Chapter 25
MILA
The ballroom bustles with activity as it’s transformed into a cathedral of ice and light.
Volunteers, including Natalie, move swiftly between round tables dressed in navy and silver linens, adjusting place cards and double-checking place settings.
In the far corner, four delivery people heave a glittering ice sculpture of a whale onto a display pedestal, with the Whalers’ logo gleaming at its base.
Sunlight pours through the soaring glass windows, catching on the crystal and polished silver, while outside the Hartford skyline stretches clear and sharp in the afternoon haze—the gold Capitol dome flashing against pale blue sky, the neat grid of office towers, and the slow sweep of the Connecticut River cutting through it all.
Near the center of the ballroom, Mila stands with a tablet in one hand and lukewarm coffee in the other. Beside her, Naomi paces like a general reviewing battle strategy, eyes fixed on her tablet.
Mila spots Natalie weaving through the crowd and waves her over.
She arrives with a bright grin. “This is the fanciest party I’ve ever been invited to. Also, thank you for the opportunity to put Jake in a tux. He tried it on last night and let’s just say it was promptly removed.”
Mila smirks. “All part of the service.”
She hooks an arm through Natalie’s and draws her in. “Come help us sanity-check the seating chart. In case there are any simmering off-ice feuds we don’t know about. I don’t need two left wingers throwing hands over a canapé.”
Natalie looks wicked. “Please tell me you’re not putting Tall next to anyone easily spooked.”
“Already handled,” Mila says. “He’s at a table with Carter.”
Naomi rolls her eyes, bringing up the seating chart on her tablet. “One jokester and one haunted tree. Balance.”
She taps her fingers and begins reading out seating arrangements. “Jesse’s at Table 5 with the mayor and that hedge fund guy and his wife. He specifically requested Jesse. Big fan, apparently.”
Mila nods, encouraging her to keep going.
“Jim Pearce is with a few hospital board members at Table 1,” Naomi continues, pointing. “Pavel and Tristan are at Table 4 with their coach and some others.”
Natalie laughs. “Perfection. Tristan will be too scared to make trouble with Coach Barbier there.”
Mila nods again, her eyes still skimming the seating chart, searching for the one name her heart wants to see.
Naomi pauses long enough to clock it. “And I put Theo, Jake, and Natalie at Table 6 with the donor group from New Haven.”
She turns to Natalie. “That’s a good balance, right? You and Jake are charming, and Theo can…smolder quietly.”
“At your service,” Natalie says.
Mila’s eyes snag on Theo’s name, and her breath hitches. There it is—proof he’s supposed to be here. She’s had his RSVP for days, but she won’t let herself believe it until she sees him with her own eyes. Until she feels that quiet shift in the air that always happens when he’s near.
Because the truth is, she hasn’t heard from Theo in almost a month—not since that tense, aching moment at the rink, when he looked at her like he was desperate to stay but had already convinced himself he couldn’t.
No calls. No texts. Not a whisper from the Man in Black.
And yes, she tried. A few gentle messages, carefully worded and sent with more hope than she’d admit, each one met with silence that scraped her insides raw.
Proof of what she already knew. Theo’s pulling away, not to punish her, but to protect her.
Because he thinks he’s broken. Thinks she deserves someone softer, easier, less damaged.
And maybe that’s what cuts deepest—knowing he can’t see how deeply she wants him anyway, exactly as he is.
But tonight, he’ll be here. And tonight, Mila isn’t hiding how she feels. Not anymore. She’s going to show him—with every word, every look, every inch of herself—that he’s not only wanted, but worthy.
Because yes, the gala is about raising money for the pediatric long-term care wing of Connecticut Children’s Hospital. But for Mila, it’s about more than that.
It’s about Theo, too. And finally, finally, choosing him out loud.
Mila lifts her eyes from the seating chart. Her mind skips forward ten minutes, then twenty, rehearsing AV cues, donor arrivals, lighting transitions. Everything needs to run flawlessly. No last-minute chaos. No surprises.
Months of planning. Late nights. Favors called in from every corner of her life, all culminating in one elegant, glittering night meant to help children who need far more than good intentions.
And it’s working.
Ticket sales have blown past projections. Sponsors doubled their donations. The hospital CEO called this morning to say the board was thrilled.
Mila feels…proud. Not anxious. Not scrambling. Ready.
Until the door swings open behind her and Richard’s voice cuts through the room like a knife. “Can someone explain to me why we have an ice sculpture?”
Naomi sighs without turning. “God. It speaks.”
Mila takes a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee, as if she can swallow down every irritated thought with it, breathing in once, twice, before finally turning to face him, jaw tight.
“It was donated. We only covered the delivery fee, which was less than catering spent on still water.”
