CHAPTER ONE — LAYLA
“Three months of running the place, and your dad finally made it
official!” Serena says, waving her sangria dangerously close to my white dress.
“I know.” I take a sip of mine and feel the tart sweetness dance across
my tongue. "But I still can't shake the feeling he'll wake up tomorrow and
realize his horrible mistake."
"You need to stop overthinking and just enjoy yourself for
once," she insists, the deep red liquid sloshing near the rim like it has
a personal vendetta against my outfit.
I take a step out of the splash zone before disaster strikes. "I am
enjoying myself," I protest, though my tone probably isn't convincing
anyone, least of all Serena Morgan, who's been my best friend since
Northwestern and can read me like one of the medical journals permanently
stacked on my nightstand.
I glance around, needing a distraction, and luckily, this place delivers.
The street festival buzzes around us. It's the perfect Chicago evening,
with a warm breeze, string lights glowing overhead, and the scent of tacos,
noodles, and kettle corn in the air. Crowds move like a lazy current, riding
the high of Friday night freedom.
"Layla Carmichael, Chief Operations Officer." Audrey raises her
cup in a toast, her curls bouncing as she gives me a solemn nod. "The
title carries a statistically significant increase in corporate authority and a
seventy-eight percent probability of ulcer development within the first
year."
I clink my cup against hers, laughing despite the grip my anxiety has on
my chest. "Definitely terrifying. It’s like I got handed the keys to a
spaceship and everyone’s acting like I’ve had flight training."
"Oh, please," Serena groans, rolling her eyes so dramatically
she might strain something. "You’ve been piloting that thing solo for
months while he plays mad scientist in the engine room. I've seen enough
corporate disasters at Luminous to know that your dad's company would have
flatlined without you. This promotion just makes official what everyone already
knows."
She's not wrong. Carmichael Innovations is my dad's baby, his legacy, and
lately he's left all the actual operations to me while he tinkers away in the
R&D lab. The promotion just made official what I’ve already been
doing—navigating the cockpit while he disappears into the engine room to invent
warp drive.
"I want to prove I earned it," I admit, tracing the rim of my
cup. "That it's not just nepotism."
"Anyone who's worked with you knows that's crap," Audrey says,
adjusting her glasses. “You’re the only one in that building who understands
both the tech and the business. Your dad’s lucky to have you.”
Before I can argue, Serena stiffens beside me and clamps a hand around my
arm with surprising force. "Three o'clock. Don't be obvious."
My stomach flips as I follow her line of sight. Subtlety has never been
my strong suit, so I make it weird immediately, whipping my head around like
I'm watching a tennis match with one player.
And then I see him.
Holy. Hell.
He’s standing alone near the food trucks, taller than everyone around
him, like the universe got bored and decided to make just one guy
inconveniently hot. Dark jeans. Gray henley pushed to the elbows. Lean,
broad-shouldered frame that looks like it was hand-selected from a military
romance cover shoot. And a jawline sharp enough to qualify as a weapon in at
least twelve countries. His hair’s dark, neat but tousled in that infuriatingly
perfect way that screams effortless sex. But it’s his eyes that short-circuit
my brain. They’re cool, focused. Like he’s analyzing the whole scene for
classified intel. And now he’s locked onto me, like I’m the variable that
doesn’t fit the algorithm.
"Oh my god," I whisper, snapping my gaze back to my friends.
"He's unreal."
"Go talk to him," Serena hisses.
My stomach executes a full Olympic-level gymnastics
routine—ten-point-zero on the dismount. My palms go instantly damp, like my
body's decided to start its own personal humidity system in honor of his
jawline.
"Sure." I bark a laugh. "Right after I grow a new
personality, lose a solid twenty pounds, and stop sweating through this
dress."
“Layla.” Audrey gives me her calm-in-a-crisis voice. “Your curves are
hot. Your brain is hotter. He’d be lucky to breathe the same air as you.”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “He probably wasn’t even looking
at me.”
"He was definitely looking at you," Serena insists.
"I swear on my entire collection of vintage Louboutins."
"He was not—" I glance again.
He's watching me.
Holy shit.
Our eyes lock.
Everything around us—the music, the crowd, the flutter of paper
lanterns—fades to white noise. I forget how to breathe. My heart thunders in my
ears, but everything else dims, like someone turned down the volume on the
world and cranked him up to full blast. His lips curl, just slightly. Not a
smile. Not smug. Just… intrigued.
"He's absolutely looking,” I squeak. “What do I even do?"
"You walk over there and use your words," Serena says, already
plucking my cup from my hand. "Now. Before I catch fire from secondhand
lust and they have to report a spontaneous human combustion to Channel 5
News."
