Page 19 of Twisted Shot
“Mila,” he says, voice snapping across the bullpen. “Naomi. Could we have the room?”
Naomi’s expression ices over. She flicks a glance at Mila that carries equal parts warning and sympathy, then ghosts.
Richard steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Navy suit, perfectly gelled hair, Rolex peeking out from under his cufflinks.
Mila leans back, attempting to look casual in her lopsided chair, legs crossed, head tilted.
“You’ve been hiding,” he says.
“My office is made of glass, Richard. If I were hiding, I’d try harder.”
He stares at her for a beat, jaw tight. “Why haven’t you called me back?”
She blinks slowly. “Because I already dumped you.”
“I told you it was a mistake,” he says, stepping closer. “Ashley means nothing to me. I was?—”
Mila waves a hand like she’s heard it all before—and she has. “Don’t embarrass yourself. It sounds like you already did that.”
A muscle twitches in his cheek.
“We never defined the specifics of our relationship,” he says, his tone tilting toward condescension. “I understand you may be hurt, but your reaction is…disproportionate.”
Mila’s mouth falls open. The audacity is staggering. This from the man who had pursued her with relentless charm, who made a point of keeping her at his place because he couldn’t be bothered to cross the city, who framed dating him as the smart, responsible, adult thing to do.
Her mind flashes to Theo, to his righteous indignation when he found out what Richard had done. How he told her she deserved better.
“Get out of my office,” she says, each word ground out through clenched teeth. “We may have to work together, but I no longer have to listen to your bullshit.”
He straightens, brushing an invisible speck from his lapel like she’s the one being absurd. “Richard doesn’t beg. I’ll be here when you change your mind.”
As he reaches for the door handle, he stops. “Eventful weekend, I hear. Sounds like you got over your cold.”
Her spine stiffens.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, sweetheart. I know you used company resources to clean up that mess in Hartford. Your friend’s brother, what’s his name—Jason?” He clicks his tongue. “Very off-brand for a rising star.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re fishing.”
“I’m not. The team owner called this morning. Wanted to thank us. Said the cleanup was impressive. They’re asking for a meeting.”
Mila’s pulse skips. “With me, or with us?”
“I took the call and set up the meeting.” He smirks. “We’re pitching full-service—PR, marketing, brand strategy. It’s a major contract. A real career maker.”
“You’re not seriously using my connections to land yourself a client,” she says, her voice like ice.
“I’m using our firm’s success to grow our reach,” he replies smoothly. “And I want you running point with me. You’ve already got the connection. Might as well leverage it.”
She stares at him, every instinct screamingdon’t do this. But reality sinks in. This is big. Too big. Her name on a contract like that? Game-changing. It would put her in line for a promotion. Put her on equal footing with Richard.
Her jaw flexes. “You want me in the room? Say please.”
He gives her a tight smile. “Don’t push it.”
“Oh, I’m just getting started,” she mutters. “I’ll do it. But not for you. For the exposure. For the opportunity. You don’t get credit for my work.”
