Chapter Fifty-Five
Daphne
W alking into the office on Monday morning feels strange.
Not because anything looks particularly different. If anything, everything looks exactly the same.
The same outdated carpet, the same flickering overhead light near the break room, the same faint hum of conversation from my colleagues.
But for the first time since arriving in Rome, I'm not walking in with a pit of dread lodged in my stomach.
Because Mark Chapman is gone .
I don't have to brace myself for condescending comments. I don't have to anticipate him cornering me by the printer to question my sources or undermine my ideas.
And I don't have to sit through yet another lecture about how women don't know what they’re talking about when it comes to sports journalism.
I step into the newsroom with a coffee in hand and a faint smile on my lips.
Mark's office is still empty. The blinds are open, revealing the shelves that are now bare except for a single abandoned coffee cup on the window ledge. His desk remains, along with the computer monitor, a few stray sticky notes, and one large cardboard box filled with the remains of his belongings.
And the sight of this room no longer sends anxiety curling through my veins.
I glance at the empty chair, give it a mental middle finger, and then walk to my desk and sink into my chair with a sigh of relief.
I open my laptop, take a sip of coffee, and savour the small, simple pleasure of a Mark-free Monday morning.
Until someone clears their throat behind me.
I freeze at the deep, masculine sound, my fingers poised above the keyboard.
I turn slowly -
And nearly spill my coffee down my blouse.
" Richard ?"
"Morning, Sinclair."
Richard stands there in his usual navy suit and red tie, his hair slicked back with a little too much gel and his expression somewhere between smug and exasperated.
"What, surprised to see me?"
"Ah - yeah," I admit. "A bit."
Richard has never once mentioned coming to Rome. His domain is the London office, the executive suite with the view of the Thames, and he’s made it clear just how much he hates traveling unless it's out of Europe.
"What are you doing here?"
He gestures toward Mark's empty office with a jerk of his chin .
"Come on. Let's talk."
*
Richard shuts the door behind us with a click .
The sound echoes, making the space feel uncomfortably claustrophobic.
I sit on the chair across from the desk while Richard perches on the edge of it, folding his arms across his chest.
"I had to come out here to handle things personally," he says. "The executive board isn’t exactly thrilled about everything that went down last week. Chapman’s firing isn’t something we can just brush under the rug."
"I gave you everything you needed," I say cautiously.
"You did," Richard agrees. "And believe me, your statement was helpful. But there’s more to it than that, Sinclair. Questions have been raised about the office culture here. Scrutiny from some of the board members."
He grimaces.
"A couple of the other women who came forwards with complaints about Chapman are hinting at going public, and the last thing the company needs is a scandal."
"Maybe they wouldn't be threatening to go public if they'd been taken seriously sooner," I say before I can stop myself.
"Careful, Sinclair,” Richard's eyes harden. " Anyway ," he continues, the irritation lingering in his tone, "that's why I'm here. I need to make sure everything’s clean. Above board. No lingering issues."
"Okay. So… what does that have to do with me?"
Richard's mouth twitches into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and I shift in my chair, the previous comfort of the morning now long gone.
"I'm glad you asked."
He turns and picks something up from the desk beside him. It's rectangular, black, with gleaming silver lettering that catches the light as he places it on the surface in front of me.
It takes me a second to realise what I'm looking at.
A nameplate.
Daphne Sinclair, Senior Sports Correspondent.
My mouth hovers open, though it’s a struggle to form words.
"What… what is this?"
"Exactly what it says on the tin." Richard straightens and clasps his hands together. "The position's yours if you want it. Permanent. Full-time. Here in Rome."
My heart thuds against my ribcage.
" Permanent ?"
"Yep." He rocks back on his heels. "The board signed off on it last night. Figured it was the easiest way to keep things stable after all the drama with Chapman. You're a woman, which is a huge bonus. You’re already familiar with the team, the league and the setup here; plus your name has gotten us so much traction online with the Rossi interviews. Made sense to lock you in."
I blink at the nameplate again.
Senior Sports Correspondent.
It’s more than just a job title.
It’s a step up - a massive one at that.
No more being a junior. No more chasing after celebrity gossip or writing filler pieces about footballers' family holidays.
This is the kind of role I’ve worked my ass off to get towards - the kind of role that traditionally takes a lot more time and experience to reach.
I should be thrilled.
Overjoyed , even.
But all I feel is a jarring mix of disbelief and uncertainty.
"I don't… I don't know what to say," I manage.
"Take your time." Richard checks his watch with a sigh. "I mean - not too much time, obviously. I need an answer before the end of the week so I can update the board. They want reassurance that you’re committed to the publication. That you won’t… you know, run your mouth like some of the others are threatening to."
My eyes snap up to his.
"You mean the women who reported Mark for sexual harassment?"
"We've got to protect the publication, Sinclair,” Richard shrugs. “I’m sure you understand."
The words leave a sour taste in my mouth.
" Anyway ," he continues, brushing invisible lint from his suit sleeve. "Like I said, it's yours if you want it. Salary bump, a proper contract, the works. Just, ah - not the apartment you’re in now."
"What?"
"That place was part of the temporary assignment package," Richard says with a dismissive wave. "If you stay on permanently, you'll need to sort your own accommodation. The Tribune can’t house you indefinitely. But hey - at least you'll be getting paid enough to live somewhere decent."
I press my lips together to stop myself from snapping something sarcastic.
"Take a day or two to think it over," Richard says. He moves toward the door and opens it before glancing back at me with a smirk. "But like I say, don’t take too long. Wouldn’t want you overthinking it."
With that, he steps out and pulls the door closed behind him.
I stare after him, the sound of it closing still reverberating through the room.
The empty room.