"You're all insane," I mutter.
Audrey shrugs. "It's a festival. Talking to strangers is legally
allowed. I checked the municipal code."
With a deep breath, I smooth my hands over my hips and take a step
forward before I can overthink it.
Each step toward him feels like balancing on a wire strung over a shark
tank. He watches me come, that same steady, unnerving attention in his eyes.
When I finally stop in front of him, I swear the air shifts, like the oxygen
molecules are rearranging themselves around us.
Up close, he's even more devastating. Those steel-blue eyes lock on mine
first, steady and unblinking. Like he’s double-checking I’m real before the
rest of me even registers. It throws me off balance, a strange gravity pulling
me toward him, making it harder to think straight. My usual arsenal of
confident one-liners evaporates like raindrops on hot pavement.
I can’t speak. I’m just standing in front of him. Staring.
His eyes dip. Slow, deliberate. He takes in the curve of my hips, my
belly, the shape of my dress, the flush rising in my chest, the shoes on my
feet. But he’s not leering. Not rude or crude. He seems almost analytical. Like
he's gathering data for some private calculation, and I’ve become the only
thing worth studying.
My breath catches. My brain? Offline. Fully crashed.
And then, because my mouth never got the memo... it opens.
"You have a very symmetrical face," I blurt.
Oh no. No, no, no. Why did I say that? Who leads with symmetry? What’s
next—complimenting his hair follicles? Maybe I could comment on his teeth,
suggesting he has amazing flossing skills like I’m some sort of deranged
dentist? Jesus. Someone muzzle me.
There’s a pause. Just long enough for me to seriously consider faking a
coughing fit and running.
Then he laughs—an actual, full-body laugh that makes his eyes crinkle and
reveals a devastating dimple in his left cheek that should come with a warning
label.
"Thank you?" he says, voice deep and rich, like velvet-dipped
bourbon poured over gravel.
"I just meant… it's a compliment. In, like, evolutionary biology
terms. Symmetry equals attractiveness." I nearly reach out to touch his
jaw but catch myself. "Oh god, never mind."
Still smiling, he shifts his weight, stepping in just a little. The crowd
surges around us, and suddenly he’s close. Six inches of space, maybe. I
can smell cedar and something warm underneath, like sunbaked leather. My brain
short-circuits again. “So… was this your idea, or are your friends holding
something over your head unless you say hi?”
I let out this weird half-giggle, half-scoff. “What? I don’t even have
friends. I just walk up to attractive strangers for fun.”
“I’m good at reading people,” he says, a little amused. “You might not claim
to have friends, but the two women behind you are giving off very ‘mission
control’ energy.”
I glance back. Serena and Audrey are failing spectacularly at pretending
not to stare. Serena gives me a thumbs up so enthusiastic she nearly takes out
a passing toddler. I wince.
“OK, fine. Maybe I have one or two,” I mutter. “But subtlety isn’t really
in their skill set, but they mean well.”
“No kidding.” He steps a little closer, and my skin prickles with
awareness. His voice drops just enough to make my breath catch. “Do you usually
take their advice?”
"Only when it involves symmetrical men and fermented fruit."
That earns me another smile. A real one this time, transforming his face
from merely handsome to absolutely breathtaking.
"What are we drinking?" he asks.
My heart stutters, like it's forgotten the basics of maintaining a steady
rhythm. Maybe I should be concerned about that, but I'm too busy trying not to
stare at his mouth.
"Sangria. The good kind. Spanish. Possibly lethal. Definitely
responsible for my sudden ability to form sentences around you."
"I'm more of a scotch man, but I've been known to indulge in the
occasional sangria if the company’s right."
The way he says it sends heat sliding down my spine, pooling low in my
belly. My mouth goes desert-dry.
"We're celebrating," I say, suddenly shy again, acutely aware
of his height, his presence, the slight scent of cedar and something distinctly
male. "I just got promoted."
"To?"
"COO."
His eyebrows lift, genuine surprise crossing his features.
"Impressive."
"It sounds fancier than it is." I fidget with the hem of my
dress. "Mostly I just keep the lights on while the real geniuses create
things."
"I doubt that." He studies me, head tilted like he's trying to
figure out what kind of puzzle I am. I like it more than I should.
"Intelligence like yours doesn't hide well."
Before I can ask how he could possibly know about my intelligence, a man
in a navy suit appears beside him like he was conjured from thin air.
"There you are," the newcomer says. "Tokyo’s pushing back
on terms. Legal needs an answer in thirty."
