Chapter 5
This new assistant-in-training is doing everything right, and somehow that makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
She shows up early. Dresses exactly by the book. Doesn’t touch anything that isn’t hers. Doesn’t hover or flirt or giggle.
She’s… perfect.
And I fucking hate her for it.
Because perfection means she’s the closest anyone has come to replacing Mila.
My Mila—
The woman who could read my entire day off the tension in my jaw.
Who handed me coffee before I even asked.
Who knew what I needed without hearing my voice.
Three years of that unspoken fluency, and now I’m supposed to train myself to function with someone else?
Yesterday, Mila was in pain. She tried to hide it like she always does, but I know her tells better than I know my own. So I cut the day short.
I walk into my office, and instead of Mila’s soft knock and her familiar, “Good morning, Sir,” I get this.
“Good morning, Mr. Morelli.”
Veronica. The trainee.
She sets the mug on my desk, sliding a coaster beneath it. Then she places my printed schedule beside it, perfectly aligned.
“Your coffee, sir.”
Her voice doesn’t grate. Her smile isn’t obnoxious. Her posture is correct.
Everything is correct.
And completely fucking wrong.
My eyes drop to the printed schedule. It’s soulless. Where are Mila’s tiny notes? Her scribbles in the margins about which client I hate and which one I tolerate? It looks like every other assistant’s work, and I loathe it instantly.
I take a sip of the coffee.
My jaw tightens. “Who made this?”
“I did, sir. If the taste is off, I can remake it. I followed everything Ms. Wilson wrote down—”
“No,” I mutter. “No, you didn’t.”
I set the cup down hard. It tips, splashing across the oak desk and dripping onto the floor. Veronica flinches—barely—but she doesn’t step back.
Of course she doesn’t. She’s competent. Fucking perfect.
“This isn’t the coffee I drink,” I growl.
“I’ll stay closer to Ms. Wilson during prep. Maybe I missed—”
“What’s wrong,” I cut her off, “is that Mila didn’t make it.”
I drag a hand down my face. Anger thrums through me—irrational, but impossible to ignore.
“Tell her,” I order, “that I want her to make it. Not you.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmurs. “I’ll inform Ms. Wilson.”
She turns to leave.
I sit there, glaring at the mess I’ve made of my desk, feeling something I don’t have a name for claw up my throat.
Because Mila is leaving.
I’m realizing something I should’ve confronted a long damn time ago—
I don’t want her replaced. I don’t want her gone. I don’t want anyone else standing where she stands, touching what she touches, stepping into the space she made hers. Since when have I become this fucking possessive over my assistant?
It doesn’t make sense.
Two minutes pass.
Then three.
Then five.
By the sixth minute, irritation crawls beneath my skin. I haven’t gone this long without seeing Mila in three years. She’s always the one who walks through my door first thing in the morning.
A knock sounds.
Fucking finally.
“Come in.”
The door opens—and my entire mood detonates further.
Not Mila.
Veronica. Again.
She holds a fresh mug with both hands like she’s approaching a volatile animal—which, to be fair, she is.
She sets the mug in front of me.
“Ms. Wilson made it. I shadowed her, but it appears I still missed something. I’m sorry if I disappointed you.”
Disappointment is too soft a word for what slams through me.
Mila was supposed to walk in with that cup. Mila. Not. Motherfucking. Veronica.
Before I can speak, Veronica clears her throat softly.
“Sir, Mr. Kline is here. He requested a one-on-one meeting. Should I let him in?”
If it were Mila, she wouldn’t need to ask. She’d know Kline is one of our biggest clients. She’d see I’m not tense, that I haven’t cracked my jaw once—which means I’m in a tolerable mood.
She’d let him in without bothering me.
But Veronica isn’t Mila.
No one is.
“Yes,” I hiss. “Let him through.”
She nods and leaves, closing the door behind her. A moment later, it opens again.
