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 entire 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 Wright Media.”
“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 reveler. 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, his… everything. “I just got promoted.”
“To?”
“COO.”
“The person tasked with making everything run smoothly.” 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. Dominic wants to call 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. “Dominic is capable of handling Tokyo alone.”
“He already has.” Beside me, Caleb doesn't even glance up, his thumbs moving in rapid succession across his phone screen. “You can thank me later.”
“For fabricating a reason to drag me away from an 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 happened 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 below.
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.
CHAPTER THREE — LAYLA
“For the last time, I am not going out this weekend.”
I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear as I flip through the latest stack of financial reports. The numbers swim before my eyes, each column more depressing than the last. Payroll barely covered. Vendors demanding upfront payments. Our once-healthy cash reserves now hovering dangerously close to seven figures—and not the good end of seven figures. We're not just bleeding cash. We're hemorrhaging it.
“You've said that for a month straight,” Serena says, her voice crackling through the speaker. “I'm starting to forget what you look like. Are you still brunette? Do you still have all your limbs? These are important details.”
“Pretty sure I still have the same face,” I mutter, squinting at a column that refuses to balance no matter how many times I check the math. “Just with darker under-eyes and a mild caffeine tremor. Actually, not mild. I've upgraded to full-on vibration mode.”
“Which is exactly why you need to come out tomorrow night. There's a new rooftop bar on Michigan. Live music. Men who don't smell like medical adhesive samples. Drinks that contain actual fruits and vegetables, which I'm told are important for human survival.”
“Are you calling vodka a vegetable right now?”
“Yes. I’m also referring to cocktails as fruit, so it counts as wellness.”
I smile despite myself, mentally calculating how long we can run at this burn rate before we start making very hard choices. Six months? Maybe less if the prototype testing hits another snag.
“I appreciate the offer, but I'm drowning, Rena. Dad's buried in the lab building his dream machine, and I'm trying to stop this place from flatlining. Someone has to be the adult in the room.”
I don't mention just how close we are to that flatline. No need to drag her into the deep end with me. She has enough to worry about with her cosmetics campaign launch next week.
“One night,” she says. “Four hours. Bring your laptop and doom-scroll spreadsheets between drinks if it helps. I'll even find us a designated crying corner where you can sob into financial projections while I hand you shots. Super trendy.”
“I haven't done shots since the night I ended up using a taco as a pillow at two a.m.”
“Exactly! Don't you want redemption? A chance to pass out on higher quality Mexican food? I know a place with fantastic enchiladas that are so bouncy they’ll cradle your face without ruining your makeup.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“I get that you’re busy.” Her tone softens. “But, seriously, Layla. I miss you. Audrey misses you. The barista at Bloom & Brew asked if you died. Literally asked me if I needed grief counseling resources.”
Guilt pinches behind my ribs like a crab that's moved in and started redecorating. I've barely seen them since the street festival besides a few rushed check-ins and unanswered texts.
“I'm just... trying to save twenty-five years of my father's work,” I say, tracing a finger over the nameplate on my desk: Layla Carmichael, COO. “Some days I feel like a kid playing dress-up in her dad's clothes. Other days I'm terrified I might be the only grown up making decisions.”
“Meanwhile, you’re working yourself into an early grave. Stellar plan, Lay. I can see the epitaph now: 'Here lies Layla Carmichael. She had incredible spreadsheet skills but forgot humans need sunlight and fun to survive.'”
“I’m doing OK.”
“OK? When was the last time you even had sex? It’s great for stress relief, you know?”
“Need I remind you what happened the last time you talked me into approaching someone?” I say, sharper than I mean to. “I spent two weeks diving for my phone like Pavlov's dog, waiting for a call that never came.”
“Festival Guy?” She lets out a huff. “Please. His jawline wasn't even that impressive.”
“You literally called him a 'living sculpture.' You said his cheekbones could cut glass.”
“I was drunk on sangria and high on matchmaking hormones. My judgment was compromised. Those dimples were a tactical diversion.”
I laugh, spinning my chair to face the window. The original Carmichael Innovations building sits at the front of the campus, small, brick, and proud. The birthplace of everything. Dad's dream given physical form. And lately, the weight of all that history feels like it's pressing on my spine, vertebra by vertebra.
“I really thought we clicked,” I admit. “And then… nothing. Radio silence. Not even the courtesy ghost.”
“His loss,” Serena says. “He was probably intimidated by your massive—”
“Professional accomplishments?”
“I was gonna say tits, but sure. Let's go with your brain and leadership qualities.”
Before I can respond with the appropriate level of outrage, an email notification pings. Subject line: BOARD MEETING – URGENT.
Dad's name.
My pulse jumps like it's been electrically shocked. “Listen, I have to go. Dad called an emergency meeting in thirty.”
