Chapter Forty-Seven
Daphne
T he day passes in a blur of self-pity, ice cream and bad reality TV.
I lose count of how many spoonfuls of H?agen-Dazs I shovel into my mouth as I sprawl across the sofa in my pajamas: tiny grey shorts and an oversized, faded university tee. My hair - still matted from restless naps - is scraped into a messy bun on top of my head, and the dark circles under my eyes are proof of the emotional meltdown I'd indulged in earlier.
In other words, I look like pure and utter shite .
Deciding that I’m ready to escape into someone else's problems for a while, I pull my laptop onto my knee and open the document titled Untitled Fantasy Novel .
My fingers clack along the keyboard, and before I know it, my heroine is in the middle of an argument with the brooding, misunderstood villain-turned-reluctant-hero.
She's starting to fall for him, hard - and she's furious about it.
Relatable .
I get lost in the words, typing feverishly as my heroine tries - and fails - to resist the pull of the villain’s sharp wit and undeniable intensity. The hours slip by unnoticed as I’m consumed by the world that lives only in my head -
Until there's a knock at the door.
I freeze, hands hovering over the keyboard.
I glance at the time on my screen. 9:17 p.m.
Who the hell would be knocking at this time?
I ignore it, hoping they'll go away, but the knock comes again - louder, this time. More insistent.
My heart races as I pad toward the door, each step cautious.
My apartment is small, and the coffee table in the living room offers a full view of my afternoon carnage: an empty ice cream tub with the spoon still inside, two crumpled chocolate bar wrappers and a half-empty bottle of rosé.
The knock comes again, and I curse under my breath.
"Okay, okay," I mutter, running a hand over my face before unlocking the door and pulling it open, silently praying that it isn’t Mark -
Only to find Matteo Rossi standing on my doorstep.
My stomach plummets .
He's dressed casually, wearing dark jeans and a plain white T-shirt that stretches distractingly across his broad chest. His dark hair is styled in effortless curls that are brushed back off his forehead, and he’s holding a large paper bag in one hand.
"What..." My voice cracks. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"You didn’t answer my texts," he says simply, as though that’s the answer for everything.
"I told you that something came up," I mumble, highly self-conscious about the fact that my hair looks like a bird’s nest and my face is still puffy from crying earlier. “And - wait, how do you know where I live ?!”
His gaze flickers down before slowly dragging over my body, taking in my bare feet, my mismatched pajamas and the messy bun on top of my head.
His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.
"Can I come in?" he asks, pointedly ignoring my question.
"No," I say automatically.
My eyes dart to the living room, where the evidence of my comfort binge sits in plain view.
"Daphne," he says, voice softer than usual. " Please ."
I hesitate, but the gentle concern in his eyes makes my chest ache, and I instinctively know that I’m not going to get rid of him easily.
This man is nothing if not determined.
And so I step aside.
Matteo walks in, his eyes sweeping over the expanse of my apartment.
It’s nothing in comparison to his stunning mansion, though I try not to be too conscious about that.
After all, this is only a temporary rental.
His gaze catches on the coffee table, and I watch as his dark eyes flicker between the empty ice cream tub, the scrunched-up chocolate wrappers and and the opened ( cheap ) bottle of wine.
I groan and cover my face.
"Don’t say a word,” I say in warning.
"I wasn’t going to."
"You’re lying. "
"Maybe a little."
He sets the bag on the kitchen counter, and I sigh.
"...But I promise I'm impressed by your dedication to the sugar food group."
I peek through my fingers to glare at him.
"I told you not to say anything,” I grumble before letting out a long, heavy sigh. “What do you want, Matteo?"
"I wanted to check on you."
"I'm fine."
"She says, while sitting in a nest of ice cream and chocolate wrappers."
" Comfort food . It's a perfectly valid coping mechanism."
His smirk softens.
"Rough day?"
"Something like that," I mutter, sinking onto the sofa. I gesture vaguely at the chair across from me. "Since you're here, you might as well sit down."
He takes the seat, elbows resting on his knees as he watches me.
"Want to talk about it?"
I shake my head. I don't trust myself not to blurt out the whole humiliating encounter with Mark.
"Okay," he says, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Then how about I distract you? I brought pizza."
He gestures to the bag on the counter.
Despite myself, I smile.
"Oh. I… You didn’t have to do that. "
"I had a feeling you'd need carbs."
The tension eases just a little, but as I glance toward my laptop on the armrest, the memory of Mark's voice echoes in my head.
Footballer or editor?
The smile slips from my face.
Matteo notices.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I say quickly. "I’m just... tired ."
He doesn't look convinced, and I watch his side-profile as his jaw tightens and his eyes darken with that intensity I’ve come to recognise.
"Something happened at work," he says. "I can tell."
"It's nothing," I insist, fiddling with the hem of my oversized shirt.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"Daphne,” he says, waiting until I look him right in the eyes before he continues. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out."
