Chapter Forty-Nine
Daphne
T he morning sunlight filters through the gaps in my curtains, casting soft stripes across the crumpled sheets.
The warmth of Matteo’s body is still wrapped around mine, his arm draped heavily across my waist, his breath steady against the back of my neck.
For a moment, I let myself stay here. I savour the quiet and the comforting weight of him beside me along with the new, unfamiliar feeling of safety that lingers from the night before.
But then the memories of everything else come creeping back in.
Mark.
The lies. The accusations.
The humiliating, degrading words he threw at me like knives.
My jaw tightens.
I might have let myself break down last night, but today is different, because I’m done hiding.
Matteo stirs behind me, his muscles flexing inadvertently as he pulls me closer. His bare chest presses against my naked back as his lips brush against my shoulder, pressing a lazy kiss to my freckled skin.
"Morning, baby," he mumbles, voice gravelly from sleep.
My chest tightens at the affectionate pet name, and my lips curve upwards despite - well, everything .
"Morning," I murmur back, my voice quiet so not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere
He nuzzles into the crook of my neck with a contented sigh.
"What time is it?"
I twist my head to check the alarm clock on my bedside table.
"Six-thirty."
" Shit ," Matteo groans, rubbing his face with one hand before sitting up with obvious reluctance.
The sheets pool around his waist, exposing the sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders. I roll over so that I’m fully facing him, still a little dazed by the sight of him here, in my bed, like he belongs.
"Training?" I ask.
"Yeah." He scrubs a hand through his hair, making the dark strands stick up at odd angles. "Final prep before next week's match. We’ve got a media circus around us already - though you already know that."
He turns to me, eyes suddenly serious.
"You sure you’re okay?"
I nod. "I'm fine."
Matteo’s brow furrows.
"You said that last night, too. I’m going to need a little more conviction than fine , Daphne."
I try for a smile.
"I promise. I’m okay."
He doesn't look convinced. Matteo leans forward and cups my face with both hands, his thumbs brushing across my cheeks as his gaze searches mine.
"If anything changes," he says quietly, "if Mark tries anything, if you feel even the slightest bit off, you call me. Immediately . Got it?"
"Got it."
"And you’re not just saying that?"
" Matteo -"
He kisses me, cutting off my protest with the firm press of his lips.
It’s not the kind of kiss designed to distract me or spark something more. Instead, it’s grounding - protective, even.
A silent promise that he’s with me, no matter what comes next.
When he pulls back, his jaw is tight.
"I’m serious, Daphne. Don’t downplay this. You don’t have to handle it alone anymore."
My throat tightens at the sincerity in his voice.
"Okay," I whisper. "I won’t."
"Good." He lets out a slow breath, as though convincing himself to leave. "I really did just come round to check on you last night, you know."
I snort softly.
"Yeah, we really nailed the whole just checking in thing. "
His lips twitch. "Hey, that was all you. You were irresistible in those ice-cream-stained pajamas."
"Shut up," I say, stretching out my arm so that I can bat lightly at his chest, but warmth floods my cheeks.
"Speaking of ice cream," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead. "I brought pizza. It's in the fridge. I figured you'd need lunch today after all your hard work last night."
His voice is laced with suggestive amusement, and I roll my eyes knowingly.
I watch as he pulls on his clothes - his jeans from the night before and a black hoodie he must’ve brought with him. He leans down and presses another kiss to my lips and then another to my forehead before he finally moves to leave.
I settle down against the pillows, my eyes just about to drift back to a close when he pauses at the door. I blink up at him and note that his face is suddenly serious again.
"Promise me you’ll be okay today," he says.
"I promise," I tell him without hesitation.
His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer, but then he nods once and heads out of the room.
I listen to the sound of his footsteps retreating through the living room, and I hold my breath until I hear the soft click of the front door closing behind him.
The apartment feels unnervingly quiet in his absence.
I sigh and fall further back against the pillows, his scent still lingering on my sheets. For a few minutes, I let myself just be , but then the tight coil of anxiety in my stomach returns with full force.
I can't stay here all day, wallowing in it .
And I can’t keep hiding from Mark, or the situation.
If I want this resolved, I need to do something about it.
So, I do what I always do when I need to clear my head: I shower, letting the hot water scald my skin as though it might wash away the weight of the past few days.
I scrub shampoo into my hair until my scalp tingles, then stand there with my forehead against the tile as the water cascades over me.
The memories swirl.
Mark sneering in his office, his voice thick with condescension.
The way he made me feel small. Like I didn't belong.
Like every accomplishment I’d worked for meant nothing.
And for what? So he could steal credit for my work? So he could push me out of the industry entirely?
Fuck that.
I turn off the shower and step out, wrapping myself in a towel and standing in front of the fogged-up mirror. My reflection stares back at me, eyes shadowed with exhaustion but sharpened with new resolve.
I’ve worked too hard for this. I didn’t move to Rome and uproot my entire life for three fucking months just to be intimidated by a bitter, small-minded man.
Mark is nothing but a bully.
And I won’t back down.
I dry my hair before I throw on a pair of light trousers and a sleeveless black tee that I tuck firmly down into them. I begin to pace my living room as I map out my next steps, mimicking Matteo’s movements from yesterday evening .
Hiding isn’t an option. But facing Mark directly right now ?
Probably not wise.
Which leaves me with only one sensible option.
Richard .
He’s my editor, and the one who’s been hearing Mark's lies. He’s also the one who’s been unknowingly giving Mark credit for my work all this time. If I want this situation fixed, I need to go straight to the person who signs off on every article.
Go to Richard. Lay it out for him. Get the truth on the record.
Decision made, I reach for my make-up bag and get to work.
