Page 174 of My Italian Love Affair

I sit there, stunned, the words washing over me like icy water as my brain scrambles to process what Richard is saying.

Mark’s been telling him he’s been helping me?

Writing my articles?

The same Mark who dismisses my ideas in meetings and barely acknowledges me unless it's to make a condescending remark about football being too complicated for me?

My initial disbelief morphs into simmering anger.

How long has this been going on?

How many times has he smiled to my face while taking credit for my words behind my back?

“Just maybe try and let Mark get back to his own work, yeah?" Richard, oblivious to my spiraling thoughts, ploughs on. "Poor bloke’s been run off his feet trying to keep up with it all.”

"Richard," I say sharply. "Mark hasn't helped me with anything."

He frowns, tilting his head slightly.

"Look, Sinclair - it’sfine.I mean, I know it's all a bit technical with the stats and analysis and whatnot. Easy to lose track of who’s done what when you’re still getting the hang of it."

"No, I’m - honestly, I mean it,” I tell him. “Every word, every article, I've written themmyself. I’ve not hadanyhelp. Especially not fromhim."

Richard exhales and leans back in his chair, scratching his chin.

"Well, that's...odd. Mark and I meet pretty regularly, and he’s said how it's been a real team effort. Isn’t that why you’ve been copying him into all your emails? Because you’ve beenwriting them together?"

My heart pounds, heat spreading through my chest.

"No, I didn’t - he specificallytold meto do that. I was just following instructions! Are you - has he seriously been taking credit for all of my work?"

Richard's mouth pulls into a half-grimace.

"I mean, that's notexactlywhat he said. But, well... he did mention having to step in quite a bit to support you. And to be fair, Sinclair, this isn't your usual territory, is it? Football's a bit of a lad’s game. Bit dry for someone more used to red carpet gossip."

I grip the edge of my desk so tightly my knuckles turn white.

"He hasn't helped me. Notonce," I snap, anger simmering beneath the surface. "If anything, he's been trying to undermine me since day one. He’s made itveryclear that he thinks I don’t belong here."

Richard sighs, rubbing his temples.

"Right, Sinclair - look, I get it, you’re frustrated. But Chapman is a highly respected journalist. He’s been in the game for years, and people here trust him. That’s a pretty bold accusation you’re throwing around. Are you absolutely sure you’re not just getting a bit overwhelmed with all the football jargon?"

"I’m absolutely sure that he'slying," I say.

"Alright, alright," Richard says, raising his hands like he's calming a hysterical child. "No need to get emotional about it, Sinclair. Just - leave this with me. I'll look into it."

"Thanks," I say, voice tight.

"In the meantime, just keep doing what you're doing," he adds with a patronising smile. "Don't let this crap get in yourhead and mess things up. I’ve got to present to the executive board at the end of the month, and they’re obsessed with the engagement numbers. Your work speaks for itself... well, with a little help, obviously."

My jaw practically drops.

“Look, I -”

“I’mjoking,” Richard interrupts, laughing heartily as though he’s actually funny. “You should see the look on your face, Sinclair. Priceless. Anyway - lighten up a little. I’ll look into this, and you keep that content with Rossi coming. I’ll catch up with you soon.”

The call ends, and I sit motionless for a moment, my mind racing.

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