Page 12 of His Little Angel

It doesn’t make sense.

Two minutes pass.

Then three.

Then five.

By the sixth minute, irritation crawls beneath my skin. I haven’t gone this long without seeing Mila in three years. She’s always the one who walks through my door first thing in the morning.

A knock sounds.

Fucking finally.

“Come in.”

The door opens—and my entire mood detonates further.

Not Mila.

Veronica. Again.

She holds a fresh mug with both hands like she’s approaching a volatile animal—which, to be fair, she is.

She sets the mug in front of me.

“Ms. Wilson made it. I shadowed her, but it appears I still missed something. I’m sorry if I disappointed you.”

Disappointment is too soft a word for what slams through me.

Milawas supposed to walk in with that cup. Mila. Not. Motherfucking. Veronica.

Before I can speak, Veronica clears her throat softly.

“Sir, Mr. Kline is here. He requested a one-on-one meeting. Should I let him in?”

If it were Mila, she wouldn’t need to ask. She’d know Kline is one of our biggest clients. She’d see I’m not tense, that I haven’t cracked my jaw once—which means I’m in a tolerable mood.

She’d let him in without bothering me.

But Veronica isn’t Mila.

No one is.

“Yes,” I hiss. “Let him through.”

She nods and leaves, closing the door behind her. A moment later, it opens again.

“Enzo,” Bill Kline booms. “Always a pleasure, my friend.”

Words pass—numbers, projections, plans—but none of it sticks. I’m distracted. Antsy.

Every time the door clicks, my head snaps up, expecting—

Nothing.

It’s always Veronica. Files. Updates. Papers.

The unease turns violent. The more time passes without seeing Mila, the more something dark coils inside me.