Page 11 of His Little Angel

Who handed me coffee before I even asked.

Who knew what I needed without hearing my voice.

Three years of that unspoken fluency, and now I’m supposed to train myself to function with someone else?

Yesterday, Mila was in pain. She tried to hide it like she always does, but I know her tells better than I know my own. So I cut the day short.

I walk into my office, and instead of Mila’s soft knock and her familiar,“Good morning, Sir,”I get this.

“Good morning, Mr. Morelli.”

Veronica. The trainee.

She sets the mug on my desk, sliding a coaster beneath it. Then she places my printed schedule beside it, perfectly aligned.

“Your coffee, sir.”

Her voice doesn’t grate. Her smile isn’t obnoxious. Her posture is correct.

Everything is correct.

And completely fucking wrong.

My eyes drop to the printed schedule. It’s soulless. Where are Mila’s tiny notes? Her scribbles in the margins about whichclient I hate and which one I tolerate? It looks like every other assistant’s work, and I loathe it instantly.

I take a sip of the coffee.

My jaw tightens. “Who made this?”

“I did, sir. If the taste is off, I can remake it. I followed everything Ms. Wilson wrote down—”

“No,” I mutter. “No, you didn’t.”

I set the cup down hard. It tips, splashing across the oak desk and dripping onto the floor. Veronica flinches—barely—but she doesn’t step back.

Of course she doesn’t. She’s competent. Fucking perfect.

“This isn’t the coffee I drink,” I growl.

“I’ll stay closer to Ms. Wilson during prep. Maybe I missed—”

“What’s wrong,” I cut her off, “is that Mila didn’t make it.”

I drag a hand down my face. Anger thrums through me—irrational, but impossible to ignore.

“Tell her,” I order, “that I wantherto make it. Not you.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmurs. “I’ll inform Ms. Wilson.”

She turns to leave.

I sit there, glaring at the mess I’ve made of my desk, feeling something I don’t have a name for claw up my throat.

Because Mila is leaving.

I’m realizing something I should’ve confronted a long damn time ago—

I don’t want her replaced. I don’t want her gone. I don’t want anyone else standing where she stands, touching what she touches, stepping into the space she made hers. Since when have I become this fucking possessive over my assistant?