Page 45 of My Italian Love Affair

“What thefuckwas that, Sinclair?”

I freeze.

I’d expected irritation, maybe some of his usual condescending jabs, but not this.

Not actualaggression.

Mark steps closer, his voice low but sharp, like a blade pressed just beneath the surface.

“Do you have any idea how unprofessional that was? How ridiculous you just mademelook?”

I blink, caught off guard by the sheer force of his frustration.

“I -what?”

“What a fuckingjoke. You sit there, making eyes at Matteo Rossi like some lovesick intern -”

“I wasnot-”

“- and then you go completely off-script and ask some ridiculous,embarrassingquestion that just proved to everyone that you don’t belong in that room.” His nostrils flare. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To prove everyone right and show me up in the process.”

I want to fire back, to tell him that’s not what happened at all, that he’s blowing this up out of proportion and completely twisting things in his mind; but I can’t even get the words out past the shock.

“You were the one who invited me to ask a question, Mark.”

“It was atest, Sinclair,” he says, nostrils flaring and voice tight with barely restrained fury. “You weren’tsupposedto make a scene. You weren’tsupposedto show me up in front of my colleagues. But congratulations - you did just that.”

He doesn’t give me even a second to process his nasty comments before he steps in closer.

“And you just don’tgetit, do you?” His voice is laced with something uglier than frustration, now - somethingbitter. “You’re not here toplay journalist, Sinclair. You’re here to learn from people who actually know what the fuck they’re doing.”

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“Iama journalist.”

He barks out a laugh.

“No, you’re not. You’re avanity hire. A pretty face they can put in a press box to make it look like they give a shit about diversity,” he sneers. “At least Karen was half-good at her job, which made up for her face. But you? You don’t know shit about the game, the players, or this world. And, what - you think Richard sent you here because you’retalented? Because your little reports and articles aresoinsightful?”

The words are cold and harsh, and I feel them settle deep - right into the part of me that does wonder whether I really deserve to be here.

Honestly, this isn’t just nastiness.

This is borderlinehumiliating.

“Need I remind you thatRichardis my boss, and thathehas no complaints withanyof my pieces?” I bite out, trying to hold my voice steady. “He barely even edits my articles. He pretty much publishes them as they are.”

Mark’s mouth twists into something cruel.

“Yeah? And you think that’s because you’regood?”

He shakes his head.

“No, Sinclair. It’s because no one expects anything from you in the first place. No one reads your articles and thinks, ‘wow,this girl really knows her stuff’. They skim through it, maybe admire the cute little way you put words together, and then move the fuck on.”

My pulse pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips.

“Go to hell, Mark.”

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