Page 106 of My Italian Love Affair

His smile is all satisfaction, and my stomach churns.

I turn on my heel and walk out of his office, my hands clenched into fists.

I move quickly and sit at my desk. I have research that I could be getting on with, but I find myself stuck still and staring blankly at my computer screen, feeling sick to my stomach.

This is the exact bullshit that so many women in this industry have to deal with, and now I’m tangled up in it, too.

Ishouldfight back.

Ishouldstand up for myself.

But I also know how these things go.

Men like Mark always land on their feet, and women like me are lucky if we don’t get pushed out completely.

So, for now, I’ll keep quiet. I won’t say anything.

But I won’t forgive - and I sure as hell won’t forget.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Daphne

By Monday evening, the internet has its latest obsession.

Photos from the gala have surfaced - courtesy of some anonymous source, of course - and unsurprisingly, they’ve sparked a whirlwind of speculation.

One in particular is causing a stir: a photo of Matteo standing in a dimly lit corner of the ballroom, his head bent close to what the tabloid have dubbed as amystery woman, the two of them appearing deep in conversation.

All of the local gossip pages are having a field day as a result.

Matteo Rossi’s latest romance?

Who’s the woman spotted with the AS Roma star player at the charity gala?

Sources say the pair spent a considerable amount of time together - could this be the start of something new?

I roll my eyes as I scroll through the article, already knowingexactlywho the woman is.

Martina Bianchi, fiancée of Daniyal Ferrara, one of the other journalists who had attended the event.

It’s hardly the scandalous affair that the tabloids are making it out to be, but that won’t stop people from running with it.

The narrative is already set: Matteo Rossi has been pictured with a mystery woman, and now the football world is utterly intrigued.

I huff out a breath, tossing my phone onto the couch.

It shouldn’t bother me.

Itdoesn’tbother me.

(I hate the way I tell myself that several times).

*

Wednesday evening rolls around soon enough, and the now familiar sight of the Stadio Olimpico looming ahead causes me to sigh.

I park up my rental car and make my way towards the entrance. The bright floodlights cut through the dusky evening sky as the buzz of pre-match anticipation hums around me.

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