I try to maintain my mask of indifference, but the weight of Mark’s words still presses down on me like a stone.
As though he can read my mind, Matteo’s gaze sharpens.
"It’s Chapman, isn’t it?" he asks, voice turning cold.
Caught off guard by how quickly he’s hit the nail on the head, I quickly drop my gaze to the floor before meeting his gaze once again.
Matteo sees it, and his body goes rigid, muscles coiled with barely contained fury .
"What did he do?"
His voice is deadly, and I swallow thickly.
"Matteo, it's fine -"
"It’s not fine. Not when it’s upset you like this," he says. "What. Did. He. Do? "
I close my eyes, willing the tears not to come.
But the dam breaks, and the words tumble out.
"He… called me into his office," I whisper, quickly wiping away the tears that have already fallen down my face.
Damn it - I do not cry.
Especially not in front of men .
"He grilled me about - about us . Accused me of being unprofessional, and basically said I was cosying up to you for attention, and to do better at work. And then -"
Matteo waits as I inhale a long, shaky breath.
He doesn't rush me. Doesn't interrupt.
I don’t miss the way that his large hands clench into tight fists, but he stays still, letting me find the words.
"He's been like this since I got here," I say, starting again, from the beginning. "From day one, he’s been rude. Dismissive and condescending and just - horrible . Always talking down to me, making snide comments about women in journalism with his yes-men who all just laugh along with his unfunny jokes and tell him how great he is. He… even warned me about you."
Matteo's brows knit together.
" Me ?"
"Yeah. He told me that you don't believe women should be in this industry. That you think we don’t understand football the same way men do,” I say with a bitter laugh. “He said that you wouldn’t like me asking you questions because of it. That you wouldn’t like me because of it."
I swear, Matteo's jaw actually drops .
"He said that I said that?"
I nod, swiping at my wet cheeks.
"Yeah. And I… well, I believed him. I took his word for it and just assumed that you were an arrogant asshole who didn't, and wouldn’t ever, respect me."
He flinches like I've slapped him, and I hate it.
Still, he doesn't say a word, staying quiet and letting me continue.
"And then at the gala," I go on, "he cornered me when he was drunk. Made these gross, creepy comments and… and tried to touch me. You know the rest - you interrupted before it got worse. But that didn’t make it better. If anything, it was after that when he changed. He's been… nastier than ever, to be honest. Making comments. Watching me."
" Watching you?"
"Yeah," I say, swallowing thickly. "I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like he's just - on me. All the time. But Richard..."
I pause to catch my breath.
"He’s my editor, back in London. Richard told me that Mark's been taking credit for my work. That he's been telling everyone the reason my articles are performing so well is because he’s having to take time away from his own work to help me draft mine, since I don’t have a clue what I’m talking about."
Matteo's eyes blaze with fury .
“And then, today, Mark said that there’s only one reason he can think of why my articles are doing well.”
“And what was that reason?” Matteo asks, sounding as though he’s talking through gritted teeth.
I clear my throat before I answer, willing my voice not to tremble.
“He said I must be sleeping with either you, or Richard.”
He surges to his feet - apparently no longer comfortable in the chair - and I watch as he begins pacing my small living room like a predator trapped in a cage.
"That fuck ," he mutters, voice low and lethal. "That pathetic, lying, cowardly piece of shit."
"Matteo -"
"Let me just - make sure I’m getting this right.” he says. “He threatened you, harassed you, tried to humiliate you, and now he's taking credit for your work?”
I nod.
“He warned you off me just to mess with your head, and then he said -"
His nostrils flare as he remembers the final part.
"He said you were sleeping with me or your editor?"
I nod again, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.
"Yeah."
Matteo runs both hands through his dark hair before he pulls his phone from his back pocket. His chest heaves as he scrolls through his contacts, thumb moving with rapid intent.
" Che cazzo ," he growls under his breath. " Figlio di puttana.. ."
"What are you doing?" I ask, voice shaky as I watch him type furiously on his phone.
"Figuring out who I need to call to destroy this prick ," Matteo spits out. "Believe me, he won't get another job in this industry when I'm done."
"Matteo, you can't -"
" Watch me. "
His thumb stops, and he stares at a contact name with cold, hard eyes.
"Nobody gets to intimidate my girl ."
Despite myself, my breath catches at those words.
His girl.
"Nobody gets to humiliate you, make you cry like this. Not while I’m here. Not while I can do something about it."
He dials a number, pacing the room as the call rings.
"Who are you calling?"
He frowns at his phone as it cuts off.
"I was calling my agent, but he’s not answering. So. I’ll call an old contact at La Gazzetta dello Sport . If Chapman wants to play dirty, I'll bury him in truth."
I feel an overwhelming sense of dread at the thought, and I surge to my feet and reach out towards his arm. My hand wraps around his forearm, though my grip is soft as I blink up at him.