The shift in him is instant. So fast it knocks the air out of me. One
second he’s relaxed, almost playful. The next, it’s like a switch flips. His
posture sharpens. That easy smile disappears. And suddenly, I’m not talking to
the intriguing guy by the tacos. I’m looking at someone powerful. Controlled.
Dangerous, in a boardroom sort of way.
His spine straightens. Shoulders back. His eyes? Steel. Cold and focused,
like he’s locked back into whatever high-stakes orbit he just fell out of.
Then he looks at me again, and the hardness fades just a little. Regret
flickers behind his eyes. “I’m sorry. Business emergency.”
"Of course," I say, already trying not to look disappointed.
"Go save Tokyo."
The other guy turns, already disappearing into the crowd.
But he doesn't follow. He stays still, watching me. For a second, I think
he’s going to say something else, but then he just... hesitates between staying
and going.
Then, unexpectedly, he pulls out his cell. "Can I get your
number?" he asks, voice low, with just a trace of urgency threading
through it. His eyes flicker between mine, and it’s as if every heartbeat
stretches our moments together into an eternity.
I swallow hard. The air feels thick with everything unspoken. “You want
my number?” My heart races, doing an absurd dance in my chest. This isn’t a
rehearsal. This is the script of all my fantasies colliding with real life, and
it’s too chaotic to process.
"Yes," he says simply, handing me his phone. “I’d like to call
you.” Something about the way he says it—deliberate, certain—makes me think he
isn't a man who chases often.
“OK.”
I type fast, nerves jangling. My hands are still damp from the heat, the
sangria, and him. And I have to grip the device hard, just to keep from
dropping it.
“I think that’s it,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“We’ve got to move!” the other guy calls from a few feet away.
“I should go before the vein pops in his forehead.” Before I can
double-check the digits, he takes the phone back.
Our fingers brush. Warm skin against mine. Just a sliver of contact, but
it sends a jolt up my arm like static and adrenaline made a baby. For one
ridiculous second, I think I might actually swoon.
"Wait," he says, blinking down at the screen. "You didn't
add your name."
I glance at his impatient friend, who’s now tapping the face of his
watch.
"I guess you'll have to call me to find out."
His smile returns. This time with full dimples. "I walked right into
that."
"You did."
"Good." His gaze drags over me once more, slow and deliberate.
"Gives me a reason to use it."
Then he's gone, striding into the crowd beside his colleague,
disappearing like a mirage.
I just stand there for a second, like someone pulled the plug on gravity.
My legs feel like overcooked noodles.
Then I turn and walk—actually, I float—back toward Serena and Audrey, who
are waiting by a gelato truck like two giddy gargoyles.
“Well?” Serena demands.
I try to play it cool, but I can’t stop grinning. “I gave him my number.”
Audrey lets out a gasp loud enough to scare pigeons three blocks away.
She’s already pulling out her phone, probably drafting a flowchart for
optimizing stranger-flirting success rates. Honestly, she could write a whole
manual. Not that the boardroom bros ever give her the mic long enough to
realize how brilliant she is.
“Well done.” Serena grins as she nods her approval.
“Didn’t get his name. Didn’t give mine either,” I say, grinning wider.
“Figured if he wants it bad enough, he’ll have to work for it.”
“Oh my god!” Audrey clutches her chest as if my casual nonchalance struck
her like an electric jolt. “Layla! You’re a walking romance novel! This is too
good!”
Serena grabs me by my shoulders. “Who are you, and what have you done
with my best friend?”
“I don’t know. I was just…enjoying myself.”
They both scream.
People stare.
I don't care.
For the first time in forever, I don't feel like the responsible one. Or
the awkward one. Or the one who has to play it safe.
Right now? I feel unbelievably alive. And maybe a little reckless. Like
I've just lit a match without checking what's flammable around me. But that's
tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I'm going to revel in the fire.
CHAPTER TWO — BENNETT
"That was unnecessary," I say as our driver eases into traffic.
"The Tokyo deal wasn't going to implode in the next hour."
Beside me, Caleb doesn't even glance up, his thumbs moving in rapid
succession across his phone screen. "You can thank me later."
"For dragging me away from a very interesting conversation?"
Now he looks up. One eyebrow arches in that annoyingly familiar way I've
seen since our first year at Harvard Business School. "Interesting? You
looked at her like she was the answer to a question you didn’t know you’d been
asking."
I glance out the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of
gold and blue. He's not wrong, which is precisely why his interruption was both
irritating and probably necessary.
"Just be careful," Caleb says, voice dipping into that rare
territory he reserves for friendship rather than legal advice. "Random
encounters like that don't happen without strings. Not with men like us."
