Chapter 3
“Who the hell is sitting in Mila’s chair, Sandy?” I say, cutting off the marketing specialist mid-sentence as I push the office door open.
For the third time since she started trailing behind me, she nearly face-plants in those ridiculous heels she’s wearing.
Honestly, I’m considering banning them from the entire building.
My company has never had a single workplace injury, and I’m not planning on letting a pair of idiotic stilettos ruin that statistic.
But even those death-trap heels aren’t enough to distract me from the jolt of violence that punches through my bloodstream the second I see another woman in Mila’s chair.
I swallow it down—barely. Unlike my brothers, I can pretend to be civilized when I need to… but nothing I’m feeling is civil.
“She’s one of the candidates Mila picked,” Sandy mutters, plopping into a chair with a sigh. “She’s training her for your approval.”
Right.
Mila is resigning.
I keep forgetting, then remembering—and every time, it pisses me off all the same.
It’s a shame. No one ever adapts to my lifestyle the way she does. She’s the best secretary I’ve ever had. Losing her is a damn shame.
This stranger is touching her things—her notebooks, her color-coordinated pens. Mila hates people touching her stuff. She’s a germ freak. And this woman… this woman who wants to take her place… is pawing at all of it.
I step into Mila’s office. The stranger beams up at me like she’s expecting a warm welcome.
I slam my palm flat on the desk. The pen jumps out of her fingers, and the notebooks skid.
“Don’t. Touch. Mila’s. Things.”
The woman recoils, her face draining paper white. “I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t m-mean—”
Her stuttering grates on my nerves like sandpaper. This is who Mila thinks can replace her?
“Get away from her desk,” I say.
She jolts up so fast her chair rolls back and nearly hits the wall.
I’m about to demand where Mila is when the bathroom door swings open. Mila walks out wearing the exact expression I recognize from three years of memorizing her—tight pinch between her brows, faint downturn of her mouth.
Her period started.
When you spend every waking hour with someone, you learn their rhythms like your own.
I know when she’s sick before she does. I know which coworkers she can’t stand, which meals she eats when she’s stressed, what annoys her, what comforts her.
And she knows me the same way—my migraine tells, my mood triggers, the little things that set me off.
It’s why we work so goddamn well together.
Whatever exists between us is professional.
Always has been. Even when my mind strays—impure, fleeting thoughts that end with nothing more than my hand and a locked door—it means nothing.
Men think about women all the time; it’s biology, not sentiment.
The reason Mila is fixed in my orbit isn’t desire.
It’s constancy. She’s been there. Day after day.
Year after year. That’s it. No more. No less.
Which is why the idea of anyone else standing in her spot feels wrong. And this candidate? She isn’t even a fraction of Mila.
“What’s going on?” Mila asks, stepping forward and placing a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder.
The gesture irritates me more than it should.
“I don’t like this one,” I say.
Her mouth parts in disbelief, and I watch her silently count to ten—like she always does when she’s trying to stay professional.
“Sir, all the candidates were handpicked by me. They’re the best available, and I will train them thoroughly. May I ask what about Amy you disliked?”
Amy practically hides behind her like a child clinging to their mother.
“She sat at your desk before it was hers. She messed with your pens. You hate that.” I cross my arms.
Mila’s hazel eyes widen for a split second before she smooths her expression back into neutrality. “Sir, I’m sure she didn’t—”
Then Amy presses closer to her. Actually fucking burrows into her side.
That’s it.
“Mila,” I say quietly, dangerously, “I want her out.”
Mila shuts her eyes for five slow seconds. I watch her inhale, exhale, then open them again.
“Understood,” she sighs.
Mila returns with another woman an hour later. She doesn’t even make it two steps in before her eyes sweep across my office, assessing it like she’s mentally redecorating.
My annoyance spikes.
Mila clears her throat softly. “Sir, this is Bethany. She has eight years of—”
“Mr. Morelli,” Bethany interrupts, extending her hand with a dramatic flutter of lashes. “It’s such an honor. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I stare at the offered hand without moving. Mila’s breath catches—she knows I don’t shake hands.
At all.
Touch is a big thing for me, and it isn’t something I take lightly.
