Page 187 of My Italian Love Affair

I haven't even opened the document in over a week. It’s gathering digital dust while I get sucked further into this ridiculous circus.

By the time I reach my apartment door, I’m suffocating under the weight of it all.

The pressure of trying to succeed in a job where no one respects me.

The frustration of working tirelessly only to have someone else take the credit.

The humiliation of knowing that, to people like Mark, my success will never be about talent - it will always be about which man they think I’m having sex with.

I just about manage to lock the door behind me before I sink to the floor, my back sliding against the wooden surface as I drop to the ground. The tears come before I can stop them; hot, angry sobs that wrack my body and leave me gasping for breath.

Because Mark's words aren't just vile. They're a reminder that no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, this industry will always find a way to reduce my success and link it to a man.

And the worst part? The part that really makes me want to scream?

He’s fucking right.

Iamsleeping with Matteo.

Not that it’s gotten me anywhere professionally. If anything, I’ve tried to resist him. I’ve tried to keep things professional.

But I failed.

And then another thought slams into me with the force of a freight train - one thatreallyhas the tears flowing.

Mark warned me about Matteo from the start. He warned me that he doesn’t respect women, that he doesn’t take women seriously -

That he doesn’t believe women should be involved in football journalism.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing the tears to stop, but they won’t.

How could I have been sostupid?

Chapter Forty-Seven

Daphne

The day passes in a blur of self-pity, ice cream and bad reality TV.

I lose count of how many spoonfuls of Häagen-Dazs I shovel into my mouth as I sprawl across the sofa in my pajamas: tiny grey shorts and an oversized, faded university tee. My hair - still matted from restless naps - is scraped into a messy bun on top of my head, and the dark circles under my eyes are proof of the emotional meltdown I'd indulged in earlier.

In other words, I look like pure and uttershite.

Deciding that I’m ready to escape into someone else's problems for a while, I pull my laptop onto my knee and open the document titledUntitled Fantasy Novel.

My fingers clack along the keyboard, and before I know it, my heroine is in the middle of an argument with the brooding, misunderstood villain-turned-reluctant-hero.

She's starting to fall for him,hard- and she's furious about it.

Relatable.

I get lost in the words, typing feverishly as my heroine tries - and fails - to resist the pull of the villain’s sharp wit and undeniable intensity. The hours slip by unnoticed as I’mconsumed by the world that lives only in my head -

Until there's a knock at the door.

I freeze, hands hovering over the keyboard.

I glance at the time on my screen. 9:17 p.m.

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