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Beneath the invitation lies a dress that makes my credit cards whimper in sympathy. Midnight blue silk that shifts to silver when the light hits it. The kind of dress designed for making entrances and breaking hearts.
My first instinct is Bennett. But would he really use Willa James as a go-between? Then again, the man bought out an entire fado club in Lisbon. Subtlety isn't exactly his strong suit when he wants something.
I grab my phone and call Dad.
“Layla!” He sounds like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Back among the living?”
“Barely. Dad, do you know anything about the James Foundation Gala tomorrow?”
“The gala? Oh. Yes. That.” He clears his throat. “I might have put your name forward. You know, representing Carmichael's future and all that.”
“You put me on the guest list for Chicago's most exclusive charity event?”
“Well, with your mother and I... separated... and the company situation...” He's fumbling, and Dad never fumbles. “Seemed like good exposure for you. Networking opportunities.”
“Since when does networking come with couture dresses?”
“Willa likes to make an impression on first-time attendees. Especially the younger innovators.” His voice has that particular tone, like he's reading from a script someone else wrote. “Your NeuraTech efforts deserve recognition, sweetheart. Even if you won't return my calls to hear me say it properly.”
The guilt-trip lands perfectly. Classic Dad.
“This is really just about networking?” I press.
“What else would it be about?”
Oh, I don't know. Maybe my maybe-ex-whatever pulling strings to force a reunion? But I can't exactly say that.
“Fine. I'll go.”
“Excellent! I mean—good. That's good. For the company.”
When we hang up, unease sits heavy in my stomach. Dad's never been good at deception. Whatever's happening with this gala, he's definitely in on it.
My phone buzzes.
Serena:
Lunch? Audrey says you're back at work.
I hit call instead of typing back.
“Any Corporate Vampire sightings?” she says instead of hello.
“Haven't seen him.” My traitorous body apparentlydidn't get the memo about being angry—just thinking about him makes heat pool low in my belly. “But I need backup. What are your thoughts on the James Foundation Gala?”
“The one where rich people pretend to care about poor kids while networking over champagne that costs more than my rent?”
“That's the one. Wanna go with me?”
She makes a choking sound. “Go with you? Um…Obviously I'm in. I'd cancel a date with Michael B. Jordan for this.” She pauses. “Will Moneybags McMerger be there?”
“Probably.” I run my fingers over the silk dress. “He does meet the wealth requirements.”
I shoot off a quick email to my assistant, asking her to check the guest list so I can be sure.
“Then we're definitely going. I need to see what he looks like when you walk in wearing whatever devastating outfit we pick out for you.”
“They sent me a dress.”