"Matteo, stop. Please ."
His thumb hovers over the call button, and his jaw ticks.
"Why?"
"Because..." I swallow hard. "Because if you go after him like this, it makes me look weak. Like I can't fight my own battles."
His eyes soften for the briefest second before the fury returns.
"You shouldn't have to fight them alone."
"But I need to,” I tell him, hating the way that my voice breaks and my eyes brim with tears. “Don’t you see?"
His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, and he hesitates for a few moments longer before he lets out a huff of hot air and pockets the phone.
"Fine,” he says, and my shoulders sag immediately. “ For now . But don't think this is over, bella - it’s not."
I wipe at my cheeks and nod my head once to confirm my understanding.
Though I do appreciate the gesture, it’s not what I need right now.
Right now, I just need time to think. To plan. To strategise.
As though he can sense the war still going on in my mind, Matteo lets out a long, heavy breath before he steps closer towards me.
I stand stoic on the spot as his muscular arms wrap around me with protective force, and though I’ve well and truly embarrassed myself in front of him by crying, I bury my face in his chest and inhale, finding comfort in the lingering scent of soap and something inherently him .
"You're smart," he murmurs as his chin comes to rest on top of my head whilst his thumbs dance over the skin of my upper arms. "And talented. You work harder than anyone, and he knows that. That's why he's doing this. That’s why he’s trying to break you."
I’ve just about managed to compose myself, but his words touch a nerve, and my shoulders shake with silent tears all over again.
His hands tighten around me, and I feel his broad chest expand as he inhales a long breath.
I can tell that he’s agitated, that he’s eager to do something to fix this; but as I finally allow myself to lean into his hold, I can’t help but think how this feels like the best thing he can do for me right now.
"I'm not having this,” he says, though I’m not sure whether he’s talking to me or more to himself. “You're not going to be intimidated by anyone on my watch."
I tilt my head to look up at him.
His dark eyes - usually full of teasing warmth - are ice-cold.
"I'll make sure he goes away, and stays away."
" How ?"
"However I have to," he says, his voice deadly calm. "I promise you, Daphne. I'm going to fix this."
It’s all too much, and hearing him address it so bluntly feels like the wind has been knocked right out of me.
My chest heaves with a sob, and Matteo pulls me back into his arms, cradling me against his chest as I cry into his shoulder.
We stay like that for several long minutes. His hand strokes my back and one of his cheeks presses softly against the top of my head.
Eventually, my sobs subside and his own breathing slows, the tension in his muscles slowly beginning to dissipate.
"For the record," he murmurs against my hair, "I have never - not once - said that women don’t belong in football journalism. "
I stiffen slightly.
"You haven't?" I ask, my voice small.
"Of course not." Matteo pulls back enough to look me in the eye, though his hands remain on my upper arms. "Some of the best analysts I know are women. I said one time, years ago, that some of the pundits on TV didn't understand the tactical side of football - but I never mentioned gender. And actually, I was talking about ex-players."
My stomach churns.
"Mark twisted it," I whisper.
"Of course he did," Matteo says darkly. "He wanted you isolated and on edge. Wanted you to doubt yourself, and not be able to trust anyone."
My brain slowly but surely comes back up to full speed as I process everything that’s been going on since the moment I landed in Rome.
All of the anger I directed at Matteo in those early interviews, the disdain I'd felt...
It had all been based on a lie.
I sag against his strong chest, overwhelmed by the realisation.
"God," I just about choke out. "I've been such an idiot ."
"No," Matteo says fiercely. "You trusted someone who was supposed to support you. That's not stupid. That's normal ."
I don't believe him. Not entirely.
Because how could I have been so naive, so gullible?
How could I have let Mark manipulate me so easily?
"We're going to fix this," he promises, voice low and determined. "I swear to you, Daphne. We're going to make this right."
For a moment, neither of us moves. His breathing is uneven all over again, and I can feel the tension thrumming through his body like a live wire.
But when his palm moves to cup my jaw and his thumb brushes over my damp, tear-stained cheek - his movements all tender and slow and soft as he caresses my skin - I lift my head up to meet his gaze, and something shifts.
His dark eyes drop to my mouth, and the air thickens between us.
I part my lips slightly, and Matteo doesn't hesitate.
He bends his head and kisses me - not with his usual teasing arrogance, but with slow, deliberate intensity.
My hands move on pure instinct as they slide up to his broad shoulders, gripping tightly as his lips move over mine.
I swear that his kiss is a promise of its own, a declaration of how deeply he's feeling everything right now. It's protective and passionate and grounding all at once, and he tilts my head back with a gentle grip, his tongue sweeping into my mouth as he deepens the kiss.
I respond instinctively, pressing closer until there’s no space left between us.
When he breaks away, his forehead comes to rest against mine.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers.
I nod.