Page 59 of Twisted Shot
“It looked like happiness,” Mila replies, her smile sharp and not at all sweet. “But I understand if that’s hard for you to recognize.”
Richard opens his mouth, but before he can lob another condescending gem, a front desk attendant steps out from behind the counter, clutching a small box in his hands.
“Miss Anderson?” he asks, eyes flicking between Mila and Naomi.
Mila pauses. “Yes?”
He walks over, holding out a sleek, black gift box wrapped in matte ribbon. No tag. No sender. Just her name on a sticker, printed in clean, simple font.
“This was left for you earlier,” he says with a polite smile.
Naomi perks up immediately. “Ooh. Secret admirer vibes. Tell me it’s lingerie. Or like...stupidly expensive jam from Meghan Markle.”
Richard steps forward, jaw set. “That’s inappropriate.”
Mila lifts a brow. “The jam?”
He doesn’t blink. “A personal gift from someone associated with the team? That crosses a line, Mila.”
She slides the box under her arm calmly. “It doesn’t say it’s from the team. It could be from my friend, Natalie.”
Richard’s nostrils flare. “Doesn’t matter. Perception does. You’re consulting for them. You wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about how you got the contract.”
The implication lands like a slap. Mila's entire body goes taut, every muscle locking up as the words sink in.
“I beg your what?” Naomi cuts in. The front desk clerk, who'd been hovering nearby, retreats behind his little island of laminated brochures. He makes a show of shuffling papers, likely regretting everapproaching them.
Richard shifts, but he doesn’t backpedal. “I’m saying it’s not professional. It opens you up to questions.”
“Questions like whether or not a woman earned her place,” Naomi says, stepping closer. “You’re unbelievable.”
Mila doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to.
“I’m not sure if I like what you’re implying, Richard,” she says, her tone glacial. “Actually—scratch that. I am sure. And it’s disgusting.”
He crosses his arms. “It’s a risk.”
“No,” Mila snaps, her composure cracking just enough to let her fury show. “It’s none of your business. And if the only way you can justify your presence here is by policing mine, maybe you’re the one people should be asking questions about.”
Naomi whistles softly under her breath. “Get him.”
Richard opens his mouth, no doubt to mansplain, but Naomi cuts him off without even looking at him.
“It’s a box, Richard,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You gonna file an HR report? Write a stern memo? Try not to throw your back out from all that overreaching.”
Mila doesn’t wait for another word. She turns toward the elevators, box under her arm.
“Are you going to open it?” Naomi asks, practically bouncing on her heels as they enter the elevator together. “I can’t help but notice the packaging is black.”
Mila considers, then shakes her head. “No. Feels...private.”
As the doors slide closed, Mila turns to her friend. “Thanks for being here tonight. And for keeping me from throat-punching Richard.”
Naomi leans against the wall. “Anytime. And hey, if that box is from the masked man, or Theo, or whoever he is, I want details.”
Alone in her hotel room, Mila sets the box on her bed carefully, eyeing it like it might bite.
It’s heavier than she expected. Tied with a black ribbon, simple and elegant.
