Page 202 of My Italian Love Affair

A silent promise that he’s with me, no matter what comes next.

When he pulls back, his jaw is tight.

"I’m serious, Daphne. Don’t downplay this. You don’t have to handle it alone anymore."

My throat tightens at the sincerity in his voice.

"Okay," I whisper. "I won’t."

"Good." He lets out a slow breath, as though convincing himself to leave. "I really did just come round to check on you last night, you know."

I snort softly.

"Yeah, we really nailed the wholejust checking inthing."

His lips twitch. "Hey, that was all you. You were irresistible in those ice-cream-stained pajamas."

"Shut up," I say, stretching out my arm so that I can bat lightly at his chest, but warmth floods my cheeks.

"Speaking of ice cream," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead. "I brought pizza. It's in the fridge. I figured you'd need lunch today after all your hard work last night."

His voice is laced with suggestive amusement, and I roll my eyes knowingly.

I watch as he pulls on his clothes - his jeans from the night before and a black hoodie he must’ve brought with him. He leans down and presses another kiss to my lips and then another to my forehead before he finally moves to leave.

I settle down against the pillows, my eyes just about to drift back to a close when he pauses at the door. I blink up at him and note that his face is suddenly serious again.

"Promise me you’ll be okay today," he says.

"I promise," I tell him without hesitation.

His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer, but then he nods once and heads out of the room.

I listen to the sound of his footsteps retreating through the living room, and I hold my breath until I hear the soft click of the front door closing behind him.

The apartment feels unnervingly quiet in his absence.

I sigh and fall further back against the pillows, his scent still lingering on my sheets. For a few minutes, I let myself justbe, but then the tight coil of anxiety in my stomach returns with full force.

I can't stay here all day, wallowing in it.

And I can’t keep hiding from Mark, or the situation.

If I want this resolved, I need to do something about it.

So, I do what I always do when I need to clear my head: I shower, letting the hot water scald my skin as though it might wash away the weight of the past few days.

I scrub shampoo into my hair until my scalp tingles, then stand there with my forehead against the tile as the water cascades over me.

The memories swirl.

Mark sneering in his office, his voice thick with condescension.

The way he made me feel small. Like I didn't belong.

Like every accomplishment I’d worked for meant nothing.

And for what? So he could steal credit for my work? So he could push me out of the industry entirely?

---