Page 214 of My Italian Love Affair

I shuffle to the bathroom, showering under hot water that does little to rinse away the warmth of Matteo's lingering presence.

By the time I’m dressed in a lightweight blouse and skirt, the sun is already streaming through the windows. The weatherhas shifted noticeably in the past week, as spring has melted into early summer, and the air feels heavier, thicker.

I tie my hair into a high ponytail, already anticipating the heat of the Roman streets during my brief commute to the office.

Normally, I’d work from home after everything that’s happened - but today, something in me says it’s time to face the office again.

To show my face. To remind myself that I’m not scared of Mark.

I grab my bag, slip into my sandals, and step out into the bright, bustling city.

*

The moment I walk into the office, I know something is off.

The usual hum of conversation is quieter than normal, and there’s a strange sort of tension in the air - something subtle, but unmistakable.

Colleagues I’ve only ever seen buried in their laptops or racing to meet deadlines are standing around in small clusters, whispering to each other with wide eyes and hushed voices. I pass a group near the break room and catch fragments of conversation - some in English, some in Italian.

"...can't believe it..."

"...finally got caught..."

"...furious on the call this morning..."

My stomach tightens.

What the hell is going on?

I continue down the hall toward my desk. When I pass Mark’s office, I glance through the glass door-

And freeze.

The room is empty.

As in,completelyempty.

The desk is clear. The shelves, once cluttered with football memorabilia and framed photos of him shaking hands with retired players, are bare. Cardboard boxes sit on the floor, packed haphazardly with files, stationery, and the ugly metal nameplate that used to sit proudly on his desk.

Mark Chapman, Senior Sports Correspondent.

I move to my own desk and sit down slowly, trying to appear casual as I open my laptop and log in. My ears strain to catch snippets of nearby conversations, my mind whirring with possibilities as my eyes scan over the room.

Did Mark get promoted? Transferred?

He’s been less present lately, but that’s hardly unusual. His so-called business lunches often turned into afternoons spent schmoozing at expensive rooftop bars, but this... this feels different.

After several minutes of fruitless eavesdropping, I give up and swivel toward the woman sitting at the next desk.

"Giulia?" I say, pitching my voice low.

Giulia is only a few years older than me. She’s warm and sharp-witted. Her dark hair is pulled into a sleek bun, and her eyes widen when she sees me.

"Daphne!" she exclaims. "You’re here! I haven’t seen you in days."

"Yeah, I’ve been working from home." I glance toward Mark’s empty office, lowering my voice. "What's going on? Where's Mark?"

Her brows shoot up.

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