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“I know. Because feelings are inefficient. Vulnerability is weakness. All that bullshit you've told yourself for years.” He shakes his head. “How's that working out for you?”
I think about the empty penthouse. The art studiogathering dust. The closet full of clothes that belong to her. The bed that still smells like her shampoo. She’s everywhere. And I miss her completely.
“It's not,” I admit.
“Then do something about it. You're Bennett fucking Mercer. You move markets with a phone call. Figure out how to fix this.”
“The board would never approve a total overhaul of the integration strategy.” I stare unseeingly out the window. “They'll vote me out before they sacrifice ROI to keep three hundred extra employees.”
“They won't,” Caleb says, voice full of challenge. “Because you're the only one who could pull it off with Carmichael still making money. That's why I work with you. And that's why I know you'll convince them to change course.”
I rake a hand through my already messy hair. “I don’t know how to do this, Caleb. I can sell them on NeuraTech, on keeping everyone involved for continuity, but the rest of the company?” I shake my head. “I’m in over my head.”
“Then look outside it.” He pockets his phone. “Partner with someone who can do the things you can’t.”
“Like who?”
“That,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder, “is for your brilliant mind to figure out. I'll handle the legal framework. Make it defensible to shareholders. You just figure out what it would take.”
“OK. I’ll do it. Whatever the cost. I’ll figure it out.”
“Good. Because I swear to God, if I have to listen to Dominic whine about Tokyo one more time, I'm going to fake my own death.” He heads for the door, then pauses. “You’ve got this, Bennett. These past six weeks, watching you with her—it's the happiest I've ever seen you. I want to help you get that back.”
After he leaves, I sit at my desk, staring at the Phase Two documents. Line after line of cuts, terminations, eliminations. All perfectly logical. All financially sound. All destroying what Layla loves.
I pull up a fresh spreadsheet and start running different scenarios. What if we kept 60% of the research staff instead of 15%? Maintained the campus for specialized operations? Retained Robert Carmichael as a consultant?
The numbers are worse. Not catastrophic, but definitely worse. The board will hate it. Harris will raise hell. The shareholders will question my judgment.
But for the first time in three days, I can breathe. Not because I’ve solved anything. But because I finally stopped pretending this is just business and I don’t have the power to change it. Because I do. Sure, it could lose memycompany if I’m not careful here. But if I keep going the way I am, I could lose it anyway. And for once, I find I care more about the woman waiting at the end of this mess than the boardroom full of people I've never truly respected.
My phone rings—Vicky.
“Bennett, we have a problem. You rescheduled the Hartley presentation?”
“I did.”
“Their team is threatening to go elsewhere.”
“I'll handle it.”
Silence. Then: “Are you all right? You've been... different this week.”
Different. Because the woman I love walked away, and I'm just now realizing I've been measuring success all wrong.
“I'm fine. But I need you to pull together new projections for Carmichael Innovation. Multiple scenarios focusing on preservation rather than elimination.”
“Preservation?” She sounds like I've started speaking a different language. “Of Carmichael operations?”
“Yes. Full analysis by Monday. Bring in whoever you need.”
“Bennett, that's a complete reversal of?—”
“Monday, Vicky.”
I hang up and stare at the spreadsheet. It's not enough. Not close. But it's a start.
My phone sits silent on the desk. No response to my last text. No indication she even cares that I'm willing to wait. But for the first time in my life, I understand that some things can't be taken, can't be demanded, can't be acquired through force or negotiation.