“On a Friday? That's ominous. Did something explode in the lab again?”
“Probably just R&D budget stuff.” The lie lands bitter in my mouth, coating my tongue like cheap coffee. “Routine panic.”
“Fine, abandon me in my hour of need,” Serena huffs. “But this isn't over. I'm texting you time slots. I've created a PowerPoint presentation on the benefits of human interaction. There are pie charts, Layla. PIE CHARTS.”
“I'm not promising anything.”
“You don't have to. I already promised the universe. Love you, mean it, bye!”
She hangs up before I can argue. I toss my phone onto my desk and press my fingertips to my temples, trying to chase away the headache forming just behind my eyes. It's been my constant companion for weeks now, right alongside insomnia and that persistent twitch in my left eyelid.
The ArterialSeal recall destroyed our safety net. Dad's new prototype, while brilliant, has drained our R&D reserves, and the vultures have started circling. Private equity firms. Competitors. The kinds of people who don't see legacies, only liabilities. The kinds of people who'd gut the building, keep the patents, and send everyone else packing.
I glance at the time. Twenty minutes. Just enough to prep the projections and pray Dad hasn't done something drastic.
The boardroom is too warm, the air stuffy with anxiety and overcompensating cologne. The usual pre-meeting small talk has been replaced by tense silence and darting glances. Even the coffee tastes bitter today, like it knows something we don't.
I settle into my usual seat beside Dad's. The board members filter in, and we exchange polite nods. Everyone knows something's coming. We just don't know what.
The door opens, and Dad enters, straightening his burgundy gear-print bowtie—a Christmas gift from the engineers that he wears to every ‘important’ meeting. Usually it makes me smile. Today it makes my heart hurt.
He doesn't sit.
He grips the back of his chair and looks around the room like he's bracing for a wave about to crash over all of us.
“Thank you for being here,” he says. “I won't waste your time.”
The hush is instant. Even the usual creaking of chairs stops.
“Our situation following the ArterialSeal recall has become… untenable. Despite our efforts, our cash reserves have run dangerously low.”
A ripple of murmurs. I keep my face composed, but my stomach drops like I've swallowed a stone. Dad never admits weakness. Not to the board, not to anyone. Not even when his first company failed. Not even when mom left.
“After careful consideration,” he continues, “I've decided to pursue outside support. This morning, I received an acquisition offer I can’t say no to.”
Dead silence.
My spine locks. The pen in my hand freezes mid-tap against my notepad.
“I've invited the interested party to present their proposal directly. They should be here any moment.”
The door opens, and we all stand.
Two men enter.
The first is tall, with neatly styled hair, sharp suit. He’s clearly legal. Controlled, practiced, efficient—oddly familiar, but I can’t place why or where I might have seen him. He scans the room like he's cataloging potential threats before stepping aside so the second man becomes visible.
Holy shit.
My breath catches, lungs suddenly forgetting their basic function.
Those steel-blue eyes.
That perfectly symmetrical face.
Festival Guy.
The ghost who's been haunting my phone notifications for weeks.
My stomach drops like I've hit a pocket of turbulence at 30,000 feet.
No. No way. This can't be happening.
Except he's not in a henley and jeans this time. He's wrapped in power. Charcoal suit, polished shoes, screaming authority. The casual, almost playful man from the festival has vanished, replaced by someone who looks like he eats companies like ours for breakfast and doesn't even need hot sauce.
I go cold, then hot, then cold again, my body unable to decide between fight or flight or total system shutdown. My fingertips tingle like I've pressed them against ice. The pen in my hand might as well be made of lead, impossible to lift.
“Everyone,” my father says, “this is Bennett Mercer, CEO of Mercer Capital, and his counsel, Caleb Kingsley.”
Bennett Mercer.
The name lands like a gavel in a silent courtroom.
His gaze sweeps the room, clinical and calm. Until it lands on me.
And stops.
His expression doesn't flicker. Not a single muscle twitches.
But his eyes…
They recognize me.
And they don't soften.
They harden. Steel blue gone to arctic ice in a heartbeat.
“Thank you for the introduction, Mr. Carmichael,” he says, voice smooth, professional, and unfeeling. “We appreciate the opportunity to discuss how Mercer Capital can help Carmichael Innovations reach its full potential.”
We all sit. He takes the seat directly across from me.
Never once looks at me again.
But I feel his dismissal like a physical blow. The man who said he wanted to call me, the one who seemed genuinely interested, has been replaced by someone else entirely. Someone who looks right through me.
And suddenly I understand. I wasn't ghosted by Festival Guy.
I'm being haunted by Bennett Mercer. He knew. He had to have known. And now he’s here. To what? Finish the job?
