Chapter 34
MILA
She’ll give him this: Conrad Tilbury is handsome.
Not in the rugged, quietly devastating way that Theo is. Conrad’s beauty is sharper, cleaner. A testament to expensive grooming.
He’s Theo’s brother, she reminds herself. Of course he’s good looking.
The resemblance stops at the surface.
He’s a few years older, several inches shorter, and lacks the solid, grounded strength that Theo carries. Conrad has the same hazel eyes—but where Theo’s are soft, like sunlight through amber, Conrad’s are colder. Harder. More like polished glass than warm autumn leaves.
She spots him by the champagne table, naturally. Expensively dressed, surrounded by people who clearly think he’s someone, laughing too loudly at his own jokes.
Mila smooths her dress, pastes on her most gracious smile, and walks straight toward him.
“Conrad Tilbury?” she says sweetly, extending a manicured hand.
He turns, surprised, then smiles like she’s handed him an award.
“The one and only,” he says. “And you are…?”
“Mila Anderson,” she says, tone still syrupy sweet. “Event organizer.”
He raises a brow. “Ah. The one behind the curtain. Lovely work. Very…polished.”
And you’re very punchable.
“Thank you,” she says instead, voice light. “It’s always a pleasure to meet someone with such a generous heart.”
His smirk twitches. “Excuse me?”
She tilts her head, all warmth and sparkle. “A little bird told me about your bids for the silent auction. Generous sums. Astonishing, really.”
He blinks once, then narrows his eyes slightly. “Ah. That.”
“I wanted to thank you,” she says, keeping her tone breezy. “And also ask when we might expect your payment to be processed. The hospital is…quite eager to celebrate a donor of your caliber.”
There’s a pause.
She lets it stretch.
“Oh,” she continues, eyes twinkling. “And of course, I’d love to bring you onstage. We can make a moment of it. Shine a spotlight on your incredible support. Really let everyone know about the generous spirit behind Porky Pig.”
Conrad’s smile flattens. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Are you sure?” she says, cocking her head. “You seem so proud of your bids.”
He exhales through his nose, shifting uncomfortably. “I think you’ve made your point.”
“No, I really don’t think I have,” she replies, dropping the warmth. “Let’s cut the shit, Conrad. You’re not a donor. You’re a grown man playing a petty prank at a charity event to humiliate your brother.”
He starts to speak, but she steps in closer.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she says, cutting off whatever bullshit he was about to espouse.
“You’re going to make one real, generous donation under your actual name.
Something worthy of your family’s last name.
And you’re going to withdraw the rest of your fake bids before you waste any more of my time or this hospital’s. ”
Conrad sips his drink slowly. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I take that charming nickname of yours, walk it onstage, and announce to the entire room—including your mother, the donors, and the press table—that Porky Pig is actually the heir to the Tilbury fortune, and he thinks children’s hospitals are a punchline.”
There’s a long silence.
Then, with a smirk that’s more grudging than pleased, Conrad extends a hand and says, “I would be very pleased to make a donation to the hospital.”
Every part of her wants to slap his hand away from her.
Instead, she lifts her chin and takes his slimy hand, leaning in just enough for only him to hear her.
“Thank you,” she says coolly. “And if you so much as look at Theo sideways, I will make sure the next thing that trends with your name on it is about the trust fund nepo baby who tried to sabotage a fundraiser for sick children.’”
His smirk falters.
“You want attention, Conrad?” she spits out, dropping all pretense. “Try me.”
Conrad holds her gaze a beat longer, then sips his drink, wincing like it tastes bitter. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He disappears into the crowd, his shoulders tighter than before.
Mila exhales, tension bleeding from her spine.
Before she can turn and find a more worthy Tilbury, a calm, imperious voice speaks from behind her.
“My son has that effect on people.”
Mila pivots slowly, to find an elegant woman standing before her, draped in navy silk, diamonds glinting at her throat.
Her dark hair is swept into a flawless chignon that reveals the graceful line of her neck, and her posture is so poised it feels almost theatrical.
Mila sees the resemblance instantly in the piercing eyes framed by thick dark lashes, in the calm, calculated stillness that mirrors Theo’s more than either of them might admit.
“Janet Eagan-Tilbury,” the woman says, offering a perfectly manicured hand. “And you are?”
Mila smiles tightly. “Mila Anderson, event organizer.”
Janet’s brows lift. “Ah. And how do you know Conrad?”
“Oh,” Mila replies, her smile sharpening, “I don’t. I know your other son. The one everyone wants to celebrate.”
There’s the briefest flicker across Janet’s face, a momentary crack in her composure that vanishes almost as quickly as it appears. “Of course. Theodore.”
There’s something cool in her tone, just enough to make Mila want to claw at it.
Janet offers a polite smile. “He was always…sensitive.”
“He’s remarkable,” Mila says, tilting her head. “Not just on the ice, but in every way that matters.”
Janet’s gaze softens by a fraction, her fingers adjusting the drape of her shawl. “I do wish I saw more of him. He avoids me, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps he shows up for the people who see him,” Mila replies sweetly.
Janet’s mouth flattens.
Mila steps back with a gracious nod. “Enjoy the gala.”
She turns and walks away, pulse thrumming. She doesn’t look back.
The only thing running through her mind is how much better Theo is than the family that raised him.
And it’s about damn time someone said it out loud.
Her dress swishes as she walks, but she doesn’t slow down. She needs to find him. Needs to put her hands on him. Needs to make sure he’s okay, not just physically, but truly okay, because she knows Theo holds onto things in silence. He tucks his hurt under his ribs and lets it calcify.
She moves fast, weaving through glittering gowns and tuxedo jackets. As she scans the crowd, her eyes flit to the coat check. Maybe he ducked in there to breathe.
She changes course, heels whispering on the carpet, heart thumping harder the closer she gets—only to pause when she hears a soft thud and a startled yelp from inside.
The door swings open.
Naomi tumbles out, visibly flustered, tugging the neckline of her dress back into place and smoothing her sleek ponytail.
Right behind her, Tall emerges, all six-foot-something of him, with wild curls, tattoos peeking out from under his dress shirt, and the dazed grin of a man who’s just had his world rocked.
They clock Mila at the same time and freeze.
Naomi looks like she might actually vomit. Tall scratches the back of his neck and mutters something before veering off in the opposite direction.
Mila’s jaw slackens.
Those two?
Naomi, the pint-size firecracker who can reduce a grown man to dust with a look, and Tall, who once wore pajama pants to a team meeting because “they spoke to him”? What in the world could they possibly talk about? Or not talk about?
Mila blinks, stunned. Mentally bookmarks it under Absolutely Need to Revisit Later.
But right now—Theo. There’s only Theo.