Page 7 of His Little Angel

Bethany looks at Mila like she expects her to defend her.

Mila lifts her chin instead. “I apologize, Mr. Morelli. I told her explicitly not to use heavy perfume. It seems she missed that part of my email. Bethany, this position requires matching very specific preferences. Thank you for coming, but it appears there isn’t compatibility.”

Bethany leaves with her heels clicking aggressively, glaring at everything in her way.

The moment she disappears, I look at Mila. “What the hell was that?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sir, I’m sorry. I told her minimal perfume was part of the dress code, but she must have missed it. Maybe we should have given her more of a chance—”

“She interrupted you. That’s bad etiquette.”

Mila nods, apologizes again, and leaves to fetch another candidate. One I already know I won’t like—because she isn’t Mila.

Why the fuck does Mila have to leave? “Travel,” my ass. I offered more PTO, but she doesn’t even use what’s in her contract.

Mila brings the next one in with a tight smile that tells me she’s losing hope.

“Rachel” enters with a stack of documents so tall she can barely see over them. She heads straight toward Mila’s desk like she owns the room.

“Wait,” Mila says gently, but Rachel keeps going.

Mila grimaces. One of the candidates before her got fired just for that—treating Mila’s desk like their own.

Rachel sets her bag directly on the desk.

My eye twitches.

“I’ve already prepared a workflow system to replace your current one. No offense, but it’s outdated,” Rachel rambles.

Outdated.

Mila’s system? The one keeping my entire company from burning to the ground?

Oh, fuck that.

Mila tries diplomacy. “Rachel, this system has been tailored around Mr. Morelli’s working style. It’s—”

Rachel snorts. “With all due respect, you’ve been here too long. You’re probably attached to your habits.” She waves a hand. “It happens when people stay in the same position for years. But Mr. Morelli needs something new—more efficient and professional.”

Mila’s shoulders go rigid. In three years, I’ve never allowed anyone to insult her in this company. I won’t start now.

“Mila,” I say quietly. “Step out for a moment.”

“Sir—”

“Out.”

The door closes behind her.

I turn to the candidate.

“Give me one reason,” I warn, stepping forward slowly, “why I shouldn’t send you screaming and crying out of this building in under ten seconds.”

“Sir, I—I thought improvement—”

“You insultedmyMila.”

“I didn’t—”