Page 20 of Twisted Shot
He holds up both hands, mock-innocent. “Of course. All yours.”
She cocks her head. “And Richard? I know exactly who brought me into that room.”
His eyes are cold, boring in to her.
“And I also know who fucked Ashley in a hotel room booked under the company card.”
That one lands. He stiffens, jaw tight.
“I look forward to collaborating, Mila,” he says, turning to leave.
The door clicks behind him.
She stays frozen, heart thumping, hands clenched.
Then she exhales, leaning back in her tilted chair, and opens a new tab.
He wants her in the room?
Fine.
She’ll own the whole goddamn building.
CHAPTER 7
MILA
Ahalf-finished glass of Cabernet teeters dangerously close to Mila’s laptop, leaving ghostly rings on the legal pad beside it where she’s been scribbling brand words for the last hour. Reality TV glows muted in the background, but she hasn’t looked up in ages.
Wednesday sprawls across the arm of the couch, tail flicking with thinly veiled annoyance. Every so often, she emits a low, disgruntled “mrrow,” as if to say, “Really, human? Another hour staring at screens?”
Mila’s focus is locked on the slide deck in front of her.
“One pitch to rule them all,” she mutters, dragging a shot of Jesse into a mock ad. He’s mid-celebration after a goal with his helmet off, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Pure rookie gold.
She tweaks the tagline:Next Gen Starts Now.
This could be huge. The Whalers might be a farm team, but if they played their cards right, it could mean national exposure—sports PR, media coordination, team branding. Her name on something that big? She’d finally stop being in Richard’s shadow and start being someone who sets the tone.
She takes a sip of wine. It’s rich, smoky, and goes down a little toosmooth for a Tuesday.
Wednesday blinks at her, unimpressed, and swishes her tail once in silent judgment.
Reality nags at her. Working this account means working with Richard. Hotel lobbies. Red-eye flights. Client dinners where he flashes that thousand-dollar smile and pretends they didn’t almost murder each other.
She presses her knuckles to her temple.
A pitch deck will not fix that. But a good pitch deck might make him irrelevant.
Her eyes flick to her phone, where she’s been texting with Naomi.
Naomi
Crush him. I want Richard crying in Helvetica by the end of this.
Mila grins, then taps Natalie’s new Connecticut number. If she’s going to pitch to the Whalers’ owner, she needs insight, and Jake is practically a cheat code.
It rings twice before Natalie answers with a suspiciously chipper, “S’up, executive lady?”
