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Layla.
It fits. All sharp edges and soft vowels. A name you don’t forget, even if you try.
I shouldn’t want to say it.
I want to say it.
I want to growl it into her ear while I’m buried inside her, her body wrapped tight around?—
“Our latest development is only five months from launch.”
Her voice slices through the heat, snapping me back.
“We’re staring down a market disruption, and your valuation doesn’t reflect it.”
I lean forward slightly. Her perfume hits, warm and clean, vanilla and ambition. Fuck. I can’t think straight. “Potential doesn’t pay vendors. Or salaries. At your current burn rate, you’ve got seven weeks of liquidity. At best.”
Her face goes still. Color drains. “We run out of money in seven weeks?”
Robert doesn’t answer.
I don’t move.
I just watch.
The flicker of shock. The betrayal. The scramble to keep her face neutral.
It punches something loose in my chest. I bury it. Hard.
“I believe we should continue,” Robert says after a beat, clearing his throat.
And we do. Like nothing just cracked wide open.
For the next forty minutes, I field questions. Caleb takes point on the legal language, occasionally shooting me a look when he catches my focus drifting.
Layla says nothing. But her pen is a weapon in her grip, and she’s writing like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
Finally, Caleb closes the presentation. “We’ll need a decision within ten business days. The terms we’ve presented today represent our best offer.”
Robert nods, standing. “Thank you, gentlemen. We have much to discuss.”
Layla leans toward her father. I can’t hear what she says, but the way his mouth flattens tells me it’s not nothing. Her voice is low. Cracked at the edges.
Robert touches her arm. “Later.”
The room starts to dissolve with executives murmuring, papers shuffling, people desperate to get out of there and digest what just happened.
But she doesn’t follow. Just stays frozen in her seat, staring at her notebook like it might rewrite itself if she blinks hard enough.
My jaw tightens. I force myself not to look. Not to care.
But I do. And no matter how hard I try to focus on catching up on my inbox while Caleb packs up, I’m hyper aware of her every breath.
“You ready?” Caleb zips up his case, and I nod, rising from the chair.
“Mr. Mercer?”
Her voice is quiet. Steady. But it lands like a hook between my shoulder blades.