Chapter 40
MILA
The soft clack of Naomi’s violently red nails against her keyboard is the only sound in Mila’s office besides the faint hum of a space heater and the distant buzz of phones in the bullpen.
The city outside is caught in that strange in-between place where winter hasn’t quite ended but spring refuses to commit.
Inside, Mila wraps her cardigan tighter around herself and frowns at the screen.
“Okay, hear me out,” Naomi says, swiveling slightly in her chair. “We position the kibble like it’s artisanal. Handcrafted. Like some ethically-sourced oat milk, but for dogs.”
Mila lifts a brow. “Are we talking heirloom carrots and free-range peas?”
Naomi snaps her fingers. “Yes! Farm-to-doggie bowl cuisine.”
“So basically, what would Gwyneth Paltrow feed her dog?”
“Exactly.”
“This is either brilliant or a cry for help.”
Naomi shrugs. “Can’t it be both? That’s kind of my brand.”
Mila lets out a small, actual laugh. She hasn’t been able to focus lately, not really, but Naomi’s presence is heartening. The two of them have been spit balling ideas for an organic pet food campaign for the last hour, trying to spark something inspired. Or at least mildly presentable.
The post-mortem for the Whalers’ gala is set for this afternoon—a Hollis ritual where account teams pick apart an event’s highs, lows, and missed opportunities.
Mila built the deck herself and had imagined standing at the head of the table, running through the metrics, owning the praise for what everyone agreed was a knockout success.
Instead, her phone hasn’t stopped buzzing all morning with messages from Richard, each one blunt and suffocating, leaving no doubt that he expects to be the one presenting.
If he had his way, she wouldn’t even be in the room.
The thought of handing him the credit churns in her stomach. Recognition matters—not just for her career, but because, as a woman in this boys’ club of an industry, she’s had to fight for every sliver of it. This account could put her within reach of a promotion.
And with Jim actively shopping the team around, time is running out fast. If the Whalers are sold, there's no guarantee the new owners will stick with Hollis. This meeting might be her last shot to claim a major win before everything goes sideways and the account disappears entirely.
She feels pinned in place, trapped between the future she’s been clawing toward and the secret he’s holding like a blade at her ribs.
Mila leans back and stretches her neck. “Thanks for doing this with me. I—”
Naomi cuts her off with a wave. “Please. You clearly need the distraction. You look like someone told you Starbucks is cancelling PSLs.”
Mila winces. “That bad?”
Naomi eyes her over the rim of her coffee mug. “Worse. And don’t pretend it’s about dog snacks.”
Mila exhales, her fingers tightening around her pen. “It’s just...everything.”
“Well,” Naomi says, stretching her legs out and kicking Mila lightly under the desk. “Maybe this will help. Ashley got canned.”
Mila blinks. “What?”
“Yup. Jaryd let her go yesterday. Major drama. Box of stuff, security escort, the whole corporate walk of shame.”
“Holy shit.”
“Mhm. Apparently her numbers were crap and she alienated two clients in one month.”
Mila lets that sink in. She strenuously dislikes Ashley for being the second guilty party in the whole Richard saga, but there’s nothing easy or pleasant about watching someone’s livelihood vanish like a puff of spray tan.
“Want to hear what she said about Richard on her way out?”
“Absolutely not,” Mila says breezily. “But I do want to hear about you and Tall sliding out of the coatroom like a deleted scene from Bridgerton.”
Naomi avoids her gaze, cheeks flushing scarlet. “A lady never tells.”
Mila makes an outraged noise in her throat. “You know every humiliating detail of my love life. The least you can do is tell me why a man with finger tattoos had your lipstick smudged all over his face.”
Naomi winces. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. It was a lapse in judgment. A hormonal malfunction. I can barely stand the guy.”
“You made out with him in a coat closet!”
“I dragged him into a coat closet,” Naomi mutters, face in her hands.
Mila gasps. “Naomi Piccolo. Spill. Now.”
She groans into her palms. “He said something smug, I said something mean, and then I don’t know—his mouth was just there and apparently so was mine, and now I have to live with this knowledge for the rest of my natural life.”
Mila is cackling. “I need more. Was there groping? Button-popping? What did you say after?”
