Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
A faint smile tugs at my lips, and I wonder about the women who attended those events. Did they feel the same way that I do now?
Does history really change that much?
I walk briskly toward the bathrooms, eager for a moment of solitude. The hallway stretches ahead of me as I round another corner and push open the door to the ladies' room.
The music from the ballroom fades into the background as I step inside, and I immediately feel a wave of calm wash over me.
The main room is elegant, with several couches and dressing tables scattered around. There are huge individual stalls on opposite sides of the room, each one equipped with a floor-to-ceiling mirror, pristine white marble sink and a counter lined with luxurious hand lotions and soaps.
I take a moment just to savour the quiet, the space - and the lack of unwanted attention.
It’s a welcome break from the chaos and heavy-handed schmoozing.
After taking a little bit of time to myself, I eventually decide that I should get back out there. I finish up and wash my hands, using them to splash a little bit of cool water onto my face to wake myself up.
I take one last glance at my reflection in the mirror, adjusting the strap of my dress and running a hand through my hair. With a deep breath, I turn on my heel and head for the door.
Just as I start to push it open, I freeze.
It’s Mark.
He’s leaning in the doorway, one hand tucked into the pocket of his blazer while the other holds a half-empty glass of whiskey. His face is flushed, his eyes glassy, and there's a small, lopsided grin on his lips.
To top it all off, there’s absolutely no way that I can get out of here without him finding me.
Brilliant.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask as I step over the threshold, trying to keep my tone neutral, though there's no hiding the discomfort creeping up my spine.
Mark gives a slow, exaggerated blink before he pushes himself away from the wall and takes a few steps closer.
"I was waiting for you," he says, his words slurring as he rakes his gaze over me slowly.
There’s a gleam in his eye that has my stomach twisting in uncomfortable knots.
"You look stunning tonight, Sinclair. Really… something else."
I force myself to keep my expression neutral, but something in the air feels off.
“Uh, thanks,” I reply. My voice is a little shaky, but I try to stand firm. “I think we should really get back, though -”
“Come on,” he interrupts, his tone lowering.
He’s practically swaying now, and I take a small, subtle step backwards, instinctively putting more distance between us.
"You don’t have to go back yet. We could… talk. Get to know each other a little better."
His eyes scan my face, lingering a little too long on my lips.
"I’m sure we could have a lot of fun…"
I try to suppress my cringe, but it’s near impossible.
“Mark,” I start, keeping my voice steady despite the alarm ringing in my chest. “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Why don’t we just… go back to the party?”
He steps forward again, and my heart starts to beat faster.
Shit.
He’s got me pinned.
“What’s the rush?” he asks. “You know, I’m really starting to think you and I -”
Before he can finish his sentence, the sound of footsteps echo in the hallway. I turn my head instinctively towards the interruption, my heart skipping a beat -
Because it’s him.
Of course it’s him.
Matteo appears in the hallway, striding towards us like he owns the place. His sharp, dark eyes flicker between Mark and I before narrowing.
“What’s going on here?”
His voice slices through the tense silence like a blade, his words carrying an immediate weight as his presence fills the space, making him impossible to ignore.
Mark’s jaw clenches so hard, I’m surprised he doesn’t crack his teeth.
He glares at Matteo, his eyes cold and calculating.
“None of your business, Rossi,” he spits.
The venom in his tone is unmistakable, but Matteo doesn’t so much as flinch. In fact, he steps even closer, minimising the distance between them.
He’s unphased, his expression a mask of cool indifference as he stands tall, looming over Mark in a way that feels more like a challenge than an exchange of words.
“I’d say it’s definitely my business if you’re bothering one of my favourite journalists,” he retorts.
His words are smooth and deliberate, his strong, dominant gaze never leaving Mark’s, and the air around us thickens with unspoken animosity.
Mark’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t retreat.
“I mean it, Rossi. Stay out of this,” he warns, his tone becoming more menacing. “It’s not your concern.”
“Back off, Chapman,” Matteo says.
His voice is firm, carrying an edge that makes it clear he’s not playing around.
“I don’t care what you think this is, but I’m not going to let you intimidate her.”