Page 18

Just a deal.
Just numbers.
Just strategy.
But my body won’t let it go. Her voice still fills my head. Her scent burrows into my brain like a bruise. Her blouse, gaping slightly when she leaned across the table…
This is just business.
I grind my jaw.
Fuck.
It’s already a lie.
LAYLA
He walks away without looking back. No hesitation. No apology. Nothing.
Just like at the festival.
Seven weeks. That's our runway before Carmichael Innovations—my father's twenty-five-year legacy—dissolves like sugar in hot coffee.
The air feels electric, like Bennett Mercer left some invisible current crackling in the room. I press my palm against my chest, willing my heart to slow. How can my body still react to him after he just carved up our company like a Thanksgiving turkey? My skin tingles where his gaze lingered. My pulse hammers from standing so close to him.
And the worst part? I spent a month daydreaming about this man!
“Traitor,” I mutter to my racing heart. You can't feel betrayed by someone who never actually called when he said he would. Someone who dismissed you like you were as worthless as the company he plans to gut.
But my stubborn body disagrees. Even while my brain screamed at him across that table, I couldn't stop noticing everything. The sharp line of his jaw. Those broad shoulders stretching his tailored suit. His long fingers—the same ones that brushed mine when he took my number at the festival.
“Ugh!” I slump into my chair, dropping my head into my hands. “He wasn't supposed to be this person.”
Not this ruthless shark who measures human beings on spreadsheets. I wasn't supposed to feel this... this...
The door swings open. I snap upright as my father shuffles back in, shoulders hunched like they're carrying the weight of his crumbling company.
“Layla.” He drops into the chair beside me. “I'm sorry you found out this way.”
The shock on my face hardens into something sharper. “A heads up would've been nice. I've spent weeks going cross-eyed over spreadsheets, trying to figure out why our numbers never balanced.”
“I was going to brief you fully this afternoon.”
“Brief me?” I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. “Like I'm some junior manager? I'm your COO, Dad. I'm your daughter.”
“Exactly.” He finally meets my eyes. “That's why I didn't tell you sooner. I knew how you'd react.”
“With reasonable questions? Like why you'd entertain an offer that undervalues us by half? Or why the board's been kept in the dark for months?”
“It's not that simple, Layla.”
“Seven weeks.” I lean forward, tapping my finger on the table with each word. “We have seven weeks before werun out of money completely. How long have you known that?”
His silence is answer enough.
“Three months,” he finally admits.
The words hit like a slap.