Page 114 of My Italian Love Affair

Richard’s going to get it in a hurry. I’m sure that fact will earn me a mental gold star in his eyes, but honestly, I don’t care.

The whole thing’s been a blur of frustration and grit, and I just want it off my desk.

And I wanthimoff my brain, too.

I know there will be hundreds of comments waiting for me since I last checked on my pre-match article and predictions. At least I’ll get to see all the people who doubted me scurrying back like little mice, tails between their legs.

My predictions are typically met with an eye-roll and a barrage of “what doessheknow?” responses, so I lean back and grab my phone, already bracing myself for the usual rhetoric.

But instead, a grin spreads across my face.

As I scroll through the comment section of my prediction article, there’s a satisfaction that settles in my chest.

It’s not just about being right - though I have to admit thatisnice.

It’s the beautiful, sweet symphony of all the bitter little men who’d dismissed my analysis now suddenly rushing in to admit they were wrong.

“She called it,”one comments, the typed words barely able to hide the sense of begrudging admiration.

“I’ll admit it, maybe she has an idea of what she’s talking about,”another chimes in - with a dose of defensiveness sprinkled in for good measure.

There’s one who’s still trying to save face, commenting, “I didn’t expect that kind of performance from Roma, but yeah... you were right. Just luck of the draw.”

Right.

Becauseluckhad anything to do with it.

Still, I can’t help the smug smile that curls on my lips.

They were wrong, I was right, and now they're eating their words.

I feel like I should go back and throw in a couple of sassy emoji responses just to drive the point home, but that’s probably crossing the line. Plus, I’m better than that.

Waybetter.

I chuckle to myself and set my phone aside, finally leaning back and stretching my arms above my head.

It’s a little too late for a celebratory drink, so I figure I’ll just bask in my moment of triumph while it lasts, and pointedlynotthink of a certain, infuriating footballer.

But then the rush of inspiration hits me like a jolt of electricity.

That creative itch I’ve been ignoring for weeks suddenlysparks, and I knowexactlywhat I need to do.

I glance at my own laptop, which has been open to my novel draft for days now -weeks, even - and I’ve hardly touched it.

The poor thing’s collecting digital dust.

But something has clicked. I can’t explain it, it’s just…

Well, something justclicked.

The love interest I thought was my ‘guy’?

Yeah. He’snot.

No, no - I was totally wrong about him.

The guy I pegged as the villain, though?

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