The chair behind the desk is all plush black leather, the view from the window overlooks the beautiful, bustling street below, and the desk still smells faintly of Mark’s terrible aftershave -
But the surface is clean now, save for the nameplate sitting dead centre.
I lean forwards and trace the letters with my fingertips.
Daphne Sinclair, Senior Sports Correspondent.
Why does it feel like my world has just tilted sideways?
*
The moment I get home, I kick off my shoes, throw my bag on the sofa, and collapse onto the cushions with a groan.
The nameplate Richard gave me feels like it’s burning a hole in my bag, even though it’s just a small, inanimate object.
Daphne Sinclair, Senior Sports Correspondent.
It sounds absurd. Like an elaborate prank.
With a sigh, I pull out my phone and open my messages .
Priya, are you around? I need to talk.
The dots appear almost immediately.
Give me 5 mins. Just left the beach club. It’s been insane here since the Grand Prix.
I smile despite myself. Of course it has.
Monaco during Grand Prix weekend? Pure chaos.
The perfect mix of billionaires, celebrities, and the sort of drama Priya thrives on.
While I wait for her call, I wander to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
My reflection catches my eye in the window, and I realise I’m still frowning.
Senior Sports Correspondent. Permanent position. Full-time, right here in Rome.
Shouldn’t I be jumping for joy right now?
Before I can spiral further, my phone buzzes with an incoming video call, and I swipe to accept.
"Hey, you."
Priya’s face appears on the screen, glowing with a golden tan, oversized sunglasses perched atop her head.
The background shows pale stone buildings, palm trees swaying in the breeze and the faint blur of boats in the distance.
"Hey, babe," she greets. "Okay, what’s going on? I can practically feel the anxiety from here."
I sink back onto the sofa. "I got offered a job today."
"Wait. A job ?” she repeats. “But you already have a job. "
"Yeah, but this one’s permanent. As a full-time Senior Sports Correspondent."
Priya lets out a squeal so loud I have to hold the phone away.
" Daphne! That’s incredible! Senior ? At your age? Babe, that’s unheard of!"
I smile, but it feels thin.
"I know. It just… feels weird."
Her brow furrows.
" Weird ? Why the hell does it feel weird? You’ve been working your ass off and having to deal with that idiot! You deserve this!"
"I know, but -" I pause, struggling to find the right words. "It's just so sudden. I came here expecting to do a three-month stint and then go home. And now Richard’s flown all the way out here to offer me a permanent contract."
"And you're hesitating why , exactly?" Priya sits back against a wicker chair, propping her sunglasses atop her head. "Daphne, come on. What’s tying you to London?"
"I mean... it’s home," I say lamely.
" Is it, though?" she challenges. " Really? "
I open my mouth to argue, but Priya barrels ahead.
"Your parents are never there. They’re always gallivanting around on another river cruise or discovering themselves in Bali or whatever midlife-crisis nonsense they’re into this month."
I snort.
"The Caribbean, actually."
" Exactly . Your flat’s empty, it rains constantly, and you’ll go back to writing clickbait articles about WAGs and which reality star bought the most expensive car this month." She gestures wildly. "Meanwhile, there? In Rome ? You have sun. You have football. You have Matteo Rossi . And you have an actual, proper job. Not just some glorified gossip column."
"I mean… when you put it like that -"
"That is how it is, babe. I'm not even exaggerating. London was fine for a while, but you outgrew that place years ago, same as me. Now you've got the chance to stay here, covering sport for a major publication. It’s the dream."
I exhale slowly.
She's right, though I’m hardly surprised - she usually is.
"And, I mean…" Priya leans closer to the camera, smirking. "It doesn't hurt that you’ll get to stay close to Mr. Hot Italian Footballer . Who, by the way, still hasn’t graced me with a FaceTime introduction."
"You act like I can just prop my phone up during dinner and say, ' Hey Matteo, wave at my best friend who's been stalking your Instagram for the past three weeks .'"
"Okay, I was doing research," she corrects. "I had to make sure he wasn't a fuckboy."
" Priya. "
"What? He had all the classic signs! A mansion, fast cars, a smile that looks like it belongs on a Dolce & Gabbana billboard…"
"And?"
She sighs dramatically.
"And... fine. I admit it. He seems decent. And hot. Very hot."
I laugh despite the knot still sitting low in my stomach .
"Listen," Priya says, sobering slightly. "Jokes aside, you've got it all here. A job most people would kill for. A gorgeous city. A hot Italian boyfriend who’s apparently obsessed with you. What exactly is stopping you?"
"He’s not my boyfriend,” I tell her. “And my plan was always to go home.”
Priya gives me a look.
"Plans change. The only thing waiting for you in London is overpriced coffee and a shitty commute on the Northern line."
I bite my lip. "I guess."
"You guess ?" She groans dramatically. "Daphne. It’s Rome . You’re literally living in a Pinterest board. Say yes, stop overthinking, and live your best life."
Live in the moment .
The exact thing Matteo keeps saying to me.
"Okay," I say softly. "Okay. I’ll think about it."
"Good," Priya beams. "And while you think about it, go try on those clothes you bought this weekend and send me pictures. Especially the dress you said made Matteo speechless."
"He wasn't speechless . He just…" I trail off when Priya gives me a knowing look. "Fine. He was quiet for several seconds, which is basically a Matteo version of speechless."
"Exactly. So go model it for me. And then say yes to the job, because you'd be insane not to."
"Yeah," I whisper as we end the call. " Insane. "
I drop the phone beside me and lean back into the sofa.
The logical part of me knows Priya's right .
But the emotional part of me can’t help wondering whether staying in Rome is the right move, or whether I’m just getting swept up in everything around me -
Matteo included.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Either way, I need to decide.
And soon.