Page 44 of My Italian Love Affair

And I’m convinced that the only thing worse than being dismissed in this world is proving them right by losing my temper.

Still, I have to saysomething.

“That’s funny,” I respond flatly. “I didn’t see him paying much attention to any of you.”

The smirk on the blonde’s face falters just slightly, and before I can feel too triumphant, Mark sighs, rubbing his temples like I’m giving him a headache.

“Fuckinghell, Sinclair. Just - let’s go. I don’t have the patience for this today.”

I’m not prepared to let them see that they’ve gotten under my skin, so I nod, schooling my features into something indifferent.

“Of course, Mark. Lead the way.”

Chapter Fifteen

Daphne

Safe to say, Mark ispissed.

He walks ahead without waiting for me to catch up, his long strides exuding impatience as we weave through the press area.

He’s not said a word, but he doesn’t need to - the anger is literally radiating from him.

Instead of his usual swagger, his shoulders are rigid. His hands have formed tight fists at his sides, and I can practically see the steam rising from his head as he makes his way over to the exit.

I follow in silence, my own jaw clenched so tightly it hurts.

Every step I take feels like a countdown to the inevitable moment he snaps. The tension in my shoulders is almost unbearable, but I refuse to let myself react.

Not yet.

Not here.

I’m aware of the way people not-so-subtly glance in our direction as we move through the room.

A few of the other journalists - most of them men whoMark’s been laughing and chatting with all evening - shift their gazes towards us, and though it’s not quite enough to be overly obvious, itisenough that I can practically feel their curiosity prickling against my skin.

It’s funny, in a way. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard men in this industry complain about how much women love to gossip.

But right now,they’rethe ones watching us intently, and it’s clear how much they’re dying to know what’s going on.

Their conversations slow and their eyes track our movementas they wait for something interesting to happen. The last thing that I want or need is unnecessary attention on me, so I keep my chin high, pretending not to notice their prying eyes.

Mark suddenly veers left, out of the press area and into a quieter corridor away from everyone else.

Away fromwitnesses.

My stomach tightens as I follow after him, a sense of dread hanging over me as I step over the threshold of the room.

Here goes nothing.

*

It’s slightly anti-climatic in that Mark doesn’t turn on me immediately.

Instead, he continues to make his way through the stadium before he comes to a sudden stop in the middle of a deserted corridor.

Without warning, he turns on his heel - his face set in a scowl - and I barely have time to register where we are.

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