Page 25 of My Italian Love Affair

By the time I reach the office building - a sleek, modern structure - I’m already bracing myself.

After all, whatever this meeting with Mark entails, I know it won’t be pleasant.

*

I have to hand it to him: his desk - and his office in general - is much more organised than Richard’s has ever been.

His eyes flicker over me as I hover in the doorway. It’s the kind of look that feels like he’s assessing much more than just my professional demeanor.

I hold my ground, refusing to let it bother me.

“Sinclair,” he says, not bothering to stand up. “Good of you to join me.”

"Oh - I thought we were meeting at two o’clock?"

“It was a joke,” he says, though his face is completely deadpan.

I’m tempted to ask him to explain what was supposed to be funny about it, but I know my life won’t be worth living if I give this man that kind of attitude, so I bite my tongue.

“Sit, sit,” he motions with his hands. “We’ve got a lot to cover today.”

I sit down across from him, trying not to bristle at the way he’s already treating me likeI’mthe one who’s been slacking off when I’m actually ten minutes early for our meeting.

“So,” he begins, pulling out his phone and typing something as if I’m not even here, “Have you managed to do anything useful since yesterday?”

“I drafted and sent an article over to Richard last night,” I say evenly, ignoring his flat tone. “He published it this morning.”

“An article,” he comments, sounding entirely unimpressed. “How very…predictable.”

“Well, Richard seemed to like it,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself. “He hardly made any edits at all, and it’s already picking up a lot of traction.”

Mark’s fingers pause mid-type. He looks up at me from his phone, an eyebrow arched.

“Picking up traction?” he repeats, looking as disgusted as he sounds. “Honestly, kid, you’re lucky Richard’s so generous. Maybe next time, you could aim a little higher than just having your stuff published.”

God, he’s such anasshole.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

There’s a long pause as Mark finally comes off his phone. Hesighs and leans back in his chair, looking at me with the kind of superiority I’ve learned to expect from him.

“Next time, make sure that you copy me in,” he says.

“I - what?”

“I need to make sure that you’re doing this properly. I expect to be copied in on every piece that you send to Richard.Noexceptions.”

I feel my pulse pick up, a knot tightening in my stomach.

Journalism might not be my real passion, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take pride in what I do. I’ve been writing professionally since I graduated with a first-class honours degree in English Literature last year, and I’ve never had anyone question my competence like this.

Not even Richard.

To now have Mark sit here and all but tell me he doesn’t trust me to write a decent article without his supervision… Itstings.

A lot more than I want to admit.

Because I know I’m capable. I know how to research, how to structure an engaging piece and how to craft an angle that will actually get people reading.

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