By the time I return to my apartment, the calm of the morning is slowly being replaced by the tension of my afternoon meeting with Mark.
I’m not sure why I’ve started to feel like this. Why the mere thought of his presence is bringing my nerves to the surface.
The fact that he’s older and more experienced than I am contributes - but it’s not just that .
It’s his patronising demeanor, his condescending tones -
The way he speaks to me like he’s wasting his breath.
I opt to take the metro to meet him at The Tribune’s office, which is situated on the other side of the city. It’s in a nice district - the streets are wider, cleaner and lined with towering glass-fronted buildings that house high-end boutiques and designer stores.
Even the air feels different here - cooler, more refined.
I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder as I weave through the crowd, feeling slightly out of place among the tailored suits and effortless elegance of the Roman elite. It’s a stark contrast to the rustic charm of my own neighbourhood, where small family-run cafés spill out onto the cobbled streets and locals take their time with pretty much everything that they do.
By the time I reach the office building - a sleek, modern structure - I’m already bracing myself.
After all, whatever this meeting with Mark entails, I know it won’t be pleasant.
*
I have to hand it to him: his desk - and his office in general - is much more organised than Richard’s has ever been.
His eyes flicker over me as I hover in the doorway. It’s the kind of look that feels like he’s assessing much more than just my professional demeanor.
I hold my ground, refusing to let it bother me.
“Sinclair,” he says, not bothering to stand up. “Good of you to join me.”
"Oh - I thought we were meeting at two o’clock? "
“It was a joke,” he says, though his face is completely deadpan.
I’m tempted to ask him to explain what was supposed to be funny about it, but I know my life won’t be worth living if I give this man that kind of attitude, so I bite my tongue.
“Sit, sit,” he motions with his hands. “We’ve got a lot to cover today.”
I sit down across from him, trying not to bristle at the way he’s already treating me like I’m the one who’s been slacking off when I’m actually ten minutes early for our meeting.
“So,” he begins, pulling out his phone and typing something as if I’m not even here, “Have you managed to do anything useful since yesterday?”
“I drafted and sent an article over to Richard last night,” I say evenly, ignoring his flat tone. “He published it this morning.”
“An article,” he comments, sounding entirely unimpressed. “How very… predictable .”
“Well, Richard seemed to like it,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself. “He hardly made any edits at all, and it’s already picking up a lot of traction.”
Mark’s fingers pause mid-type. He looks up at me from his phone, an eyebrow arched.
“ Picking up traction ?” he repeats, looking as disgusted as he sounds. “Honestly, kid, you’re lucky Richard’s so generous. Maybe next time, you could aim a little higher than just having your stuff published.”
God, he’s such an asshole .
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
There’s a long pause as Mark finally comes off his phone. He sighs and leans back in his chair, looking at me with the kind of superiority I’ve learned to expect from him.
“Next time, make sure that you copy me in,” he says.
“I - what?”
“I need to make sure that you’re doing this properly. I expect to be copied in on every piece that you send to Richard. No exceptions.”
I feel my pulse pick up, a knot tightening in my stomach.
Journalism might not be my real passion, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take pride in what I do. I’ve been writing professionally since I graduated with a first-class honours degree in English Literature last year, and I’ve never had anyone question my competence like this.
Not even Richard.
To now have Mark sit here and all but tell me he doesn’t trust me to write a decent article without his supervision… It stings .
A lot more than I want to admit.
Because I know I’m capable. I know how to research, how to structure an engaging piece and how to craft an angle that will actually get people reading.
If I thought for even a second that I’d submitted something subpar, I wouldn’t have sent it in the first place.
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. I will not let this prick see that he’s gotten under my skin.
“Okay,” I say, my voice measured. “I’ll make sure to copy you in moving forwards.”
Mark smirks like he’s won something, like I’ve just confirmed that I need his guidance.
“Good girl.”
The words land like a slap, hot embarrassment prickling at my skin.
I know exactly what he’s doing. He thinks I’m young, inexperienced and easy to intimidate.
And sure, I’m new to this particular beat, but I’m not incompetent .
Forcing a tight-lipped smile, I nod and make a mental note to draft my next article twice as well - just to prove him wrong.
The meeting wraps up not long after, with Mark running through our schedule for the next two weeks. It’s a packed itinerary, with press events, interviews, promotional activities and even a charity gala - although our attendance there hasn't actually been confirmed just yet.
Good thing I packed those extra heels, after all.
The sheer volume of it all is a little overwhelming, but I refuse to let Mark see that.
Despite the dampener he’s put on my mood, I can’t deny a flicker of excitement at the opportunities ahead. Covering football might not be my dream, but being in the thick of it - attending high-profile events, rubbing shoulders with people who dominate headlines…
There’s something undeniably thrilling about it.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to make the most of this experience after all.
“Well, you’ve got enough to be busying yourself with for now,” he says, nodding towards the door. “Don’t disappoint me, Sinclair. ”
Despite his words, I remind myself that I’m not here to please him as I step out of his private office and into the main workspace, ready to introduce myself to my new colleagues.
I’m here for myself , and whatever happens, I’m not going to let him - or anyone else for that matter - take that away from me.