Page 175 of My Italian Love Affair

I can’t quite believe it.

Mark Chapman has been stealing credit for my work this entire time.

Every late night, every carefully crafted article - he's claimed as his own contribution.

The same Mark who has done nothing but belittle me from day one, making sly, snide comments about how women don’t understand football, how I’m only here to get close to players like Rossi.

The same man who had the audacity to corner me at the gala, reeking of whiskey as he propositioned me, only to try and twist it all to look as thoughIhad been the one who was drunkenly coming on tohim.

The same Mark who laughed along with the others when I suggested doing a tactical analysis piece, brushing it off as too technical for a so-calledlifestyle writerlike me -

And yet he’s been feeding Richard this story that he’s themastermind behind my work.

That he's been guiding me through every step of the process while I flounder like some clueless rookie.

He’s been included on every email under the guise of supervising my work when in reality, he’s been passing it off as his own.

The fury bubbling inside me solidifies into pure, unrelenting determination.

Mark Chapman thinks he can take me down from the shadows, that he can discredit me, make me question my abilitiesandsteal my work to boost his own reputation whilst I sit back and say nothing,donothing.

Yeah.

Not a fucking chance.

This man is about to learn just how wrong he is about me.

Chapter Forty-Four

Matteo

Idon’t fucking get it.

I don’tunderstandher.

I took her out, and then -fuck, Itook her home.

Not an apartment. Not a hotel room.

Myhome.

I’ve never taken a woman back there before. Not once.

Apartments? Sure.

A penthouse, a discreet hotel when I wanted privacy? Of course.

But never my actual house.

Myspace.Mybed.

And yet, I took her there.

And the sex?

Dio. It wasn’t just good. It wasn’t just the kind of sex you think about the next morning and feel smug about.

No, it was the kind of sex that leaves a manwrecked.

---