Naomi leans in, expression tortured. “I told him not to catch feelings.”
Mila nearly falls out of her chair. “Naomi!”
“I panicked! And then I accidentally thanked him. Like I signed for a package!”
Mila is wheezing. “You said thank you?!”
“I was flustered!”
They dissolve into giggles, with Mila wiping tears from her eyes.
“I needed that,” she says, reaching for a tissue and blotting at her mascara.
Her phone buzzes on the desk, flashing a Connecticut area code and a number she doesn’t recognize.
“I should take this,” she says to Naomi, already swiping to answer, expecting Theo or Natalie.
“Mila,” comes the warm, sonorous voice of Jim Pearce. “I hope I’m not interrupting. Do you have a minute?”
“Jim—of course,” she says, watching Naomi quietly gather her things and slip out, curiosity written all over her face.
“I’m calling because I have news,” Jim says, voice serious.
“The director of the Connecticut Children’s Hospital called me this morning.
The board voted unanimously to make the Whalers’ Winter Gala an annual event.
And—” a chuckle, “—they insist you be the one to run it. Or, and I quote, the hospital will explore alternate sponsor relationships moving forward.”
Mila blinks and her thoughts scatter, bouncing around the walls of her skull like Gordie Howl with a chew toy. The board had never shown the faintest interest in her. Most of them were crusty, old-money types who barely spared her a glance.
Except for one.
Except Janet.
Janet Eagan-Tilbury, with the glacial smile that never quite reached her eyes. That woman doesn’t do favors. If she pulled strings, it wasn’t out of affection for Mila.
Her heart does a weird, stuttering backflip—then lands on the only explanation. Theo. He must have called her. Somehow, he convinced his mother to step in.
A laugh prickles at the back of her throat, thickened by the sudden sting of tears. She doesn’t know if she wants to laugh, cry, or buy a ticket to wherever he is and kiss him until her knees give out.
Let’s see Richard try to take credit for this.
“But that’s not my news,” Jim says, oblivious to the emotional rollercoaster he’s sent Mila on. “I’ve had a serious offer to buy the team.”
Her heart plummets to her stomach. For months, she’s been preparing for this, for the inevitability of change, for Jesse spiraling and Natalie and Jake having to move for the umpteenth time and Theo shutting down the second he smells instability. She’s been bracing for the crash.
“Oh?” Mila says carefully, her heartbeat doing its best impression of a rave under her ribs. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he says, tone warm but purposeful. “This season’s been the best in a long time. Best energy. Best community engagement. Most profitable quarter we’ve had in a decade. You’ve helped the team look strong, Mila. And I want to thank you.”
“It’s been our pleasure, Jim. Honestly—an honor. And a lot of fun.”
“You’re talking like this is goodbye,” Jim says mildly.
Her stomach tightens.
“I’m not selling.”
She blinks. “You’re not?”
“Nope. I’ve got something good here. Something real. And that’s in large part thanks to you. You helped bring this place back to life.”
It takes her a second to register the words, and another to remember how to respond. “That’s…I don’t even know what to say.”
“And expect something from legal next week,” Jim adds, almost casually. “We’re sending over paperwork to extend your firm’s contract another two years. Figured it was time we made this official.”
Before she can muster anything resembling coherent speech, Jim wraps up the call and hangs up with the ease of a man who just tossed her a career-defining win like it was a spare pen.
Mila sets the phone down, grinning so wide her cheeks hurt. Not just because she nailed it for her client. Not just because she’s keeping the account.
Because there’s no way in hell Richard is taking this away from her.
“Come in,” Jaryd’s baritone rumbles from behind the heavy mahogany door.
Mila swallows—or tries to, but her throat is a desert. She pushes the door open, her heart slamming against her ribs like it’s trying to stage a jailbreak. This had seemed like a solid idea when she dialed his number, when she practiced her speech in the elevator mirror.
But now? Now she’s standing in Jaryd’s massive office—alone—and suddenly remembers she’s only been in here a handful of times. Always with her whole team. Safety in numbers. This time, no buffer. Just her and the most intimidating man alive.
Jaryd watches her expectantly from behind his massive desk. His silver hair is immaculately combed, shirt sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the edge of the luxury watch he never mentions but everyone notices.