Which is why, at twenty-nine, I’ve only slept with three women.
All had contracts and expiration dates—and that was eight years ago.
While the sex was good, it wasn’t anything outstanding enough to justify the inconvenience of contracts, secrecy, and privacy.
None of those women were special enough to return to. If I feel the need, I use my hand.
Bethany awkwardly lowers her arm.
“So,” she says, pretending nothing happened, “Mila said you prefer efficiency. I’m very good with multitasking, and I learn quickly. I’ve been an executive assistant for demanding—”
“You’re wearing too much perfume,” I cut in. “It’s giving me a headache.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. I—I can tone it down tomorrow.”
“There won’t be a tomorrow,” I hiss under my breath.
“Sir, I haven’t even shown you my—”
“I can smell you from the hallway,” I reply. “That alone disqualifies you.”
Bethany looks at Mila like she expects her to defend her.
Mila lifts her chin instead. “I apologize, Mr. Morelli. I told her explicitly not to use heavy perfume. It seems she missed that part of my email. Bethany, this position requires matching very specific preferences. Thank you for coming, but it appears there isn’t compatibility.”
Bethany leaves with her heels clicking aggressively, glaring at everything in her way.
The moment she disappears, I look at Mila. “What the hell was that?”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sir, I’m sorry. I told her minimal perfume was part of the dress code, but she must have missed it. Maybe we should have given her more of a chance—”
“She interrupted you. That’s bad etiquette.”
Mila nods, apologizes again, and leaves to fetch another candidate. One I already know I won’t like—because she isn’t Mila.
Why the fuck does Mila have to leave? “Travel,” my ass. I offered more PTO, but she doesn’t even use what’s in her contract.
Mila brings the next one in with a tight smile that tells me she’s losing hope.
“Rachel” enters with a stack of documents so tall she can barely see over them. She heads straight toward Mila’s desk like she owns the room.
“Wait,” Mila says gently, but Rachel keeps going.
Mila grimaces. One of the candidates before her got fired just for that—treating Mila’s desk like their own.
Rachel sets her bag directly on the desk.
My eye twitches.
“I’ve already prepared a workflow system to replace your current one. No offense, but it’s outdated,” Rachel rambles.
Outdated.
Mila’s system? The one keeping my entire company from burning to the ground?
Oh, fuck that.
Mila tries diplomacy. “Rachel, this system has been tailored around Mr. Morelli’s working style. It’s—”
Rachel snorts. “With all due respect, you’ve been here too long. You’re probably attached to your habits.” She waves a hand. “It happens when people stay in the same position for years. But Mr. Morelli needs something new—more efficient and professional.”
Mila’s shoulders go rigid. In three years, I’ve never allowed anyone to insult her in this company. I won’t start now.
“Mila,” I say quietly. “Step out for a moment.”
“Sir—”
“Out.”
The door closes behind her.
I turn to the candidate.
“Give me one reason,” I warn, stepping forward slowly, “why I shouldn’t send you screaming and crying out of this building in under ten seconds.”
“Sir, I—I thought improvement—”
“You insulted my Mila.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
For the past eleven years, since I’ve been managing my late father’s company, I haven’t allowed myself to use violence within its walls. We are powerful. Resourceful. Dangerous. We can kill without consequences—we have the connections and money to bury it.
It takes everything in me not to end this woman with a bullet.
“You belittled the system she built. You dismissed her role. And you put your dirty bag on her desk.”
“I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t realize—”
“You’re not the right fit,” I bark. “Leave.”
This is the most merciful I’ve been in a long fucking while.
She practically runs out, stumbling as she goes.
Mila re-enters a moment later. “How bad was it?” she asks softly.
“She was disrespectful.”
“And?”
“And she’s gone.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Morelli. I’ll work on picking better candidates.”
“If they’re incompetent, they don’t get near your desk.”
No one gets near your desk.
Your desk.
Not the desk.
Her desk.
Her space.
Her place in my world.
“Sir… you do realize I’m leaving, right? That won’t be my desk much longer.”
“I’m aware,” I lie.
But every cell in my body screams the opposite.
Don’t leave—or I’ll lose my mind.
And I don’t know why.