“Enzo,” Bill Kline booms. “Always a pleasure, my friend.”
Words pass—numbers, projections, plans—but none of it sticks. I’m distracted. Antsy.
Every time the door clicks, my head snaps up, expecting—
Nothing.
It’s always Veronica. Files. Updates. Papers.
The unease turns violent. The more time passes without seeing Mila, the more something dark coils inside me.
When the meeting winds down, Bill leans back with a grin.
“Heard about Mila leaving,” he says casually.
He keeps going—oblivious to my rising urge to commit homicide. “Shame. Best assistant this place has seen. She was my favorite. Maybe I’ll swoop in after her resignation is over,” he adds. “Hire her myself. God knows I’d kill to have someone that good on my team—”
My hand fists his collar, dragging him halfway across my desk so fast his chair screeches against the floor.
His eyes go wide. “E–Enzo—”
“Never.” The word vibrates from my teeth.
“You hear me?” I snarl inches from his face. “Don’t. Ever. Say. That. Again.”
“Hey—okay—joking,” he stammers. “Damn, I knew you were possessive, but this is excessive.”
And that’s the problem.
I shouldn’t be possessive over my employees. Or ex-employees.
I’m unraveling—thread by thread—and every missing second of Mila’s presence makes it worse.
I release him abruptly. He stumbles back, straightening his tie with shaking fingers.
“Forget it,” I mutter, turning away.
“It’s already forgotten,” he says. “Sorry if I hit a soft spot.”
Soft spot?
He leaves. He won’t take it personally. He instigated it.
Seconds.
Minutes.
Hours.
Not one glimpse of her. Why isn’t she coming in? Why didn’t she check the schedule like she always does?
She never goes this long without checking in.
Did she take the day off? No. She made the coffee for Veronica to bring in. So she’s here—just ignoring me.
By 1:12 p.m., I’ve stopped pretending to work.
Three years of Mila orbiting me from the second she walks in until the second she leaves. And now—nothing.
Meanwhile, Veronica keeps appearing with her perfect posture, her perfect notes, her perfect everything-that-isn’t-Mila.
1:19 p.m.
Is she pulling away because of someone else? A boyfriend? She’s never dated anyone in three years. What if she found someone?
Someone who wants her to quit. Someone whose moods she’ll manage. Someone whose needs she’ll anticipate.
Oh.
Hell.
No.
Pressure builds in my chest. That thin, dangerous thread stretches… stretches—
—and snaps.
Fuck this.
I shove up from my desk so fast my chair slams into the wall. I march to Mila’s office and shove the door open.
Veronica sits at Mila’s desk.
She looks up, startled. “M–Mr. Morelli?”
“Where is she?” I bite out.
“Ms. Wilson? She said she’d give me space today to practice independently. I assumed she was with you.”
She wasn’t with me all day.
I storm out, blood roaring, searching every hallway, every room. I find her in the kitchenette—making coffee for herself.
I close the distance in three strides and grab her arms, flattening her against the wall.
She gasps.
“Why didn’t you bring me the coffee?” I growl. “Why didn’t you come to my office? Why didn’t you say good morning?”
“Sir…” She blinks rapidly. “I thought you’d want to adjust to the new assistant. I won’t be here much longer.”
“Did you leave to work for another man?” I snarl. “Someone like Bill?”
Her eyes flash with hurt.
She shoves my chest. “No. I would have told you.”
Our breath mingles. Nothing about what I’m feeling is professional.
I want to devour her.
“Is there a boyfriend?” I demand. “Someone you’re rearranging your life for?”
“Mr. Morelli, that’s inappropriate—”
“I don’t care. Answer me.”
“I apologize, sir,” she snaps. “But I’m not discussing my personal life with you. That’s unprofessional.”
That’s not a no.
The thought of another man makes my insides burn.
If I’d been paying attention, I might’ve noticed the tendrils of our family curse tightening around my throat.