Page 50 of My Italian Love Affair

Fury.

Undiluted. Unrelenting. Unstoppable.

I’m still gearing up for a fight. I wanted to hit him. Not just hit him - end him.

Destroyhim.

And my body refuses to believe that I walked away before I could do precisely that.

Mark fucking Chapman.

The condescending, gutless piece of shit who stood there, looking down at her like he had some god-given right to humiliate her.

Like she wasn’t worth his respect, wasn’t worth her own space in this fucking industry.

Like she wasnothing.

"You’re a vanity hire."

"That’s how this works, sweetheart."

My jaw locks so hard I feel it crack.

My vision blurs red, my blood burning, my pulse a steady, dangerous beat in my ears.

Sweetheart.

That one fucking word makes my fingers twitch, the knuckles on my right hand aching with the need to connect with his fucking face.

It wasn’t affectionate. It wasn’t even teasing.

It was meant tohumiliateher. Meant to cut her down.

Meant to remind her that in his eyes, she’s just some young, pretty woman taking up space in his world.

Andfuck,I should have stepped in sooner.

I wanted to. I wanted to rip him apart,slowly.

Wanted to grab him by the collar, slam him up against the wall and introduce him to the consequences of running his fucking mouth, to whatrealhumiliation feels like.

But I didn’t.

Because Daphne Sinclair isn’t weak. She isn’t some helpless girl who needs a hero to save her.

She’s fire and sharp edges, built from something stronger than steel, and fuck if I don’t respect the hell out of her for it.

But respect doesn’t erase this fury. Doesn’t stop me from feeling like I could put my fist through a wall and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Doesn’t stop me from wanting to break something.

Correction - to break someone.

I slam my palm against the bench, the sharpcrackof impact echoing through the empty room.

Not enough.

I throw a punch to the locker, the metal denting under the force. My knuckles sting, the pain sharp and instant -

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