"She didn't even know who I was."
"You don't know that," he counters. "Your face has been on
those damn 'Most Eligible Billionaire' lists for the last three years. Half the
internet has a crush on you."
I scoff. "So has yours."
"Exactly. Which is why I recognize the signs."
His cynicism isn't unfounded. We've both been burned by people who saw
our names as assets, not identities.
"She felt genuine," I say, surprised by the softness in my
voice.
Caleb lowers his phone, just enough to shoot me a look. "So did
Rachel Donovan. Until she turned out to be the daughter of your rival's CFO and
was stealing intel every time you took a damn shower."
I flinch. That one still stings, even though it happen early in my
career. I was too young, too trusting, too careless. She was a mistake I swore
I’d never make again.
But this felt different. The woman at the festival didn’t come with a
pitch or an offer to talk business over an intimate dinner. She blurted out
that ridiculous line about my symmetrical face like it escaped before her brain
could catch it. She challenged me without flinching. No pretense. No angle.
Just… her.
“Still,” I say, shifting in my seat. “You didn’t have to drag me off like
that.”
Caleb snorts. “Five more minutes and you'd have invited her home with
you.”
“I wouldn’t have—”
“You handed her your unlocked phone,” he cuts in. “At a street festival.
You've never done that. It was reckless.”
I lean back, exhaling through my nose. The phone is still in my pocket,
heavier now. She’s saved as ‘Mine’. No name. No last initial. Just a
feeling. A bone-deep knowing that this was supposed to happen.
The car pulls up to my building, The Zenith, where the doorman steps
forward to open the door before we've fully stopped.
"I'll look over the revised terms and call you in the morning,"
I tell Caleb as I slide out.
“Try to get some sleep,” he calls after me. What he really means is: Don’t
let her get under your skin.
I barely respond, already focused on the sleek glass-front façade of the
building.
"Good evening, Mr. Mercer." The doorman nods as I pass.
"Evening, Thomas." The words come easily, muscle memory by now.
The lobby is marble and silence. The private elevator is waiting, its
doors already open, and I step inside alone. No music, no buzz. Just the low
hum of ascent and the weight of thoughts I probably shouldn't be entertaining.
I hadn't even planned to be there tonight. A potential client had floated
the idea of a casual meeting at a restaurant nearby, then canceled last minute
with some vague excuse. The bustle of the streets caught my attention, so I
stayed. Watched. Observed. Sometimes it helps to remind me what the world looks
like outside of meetings and acquisitions and portfolios.
Then she appeared.
Laughing. Animated. The moment she stepped into view, everything around
me shifted. She disarmed me with a single glance, and I felt something deep in
my chest, a pull I'd forgotten existed. A reminder of what it felt like to want.
The elevator opens directly into my penthouse. The motion-sensing lights
rise to a soft, warm glow as I enter. The space is sleek, gray and glass.
Ordered, controlled. Exactly as I designed it. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a
view of Chicago's skyline, the lights arranged in predictable patterns of
commerce and residence. Everything in its place. Everything except the memory
of her infectious laughter, the way her lips curved as she fumbled through her
words…
I cross to the bar and pour two fingers of Macallan 25, savoring the
weight of the tumbler in my hand. The ritual helps. So does the burn.
Still, nothing about her wants to file itself away properly.
The curve of her smile. The fearless way she walked up to me. The
ridiculous compliment about my face. And the fact that she didn't ask for
anything—not a name, not a title, not a resume. She was happy just talking to me.
Some guy she met in a crowd.
I slide my phone from my pocket, my thumb hovering over the screen.
My father used to say real connection was a luxury most men couldn't
afford. But I am not my father. And standing there tonight, I felt it. Brief,
electric, and utterly unearned.
A simple message. Low risk. Enough to make contact without pushing too
hard.
I re-read it four times.
me: Symmetrical face guy here. You made quite an impression tonight.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself and set the phone down. I
stare at it for a beat, then turn back toward the windows, scotch in hand.
Calculated risks I understand. This feels different. Unquantifiable.
Three agonizing minutes later, it buzzes.
her: Well hello there. An impression? That sounds promising. Remind me
where we met?
My brow furrows. She's joking, right?
me: Are you telling me you attended more than one street festival where
you approached a guy and commented on his face symmetry tonight?
her: Oh! THAT festival. Of course. You’re that guy with…the face.
OK. Still playful. A little vague, but I'll roll with it.
me: An important quality to have. Almost as important as a name. You said
you’d give me yours if I called...
her: I did, didn't I? But you're texting, not calling. So…
She’s got spunk. I find myself smiling.
me: I could call right now.
her: Let's not rush things. I think there's something exciting about a
little mystery, don't you?
