He spreads his arms wide, triumphant.
"Game over, Sinclair. Your career'sfinished."
His words hang in the air like poisonous smoke.
She's been shagging Matteo Rossi.
Part of me wants to run. To escape the stares, the humiliation, the whispered speculation already starting to spread like wildfire.
But another part of me - thejournalistpart- knows that running will only confirm his accusations.
So I narrow my eyes and lift my chin, channelling as much inner strength as I can muster despite the humiliation threatening to swallow me whole.
"Grow up, Mark," I snap, my voice cold even to my own ears. "You're embarrassing yourself."
His mouth falls open slightly, like he hadn't expected me to push back.
"You lost your job because you lied and took credit for other people’s work.Mywork. You harassed your colleagues andyou humiliated every woman you came across. I didn’t ruin your career - you did that all by yourself."
Mark’s face contorts with rage, but before he can respond, two uniformed security officers arrive.
The young guard from the door stands behind them, wide-eyed but relieved.
"That's him," the guard says, pointing toward Mark, and the officers flank him as they each grab an arm.
"Hey - get off me!" he shouts, struggling against their hold.
His voice cracks with desperation as they drag him toward the door.
"You’ll see! Tomorrow morning! It'll be all over the internet. Daphne Sinclair, the journalist who fucked her way to the top! You'll all fucking see!"
The door slams shut behind them, and silence settles over the press box once more, thicker than before.
The urge to sink into the floor is overwhelming. My ears burn with shame, but I keep my expression neutral as I sit down, pick up my phone, and pretend to scroll through my messages.
I force myself to breathe.
And then, slight movement from my right makes me glance up.
A woman - a journalist I've seen at a few Serie A events - slides into the empty seat beside me. She has short, dark hair and wears a tailored blazer over a simple white T-shirt.
"Ciao," she says softly before switching to English. "Are you okay?"
Her voice is softer than I expect; a gentle intrusion into thestorm inside my head.
"Yeah. I’m fine."
She hesitates, then nods.
"He's a piece of shit, you know. We've all heard the stories."
"Yeah," I whisper, still able to hear my heartbeat in my ears. "He is."
A small silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels like a quiet kind of solidarity.
I don’t know her name. But she knowsexactlywhat just happened. And she understands.
And right now, that’s enough.
