Chapter 13
I push through the glass doors, knowing it’s the last time I’ll do it. Three years in this place, and somehow it feels heavier today, like the building knows I’m leaving and wants one final chance to cling to me.
But I’m done clinging back.
If I’m walking out for good, I need all the confidence I can muster.
So I dress for war: skirt a little shorter than usual, blouse loosened at the top, hair actually down instead of scraped into that headache-inducing bun.
And my heels—the only pair I ever let myself splurge on—hit the marble like warning shots.
Goodbye, kingdom.
Goodbye, king.
It’s petty, but it feels good.
Lindsay from marketing is the first unfortunate soul I see in the kitchenette. The raging bitch who turned my life into company gossip, making up rumors that I ran off with some imaginary billionaire.
I swallow the urge to choke on my own eye-roll and force a polite smile.
“Good morning, Lindsay. Want coffee?”
Her gaze sweeps me. “You’re… dressed differently.”
I want to throw the kettle at her. Instead, I smile wider. “Could be because it’s my last day… or because I have to meet that oil tycoon everyone’s so obsessed with.”
Her jaw drops. Opens. Closes. Malfunctioning robot. “I—uh… I didn’t mean—today is really your last day?”
The kettle beeps. I turn my back to roll my eyes at the wall.
“Yes,” I say, pouring the hot water. “I asked if you wanted coffee.”
She hesitates, tripping over her words like a toddler. “Um… since it’s your last day… yes, sure. I’d like to try the coffee Mr. Morelli refuses to drink unless you make it.”
If hatred were a sport, she’d be my Olympic rival.
“Fine.” I grind out the word and pour her a cup—black, with a single sugar cube.
I slide the mug toward her, and we sip. Coffee warms my soul, but she looks like she just tasted disappointment.
“This is… normal,” she says, brows furrowing. “It tastes like every other coffee here.”
“Sorry, Lindsay. My barista magic must’ve run off with the oil tycoon.”
She blanches, fake-laughs, then switches topics like her life depends on it. “So why does Mr. Morelli only take it from you? It’s just coffee.”
I shrug. “Maybe he enjoys making my life hell. Who knows?”
And I’m done.
“If you excuse me,” I add, picking up his cup, “I have to bring this to him.”
She practically bolts from the room. I down my own coffee, grab his, and head to his floor.
Veronica is just about to bring it herself, but the second she sees me, her entire body relaxes.
“Good morning, Veronica. I got it.”
“Morning, Mila. Thank God. Today’s already a mess.”
She continues typing, and I stare at the door behind her.
His office.
I knock once, open the door, and step inside. He’s standing behind his desk instead of sitting… restless today. His eyes drag down my outfit, and something in his jaw cracks.
I ignore the electric current that moves from my head to my toes at the hunger in his eyes.
I set the mug on his desk. “Your coffee.”
I move to the chair in front of his desk, sit, cross my legs, and pull my skirt down so it doesn’t show more skin than necessary.
“About last night—” He begins.
“About today,” I cut in, lifting my notebook and flipping it open. “I completely taught Veronica the logging program. She picked it up faster than I expected.”
His brow twitches.
“About. Last. Night.” Each word squeezed through his teeth.
I pretend not to hear him, flipping a page.
“These documents—” I hold them up, hands perfectly calm even though my heart hammers against my ribs, “—have all the numbers she’ll need if the program ever crashes. IT leads, the external tech contractor, and a few troubleshooting steps for minor errors—”
His fist slams the desk hard enough to make the mug jump.
“Who was the man last night? Why were you bringing him into your apartment?”
I keep my eyes on the papers, even though the lines blur. Is it wrong that my pulse spikes in a way that isn’t fear? That something in me… likes the way his voice sounds when he’s losing it over me?
Probably.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I already introduced her to the marketing team. She knows the contacts for scheduling campaigns and—”
“Mila,” he growls, stepping around the desk. “Did you tell him you won’t be speaking to him anymore?”
The laugh that wants to escape me is sick and twisted.
“Veronica has my number if she needs anything,” I go on. “But she’s very proficient. She won’t need me much.”
“Mila.”
He says my name like it’s a warning. A threat.
Again, I try to turn the conversation to something professional.
“MILA!” He snaps. Then he’s right in front of me, hands on the arms of my chair, leaning down, trapping me without touching me.
His eyes look feral. Dark. Unraveled.
“Who. Was. He?”
“None of your business,” I say. “And today is my last day.”
I think he stops breathing.
“Mila, I’ll double your salary.”
“No.”
“I’ll triple it.”
“No.”
“I’ll—hell—name your number.”
His voice cracks on the last word. Cracks. Enzo Morelli doesn’t crack.
“No,” I whisper. “No. Nope.”
I rise, gathering the papers, but he blocks me with his body.
“Ask me the same questions you asked last night,” he orders.
“No.”
“Mila—”
For the first time in his goddamn life…
“…please.”
The word hits me in the chest.
“Do you want me?” I ask.
“Yes.” No more shame.
“Do you love me?”
“Deadly.”
For a moment, something warm flickers under my ribs—reflex, muscle memory. But it dies. He killed it.
“Ask me too.”
His eyes search mine, terrified in a way that makes me want to both laugh and scream.
“…Do you want me?” he whispers.
“Not anymore.”
He groans, like the words physically strike him.
“And do you love me?”
I don’t even look away.
“Definitely not anymore. Thank you for ridding me of my love for you, Mr. Morelli.”
I turn, walk out, and stop by Veronica’s desk.
“Good luck,” I murmur to her. “You can contact me anytime.”
Then I leave—and don’t look back.