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They have to be earned.
I pull up the original acquisition documents, but this time I'm not looking for efficiencies to exploit. I'm looking for value to preserve. For the first time, I'm seeing Carmichael Innovations not as a failing company to be stripped for parts, but as something three generations built with their hands and hearts.
Something worth saving.
Line item 247: Research staff reduction, 85%. I delete it.
Line item 186: Campus closure and consolidation. Delete. Type: Maintain campus for specialized operations.
Line item 94: R. Carmichael - Position terminated. Delete. Type: Consulting role, 24-month minimum.
It's not enough. I know it's not enough. But it's more than I would have done four days ago, and I’ll keep doing more. I’ll take Caleb’s advice and bring someone in who can help me do more. More than the Bennett Mercer who built this empire would have considered.
Because that Bennett Mercer had everything except what mattered.
This one is learning to be different. Learning to see people instead of numbers. Learning that success means more than market domination.
Learning to be someone who can say “I love you” back.
Even if it's too late.
Even if she never gives me the chance.
I'll wait.
LAYLA
The walk from the elevator to my office feels like crossing a minefield. Five days away—three wallowing, two actually thinking about Mom's words—and now everyone's watching. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Coffee cups freeze halfway to lips. Even the printer seems to hold its breath as I pass.
“Ms. Carmichael!” My assistant practically sprints toward me, relief flooding her face. “Thank God you're back. Legal has called six times, the integration timeline's completely blown, and someone needs to tell Vicky's team that putting a pin in things to circle back later isn't an actual answer to budgeting questions.”
“Sounds like a typical Monday.” I manage a smile that almost reaches my eyes. “Anything actively on fire?”
She falls into step beside me, consulting her tablet with the intensity of a general planning invasion. “The board presentation's been pushed to next Thursday—R&D needs time to incorporate trial results. The Koreans wantanother conference call about distribution rights. And someone ate all the good donuts while you were gone. We're down to the weird coconut ones nobody likes.”
“Tragic,” I murmur, scanning the hallway despite myself. No sign of Bennett. Not that I really expect him to be here. Or that I'm looking. “What else?”
“Oh, and this arrived twenty minutes ago.” She gestures to a large white box on my desk, tied with a simple black ribbon. “No delivery slip, just your name.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest—part hope, part dread, all stupid. “Thanks. Hold my calls for an hour? I need to dig out from under these emails.”
Once she's gone, I approach the box like it might explode. The elegant James Foundation logo on the lid makes me pause. Not Bennett, then. Unless...
Inside, beneath pristine tissue paper, lies an invitation that makes my eyebrows climb. The James Foundation Gala. Tomorrow night. Me and a guest.
This is like getting invited to the Oscars when you've only done community theater. The James Foundation—Willa and Landon James's pet project that funds STEM education for underprivileged kids—throws the kind of gala where Chicago's elite pretend to care about charity while making deals that reshape industries. Sure, the cause is noble, but everyone knows the real action happens between courses, where million-dollar handshakes seal fates over champagne. I'm nobody's idea of elite.
The note card reads:
Ms. Carmichael,
Your presence is requested at the annual James Foundation Gala tomorrow evening at the Grand Chicago Hotel. As a key innovator in medical technology, your insights would be invaluable to our guests. A car will collect you at 7:30 PM.
We hope you can join us.
Warmly, Willa James
Key innovator? I snort. More like a corporate charity case. Someone no one cared about until Mercer came along and rebranded me.