Page 1 of My Italian Love Affair

Chapter One

Daphne

"Sinclair! Get your ass in my office.Now."

My heart lurches as I snap my head up to see Richard Maynard, my editor, standing in the doorway of his office, arms crossed and scowling over at me like I've personally offended him just by existing.

I've just been finishing off my latest article, the headline still screaming at me in bold lettering.

Did Noah Drayton Cheat on Fiancée Ruby - Again?

Did he?Probably.

Do I care?Absolutely not.

Unfortunately for me, the entire British public cares - well, if the traffic numbers on The Tribune's gossip website are anything to go by, at least.

Which is exactly why I'm still here, finishing this mind-numbing piece instead of being at home and working on myrealwriting.

I didn't even realise Richard was still here. He's usually the first to bolt, beelining straight to the nearest pub like it’s the promised land.

But apparently, he’s lingered - why, I have no idea.

He’s vanished back into his office, but his voice slices through the air like a villain in a low-budget horror movie.

“Sinclair,” he calls, dragging out my name in a menacing, sing-song tone.

Kill. Me.

I sigh, push back my chair, and stand, ignoring the amused glances from the few unfortunate souls still trapped in this corporate purgatory. With all the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows, I trudge into Richard’s office.

The place reeks of stale coffee, lukewarm beer, and the unmistakable musk of unchecked ego.

A truly cursed aroma - like if regret had a signature scent.

Richard's there, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s about to interrogate a suspect on a crime procedural.

“How long have you been here now?”

“Six months.”

He tuts, shaking his head like I’ve just confessed to living in a cave, foraging for berries, instead of - oh, I don’t know, showing up to this office every single day like a semi-functional adult.

“And you still look like a frightened rabbit every time I call you in here.”

That’s because every time he calls me in, I assume I’m about to be fired - or worse, promoted into some hellish position that requires a complete lack of sleep and the ability to smile through sheer terror.

The thing is, I always thought my twenties would be exciting.

Jetting off to new cities on spontaneous weekend trips, climbing the ranks in a career I actually cared about, making enough money to afford more for lunch than supermarket meal deals.

Most of all, I imagined finally publishing the fantasy novel I’d been working on since I was seventeen - the one that was supposed to be my big break into the world of bestseller lists, book tours, and seeing my name in gold lettering on a hardcover edition.

Instead, I’m stuck in an uninspiring London office at 8:47 PM, writing about a washed-up reality star’s latest cheating scandal.

“Was there something you needed?”

“I wouldn’t say something I needed, no. More like somethingyouneed.”

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