He strides toward them in a tailored coat and his trademark scowl. He looks around the room as if he’s stepped into someone else’s wedding and already disapproves of the flowers.
“This looks like a Vanity Fair shoot,” he snaps. “Since when do we run charity events like fashion week?”
Mila levels her tone. “It’s a hospital gala, Richard. The Whalers are hosting. It needs to reflect the caliber of the organization.”
“The caliber of the organization?” He barks a hollow laugh. “You mean the B-league hockey team you’ve apparently made your entire personality?”
Natalie stifles a sound of outrage beside her, but Mila doesn’t flinch. She won’t give him the satisfaction.
Richard steps closer now, his face a mask of barely disguised disgust. “This entire event looks like a party for your friends. Players at every table? Fancy lighting, designer vendors, gourmet catering? You’re not planning a fundraiser—you’re throwing yourself a ball.”
Mila lifts her chin. “Everything has been approved by the board and the client. The team is heavily involved. This is their event. We’re here to make it shine.”
But he isn’t listening. Not really.
“You know what Richard thinks?” he sneers, stepping in a little too close.
“Richard thinks you’ve been using firm resources to settle personal scores and throw parties for your buddies.
Jesse Mitchell’s little social media crisis earlier this year?
I know you used firm resources to clean that up.
You really think Jaryd won’t care when I lay all this out for him? ”
His words slam into her like a physical blow.
Not because they’re true. But because they could be twisted into something that sounds true.
Jaryd Hollis is sharp as glass, and ruthless when it counts. He’s built a reputation on results, not excuses. No bullshit, no drama. And if Richard goes to him with even a thread of impropriety, Mila knows exactly how fast the fallout could come, regardless of her intentions.
She’s done nothing wrong. Everything she’s done has been for the good of the client.
But that doesn’t mean she trusts Richard not to spin it.
Her pulse ticks at her temple like a countdown clock, but she forces a slow inhale through her nose. She cannot lose it here. Not with him. She needs to shut this down.
“Richard,” she says, amazed her voice comes out smooth instead of strangled, “everything you see here is within the budget approved by both the client and the hospital board. Every dollar is accounted for.”
She takes one step closer, holding his gaze without blinking.
“I don’t have time to indulge your grudge. If you have nothing useful to add, please excuse yourself. We have a gala to run.”
Richard’s eyes narrow, flicking across the three of them, but when they land on Mila, they don’t move. What’s behind them isn’t just disdain—it’s uglier. He wants her to fail. Wants it too much.
He turns on his heel, but not without throwing one last dagger over his shoulder. “I’m going to Jaryd. And when I do, I hope you’ve got a damn good explanation for why this party looks like the Met Gala.”
The door slams behind him.
Naomi exhales. “I hate him more than cilantro. And you know how I feel about cilantro.”
Mila doesn’t laugh. Can’t.
Natalie looks at her with wide eyes.
“You know I’ve always despised him,” she breathes, “but could you really get into trouble for helping Jesse? God, Mila, you should have told us.”
Mila reaches over and squeezes her friend’s hand. When she speaks, her voice is measured and even.
“I won’t. I did nothing wrong. Let him go to Jaryd.”
Naomi studies her for a beat, then nods with exaggerated gravity. “Good. Because if Richard ruins tonight, I swear I’ll throw him into the chocolate fountain.”
“Wait—is there a chocolate fountain?” Natalie perks up, glancing around hopefully. “I’ve never actually seen one in real life.”
Mila laughs. “No, babe. I vetoed the chocolate fountain. Can you imagine the disaster if we put Jesse in the same room as melted chocolate? We’d have to hose him down before the silent auction even started.”
“Touché,” Natalie says, smirking. “Alright, unless you’ve got something else for me, I’ve officially completed every task on your very detailed, color-coded list. I’m heading home to do my hair and feed the beasts. And I don’t just mean Gordie Howl—Jesse and JP are coming over to get ready too.”
Mila raises a brow. “Perfect. Can you make sure they’re actually getting ready and not pre-gaming with tequila and conspiracy theories about NHL officiating?”
Natalie salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And remind Jesse he’s emceeing tonight. I still can’t believe my little J-man is all grown up and the most in-demand star of the Hartford Whalers.”
“You said it yourself,” Natalie says, grinning. “He’s the most popular guy on the team right now. Everyone from teenage girls to the elderly donor crowd loves Jesse.”
Mila sighs, but a smile pulls at her lips. “Yeah. That’s the problem. He knows it.”
“I’ll make sure he’s showered, dressed, and only moderately chaotic before you see him again,” Natalie promises, already backing toward the exit.
“Bless you,” Mila calls after her.
The door swings closed behind Natalie, and Mila glances down at her clipboard again. One more name. One more table. One more breath.
Tonight is going to be a lot.