My eyebrow raises. Not the response I expected.
me: So, Mystery Woman, what are you doing right now?
her: Unwinding with a glass of wine. After an… eventful day. You?
I glance out at the city skyline, glowing like a circuit board beneath
us.
me: The same, but scotch. Thinking about an unexpected encounter that
ended too soon.
her: That sounds intriguing. What made it so memorable?
I pause. It’s a fair question. And it’s not the answer she probably
expects.
me: You did. Your boldness. Most people don't approach me like that.
her: I like bold moves. Sometimes the best things in life come from
impulse.
I smile. She's got bite. I like that.
me: Agreed. Though I wish we'd had more time before my associate dragged
me off.
her: Business always calls. What do you do that's so important?
me: Investments. Mergers. Nothing sexy on paper, but it pays the bills.
her: I don't know. Symmetry and business savvy? You could probably get a
spread in Forbes AND Evolutionary Biology Monthly.
me: Not as exciting as a COO. Impressive title for someone who prefers
anonymity.
her: Mysterious is the new black. You should try it sometime.
I stare at her reply, the words making my heart kick up. She could still
be anyone. She could still be anything. But, damn it, I want to know.
I smile, thumb flying over the keyboard.
me: I'll work on it.
her: I sense a man who likes to be in control.
me: Of course. I wouldn’t be a success if I didn’t.
her: I suppose that depends on how one defines success.
OK. That's new. And interesting. My fingers tighten on the glass.
me: And how would you define it?
her: You first, Mr. Control.
Something about her name choice sends an unexpected jolt through me. I
realize I'm actually enjoying the game.
me: Building something real. Owning every decision. Not needing anyone
else's approval.
her: Mmm. A man who knows what he wants. Are you always this decisive?
me: In business? Yes. In bed? I like to take my time.
There's a long pause.
The seconds tick by. My heart rate increases, a response I usually
associate with high-stakes negotiations, not text messages.
Then. A buzz.
her: I'd like to be appreciated like that. Thoroughly. How about you tell
me what you’re wearing right now?
My brows lift. Heat pools in my stomach.
me: Still in the same clothes. Just got home. Living room.
her: Alone?
me: Yes.
her: Describe it to me. I want to picture it.
me: how about I show it to you?
her: You mean... a picture?
I hesitate. This kind of openness is foreign territory, but the thought
of it sends a thrill through me.
In this moment, there are no rules, no safeguards. Only discovery. Only
risk. I’m not used to wanting like this, not used to making leaps without
knowing where I’ll land. It feels reckless. It feels refreshing. It feels
fucking good.
me: Exactly.
No reply. Just the typing bubbles.
me: You said you like bold.
There’s a beat of time where the bubbles stop then start a few times
before the next message pops up.
her: I do.
I set my drink down and take a quick selfie—city lights behind me, henley
unbuttoned, scotch in frame. Relaxed. Casual.
I send it.
A minute passes.
Two.
Three.
The wait is excruciating. I find myself pacing, something I never do.
Then…
her: My goodness. You're even more handsome than I imagined. That view's
not bad either.
me: Your turn.
Another pause.
Then a photo appears.
I tap it open.
And go completely still.
No.
It's not her.
Not even close.
The woman in the photo is at least twenty years older. Flawless makeup,
auburn hair swept into a silky wave. She's reclined against a velvet headboard
in a deep red silk robe, holding a glass of wine and smiling like we've been
flirting for hours.
What do you think? I know I’m not the festival girl you were expecting.
But I’m a lot of fun. Care to continue our conversation?
I stare at the screen.
Once.
Twice.
No. No, this can't be right.
I think I have the wrong number. Apologies for bothering you.
I set the phone down on the coffee table a little too hard, chest tight.
She gave me the wrong number.
On purpose?
All that charm. That spark. That flirty little game about making me call
her. And the whole time… Is she laughing behind my back?
My jaw clenches. Heat rises in my chest. Not embarrassment—fucking
humiliation. Sharp. Sudden. Like a slap.
Caleb was right. Again.
My phone buzzes.
No bother at all, handsome. These things happen. Though I'm disappointed
we won't be continuing our… conversation. If you change your mind, I'm Diana.
And I'm very good at keeping secrets.
I don't reply.
Don't even look at the screen again.
I down the rest of my scotch in one sharp burn and walk to the windows,
gripping the edge of the glass wall like it might anchor me.
Whatever that was tonight. It wasn't real.
My jaw tightens until I taste metal. Lesson learned.
