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“Of course, sir.”
The private elevator whisks me to the penthouse, where I step into silent, empty space. Floor-to-ceilingwindows showcase the city lights emerging against the darkening sky. Everything is immaculate, pristine—my cleaning service was here this morning.
I loosen my tie, then immediately straighten it again. This isn’t about crossing boundaries anymore. That happened the moment I called her last night. The moment she answered.
This isn’t avoidance. It’s acceptance.
And still, there’s a part of me that itches with discomfort. Not because I don’t want her here. But because I do. Because I’ve built my entire career on rules, and I’m starting to think I’d break every one of them for her.
My phone buzzes.
Layla:
I’m here.
I glance at my reflection. Straighten my tie. Loosen it again. I invited her here. Not to a meeting room. Not to a rooftop bar. Here, to the place I don’t let anyone into. Not because I’m unsure of what I want.
Because I am sure. And that scares the hell out of me.
I told her I don’t do halfway. Tonight will be proof.
The elevator chimes in the distance.
Too late to turn back now.
LAYLA
The doorman's polite smile betrays nothing as he hands me the elevator key fob.
“Penthouse level, Ms. Carmichael. Mr. Mercer is expecting you.”
The navy dress—the one he specifically requested—suddenly feels like both armor and a target. My hands smooth over the fabric as the elevator glides upward. Third button still holding strong, despite his confession about watching it strain.
The doors slide open directly into his penthouse. I step into stunning luxury with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase Chicago's glittering skyline, modern furniture that probably costs more than my car, everything gleaming with expensive taste. But there are surprising touches of warmth too. A throw blanket draped over the leather couch. Books scattered on the coffee table. Real books, not just decorative ones.
“Bennett?” I call out, clutching my portfolio like a shield.
“In here.”
I follow his voice to a sleek home office where he stands behind his desk, papers spread across the surface. He's still in his dressed like he just left the office, but the jacket's gone. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Tie loosened just enough to reveal the hollow of his throat.
The same throat I told him I wanted to kiss.
“Thank you for coming.” His voice carries an edge I can't identify as he gestures to the documents. “We need to review these projections before tomorrow's meeting.”
“Of course.” I move closer, setting my portfolio on the desk. “Although, judging by the chaos here, you've already pulled them off the system—and shuffled the order in the process.”
His hands still. A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was... comparing timelines.”
“This timeline is from March.” I lean over to point, hyperaware when his breathing changes. “We updated it two weeks ago.”
“Right.” He shifts the papers unnecessarily, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact lasts a heartbeat before he steps back, fingers drumming against the desk. “The March version had more detail on the?—”
“Bennett.”
The drumming stops.
“Are we really here to discuss reports you've likely memorized?”