Page 2 of Twisted Shot
She must admit. Richard’s presentation is good.
Or itwasgood.
Her lips twitch into a slow, dangerous smile.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t hurl the laptop into the bathroom. Doesn’t even scroll back to Ashley’s selfie and zoom in to judge her fake tan and monster lash extensions.
Nope.
She gets strategic, tapping a few keys to flip through the deck.
She leaves the first two slides alone. Can’t spook them too early.
She adds a few juicy typos to slide three. “Pubic” relations instead of “public.” “Stratigic” instead of “strategic.”
On slide four she inverts the revenue graphs, painting Richard’s team as a sinking ship to rival theTitanic.
She deletes slide five completely. Say goodbye to his Q3-4 growth strategy.
Yes, it’s immature. It’s petty. It’s the most satisfying thing Mila has done in months.
She saves the new, sabotaged version under the same file name, then emails it back to him, like the sweet little helper he thinks she is.
Mila closes the laptop, gently placing it on the glass coffee table, and rises to her feet. She hears the water shut off seconds before Richard appears in his towel-wrapped, smug glory.
“Hey, babe,” he says, rubbing at his sandy-brown hair. “You staying over?”
Mila fakes a grimace and reaches for her throat. “Actually, I’m not feeling great. Think I might be coming down with something.”
His face twitches. “Oh. Yeah, yeah, no worries. You should go home and rest.”
She grabs her bag and slips it over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t want you getting sick before your big presentation.”
He chuckles, completely missing her sarcasm. “Exactly. Richard’s got a big day tomorrow.”
Mila cringes inwardly. She really won’t miss his third-person flexing. Richard talks like he’s his own hype man. “Richard doesn’t do second place,” or “That’s how Richard wins.”
He thinks it’s charming. It’s not. It’s the verbal equivalent of finger guns.
She breezes past him, the faint smell of his expensive body wash making her stomach churn.
He leans in and kisses her forehead—chaste, distracted—and then she’s gone.
No fireworks. No breaking dishes.
Just Mila, strolling calmly out of his designer loft with her head held high, her dignity intact, and the knowledge that tomorrow morning, when Richard opens that deck in front of Jaryd Hollis, his very expensive reputation will spontaneously combust.
Maybe dating a coworker reallyislike skydiving.
Mila’s chute didn’t open—but Richard’s got cut.
The second the heavy glass door of Richard’s building swings shut behind her, Mila sucks in a breath so deep it scrapes the bottom of her lungs. The night air in the city hangs thick and humid, filled with the buzz of traffic, streetlights, and a hundred conversations she’s not part of.
For the first time in weeks, Mila doesn’t feel on edge.
She feels...tired.
Her heels click against the concrete as she crosses the street to the parking garage, unlocking her car and tossing her bag into the passenger seat with a little more force than necessary.