“You wanted to speak with me?” he says, rising smoothly and gesturing for her to join him on the sleek leather club chairs that frame his corner view.
Mila forces her feet forward, wondering if it’s possible to stop herself from sweating through sheer willpower alone.
“Yes.” She sits, resisting the urge to fidget. “It’s about the Whalers’ account.”
“Oh?” His brows lift. “I thought we’d cover that this afternoon.”
“This is a bit more delicate,” Mila says, carefully sticking to her script. “I wanted to address it directly with you. There’s been…some conversation about who’s running point.”
“I imagine this is between you and Richard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look, Mila,” he says, voice sharp but not unkind. “You’re smart. Good instincts. People like working with you. But I can’t fight your battles for you.”
“That’s not—” she starts, but he cuts her off.
“You know I don’t care for drama.”
Mila swallows, her whole body thrumming with indignation, with the sting of being mistaken for something she’s not.
Not unprofessional or melodramatic, but weak.
Jaryd is echoing what men have assumed about her for years—that beneath the polish and performance, she’s soft. Needs a man to fight her battles.
“Actually,” she says, voice steadier than she feels, “it’s Richard who’s causing drama.
I’ve been running point all season, with excellent results.
In fact I’ve just had a call with Jim who gave a verbal commitment to extend our contract.
But Richard is insisting I step aside. I should’ve come to you sooner, but I was concerned about optics. ”
There. It’s out. Heat rises in her cheeks, but so does a sliver of defiant pride. If she’s going down, it won’t be because she let Richard take her spine with him.
She inhales, squares her shoulders, and jumps off the cliff. “The truth is…I’m involved with the client. Um…in the romantic sense. And Richard is insisting it makes me unfit.”
Jaryd’s brows shoot up, and Mila swears she can hear his mental hard drive whirring, like a computer trying to open a file that’s too big.
“I see.” His expression shifts from confusion to something bordering on concern, bushy eyebrows drawing close. “How long?”
“Umm..” Mila hesitates. “The feelings have been there for months, but the relationship is recent.”
He blinks at her. “And this is…mutual?”
Mila’s cheeks heat. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m trying to be delicate here,” Jaryd says, speaking slowly like the words are made of glass. “Isn’t he…isn’t Jim a little old for you?”
Mila freezes. Her brain does a cartoon record-scratch. Jim?
In her mind’s eye she sees Jim Pearce: fatherly vibes, leathery skin, a sweet old man who always smells faintly of pipe tobacco and aftershave. A lovely man. Also, very much old enough to be her grandfather.
“What? Oh God—no.” She shakes her head so fast her earrings threaten to fly off. “No. Not Jim. One of the players.”
For a long, brutal second, silence reigns. Then Jaryd leans back in his chair, his face shifting from awkward horror to sheer relief. A deep, wheezy laugh bursts out of him, the kind that fills every inch of the room. Mila wants to crawl under his mahogany desk and die there.
“I’ve gotta admit,” he says, wiping his eyes, “that’s a hell of a relief. Not that there’s anything wrong with Jim. He’s got a hell of a golf swing for a man pushing eighty. But I was starting to wonder if I needed to…I don’t know…stage an intervention?”
Mila lets out a strangled sound that might be a laugh, or maybe a cry of mortification. She covers her face with her hands. “Please stop talking.”
Jaryd chuckles, still grinning, but when he speaks his tone gentles. “Fair enough. And to be perfectly honest, Mila—a player? He’s so far removed from any decision-making capacity it doesn’t concern me in the slightest.”
Relief surges through her so fast she almost gets whiplash. She exhales, nodding as she presses her palms to her thighs, trying to steady herself before her knees do something embarrassing.
“I met my wife through a client,” Jaryd muses. “Thirty-two years ago, back when I was still dumb enough to wear square-toed shoes and pitch car commercials like they were Shakespeare. So who am I to judge?”
Mila’s eyes sting for a very different reason now. She smiles—small, sheepish, but sincere. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
“Don’t let Richard bully you, Mila,” Jaryd says, meeting her gaze and giving her a conspiratorial wink. “I can’t have my Senior Account Managers being cowardly.”