Once I look every inch the professional woman that I am, I head out of my apartment to treat myself to a quick coffee and a pastry from the cafe over the road before I return and open up my work laptop.
We’re one hour ahead of UK time here, and I sit and wait for the clock to tick to nine-thirty a.m before I find Richard’s name and press call .
This is it.
It's time to fight back.
*
I end the video call with Richard and set my laptop down on the coffee table with a frustrated sigh.
The conversation had gone... okay . As okay as it possibly could when dealing with Richard’s unique blend of casual sexism and corporate detachment.
He'd listened, at least, and raised his eyebrows in surprise when I'd laid out the full timeline. The condescension, the lies, the way Mark had claimed he’d been helping me with my articles while doing absolutely nothing of the sort…
Richard had hummed and nodded, muttering something about how Mark was a long-time company man and how he'd need to look into things further.
But when I asked for specifics on what that actually meant, he'd immediately deflected.
So, no, it wasn’t exactly a resounding success. But it was a start.
Small steps, I tell myself.
My phone vibrates against the glass table, breaking me from my thoughts. Matteo’s name - along with that blasted winking emoji - flashes across the screen.
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips despite the weight of the morning, and I swipe to answer.
"Hey," I say.
"Ciao, bella ," comes the low, familiar drawl from the other end. "How did it go with Richard?"
"Not terrible, but not amazing either. He said he'd look into it, but you know how corporate guys are."
"Useless?"
I laugh lightly.
"Yeah, pretty much."
Matteo is silent for a moment.
"Well," he says, voice darkening slightly, "good thing I’ve been doing some digging of my own."
My stomach dips.
"Matteo..."
"I told you I wouldn’t let him get away with this," he says simply.
There's something about the calm certainty in his voice that makes me nervous.
"What did you do?"
"Just made a few calls." He pauses. "People know Chapman here, Daphne. Actually know him. And his reputation isn’t as spotless as he’d like you to think."
I chew the inside of my cheek, torn between gratitude and anxiety.
Matteo clearly has far more connections than I'd realised.
"I don't know if this is the best idea," I say slowly. "What if this backfires? What if Mark hears you’re digging around and twists it to make me look bad?"
Matteo is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Steadier.
"Do you trust me?"
The question lands in the centre of my chest.
Do I?
I glance around my apartment, at the pizza box sitting on the kitchen counter that I’d pulled out from the fridge, the one he’d brought with him last night. I can still smell his aftershave on the pillow beside me and recall the way he held me close when I broke down.
And there’s no doubt about it - I absolutely remember the way he looked at me when he promised to fix this.
My throat tightens as I swallow.
"Yeah," I say softly. "I do."
"Good," Matteo breathes. "Then let me handle this. You don't need to do everything on your own all the time. "
The simplicity of that statement makes me close my eyes for a moment.
I've always prided myself on being independent. On handling my own problems without asking for help.
But Matteo's right. I'm exhausted from fighting this battle alone.
"Okay," I whisper.
"That's my girl," he murmurs.
I can hear the smile in his voice, and my heart practically skips at his praise.
"Now, go do something nice for yourself. Go for a walk. Get some lunch. Eat more ice cream if you want. Just… breathe for a bit, okay?"
"Yes, Dad ," I tease.
He chuckles.
"Careful. I’ll come back there just to punish you for that later."
Heat prickles up my spine at the memory of exactly how Matteo punishes me.
"I’m hanging up now,” I tell him.
"Yeah, yeah. Text me later, bella ."
I hang up and sit there for a moment, staring at the phone in my hand.
Let me handle this.
The idea of handing control over to someone else makes me squirm.
But I mean it: I do trust Matteo. If anyone can stop Mark from taking advantage of me and my work, it’s him .
The thought brings me more relief than I want to admit.
*
After a morning spent finishing my articles, I grab my bag and head out into the city for lunch. The mid-afternoon sun is warm and bright, the sky a vivid blue overhead as I make my way down cobblestone streets toward my favorite café near Piazza Navona.
The air is thick with the smell of freshly baked pastries and flavoured gelato as I settle at an outdoor table. The waiter brings me a sparkling water and a menu, and I order a simple caprese panini and a glass of chilled white wine.
After all, why not indulge myself?
As I wait for my food, I let my gaze drift across the piazza. Tourists gather in clusters around the Fountain of the Four Rivers, their phones raised to capture the sculptures. A street musician plays a soft melody on his violin, the sound drifting gently through the air.
It’s then that it hits me: I’ve been here for two months.
Rome. The Eternal City.
And in all that time, I’ve barely stopped.
Sure, I’ve wandered the streets, visited the Colosseum, sipped aperitivos in sunlit piazzas. But I’ve been so wrapped up in work, in clumsily navigating the testosterone-laden world of football journalism that I haven't really let myself absorb how lucky I am to be here.
The architecture, the food, the people. The undeniable magic that lingers in the air.
My gaze shifts toward the fountain, where a young couple pose for a picture. The man wraps his arm around the woman’s waist and kisses her temple, and she beams with happiness.
The sight makes something ache deep in my chest.
Because when I think about Rome now, I don’t just think about the city. I think about him .
Matteo.
The way he teases me relentlessly.
The way he looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world.
The way he holds me when everything feels like it’s falling apart.
The waiter arrives with my drinks, and I smile in thanks before I reach immediately for my wine. I sip it slowly, the cool liquid crisp against my tongue as my thoughts swirl.
This thing with him - it can’t last. I know that. I’m only here for another month.
And yet…
My eyes linger on the couple by the fountain, on the warmth in their smiles.
What if…?
No. I shake the thought away.
This isn’t forever.
The waiter arrives with my sandwich, and I force myself to push the what-ifs aside.
I need to stay focused. I have bigger problems to solve.