Page 5 of His Little Angel
Three years—and that’s all? I gave this man everything I had to offer for three years, and he acts like my resignation means less than nothing.
Outwardly, I keep it professional, not wanting to embarrass myself.
“Your schedule for today,” I say, placing the folder in front of him.
He takes it without looking at me.
I don’t know what I expected. Nothing realistic. But after spending years around the Morellis—watching his brothers fall to their knees for the women they callthe one—a part of me wondered if this would be the moment.
If walking away would trigger whatever family curse turns them feral.
But nothing ignites in him. No realization. No madness. Just a man ready to replace me.
I’m embarrassed that I ever thought otherwise.
Chapter Three
Enzo
“Who the hell is sitting in Mila’s chair, Sandy?” I say, cutting off the marketing specialist mid-sentence as I push the office door open.
For the third time since she started trailing behind me, she nearly face-plants in those ridiculous heels she’s wearing. Honestly, I’m considering banning them from the entire building. My company has never had a single workplace injury, and I’m not planning on letting a pair of idiotic stilettos ruin that statistic.
But even those death-trap heels aren’t enough to distract me from the jolt of violence that punches through my bloodstream the second I see another woman in Mila’s chair.
I swallow it down—barely. Unlike my brothers, I can pretend to be civilized when I need to… but nothing I’m feeling is civil.
“She’s one of the candidates Mila picked,” Sandy mutters, plopping into a chair with a sigh. “She’s training her for your approval.”
Right.
Mila is resigning.
I keep forgetting, then remembering—and every time, it pisses me off all the same.
It’s a shame. No one ever adapts to my lifestyle the way she does. She’s the best secretary I’ve ever had. Losing her is a damn shame.
This stranger is touchingherthings—her notebooks, her color-coordinated pens. Mila hates people touching her stuff. She’s a germ freak. And this woman… this woman who wants to take her place… is pawing at all of it.
I step into Mila’s office. The stranger beams up at me like she’s expecting a warm welcome.
I slam my palm flat on the desk. The pen jumps out of her fingers, and the notebooks skid.
“Don’t. Touch. Mila’s. Things.”
The woman recoils, her face draining paper white. “I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t m-mean—”
Her stuttering grates on my nerves like sandpaper.This is who Mila thinks can replace her?
“Get away from her desk,” I say.
She jolts up so fast her chair rolls back and nearly hits the wall.
I’m about to demand where Mila is when the bathroom door swings open. Mila walks out wearing the exact expression I recognize from three years of memorizing her—tight pinch between her brows, faint downturn of her mouth.
Her period started.
When you spend every waking hour with someone, you learn their rhythms like your own. I know when she’s sick before she does. I know which coworkers she can’t stand, which meals she eats when she’s stressed, what annoys her, what comforts her. And she knows me the same way—my migraine tells, my mood triggers, the little things that set me off.