Page 1 of Dial B for Billionaire

LAYLA

“Three months of running the place, and your dad finally made it official!” Serena says, waving her sangria dangerously close to my white dress.

“I know.” I take a sip of mine and feel the tart sweetness dance across my tongue. “But I still can't shake the feeling he'll wake up tomorrow and realize his horrible mistake.”

“You need to stop overthinking and just enjoy yourself for once,” she insists, the deep red liquid sloshing near the rim like it has a personal vendetta against my outfit.

I take a step out of the splash zone before disaster strikes. “Iamenjoying myself,” I protest, though my tone probably isn't convincing anyone, least of all Serena Morgan, who's been my best friend since Northwestern and can read me like one of the medical journals permanently stacked on my nightstand.

I glance around, needing a distraction, and luckily, this place delivers.

The street festival buzzes around us. It's the perfectChicago evening, with a warm breeze, string lights glowing overhead, and the scent of tacos, noodles, and kettle corn in the air. Crowds move like a lazy current, riding the high of Friday night freedom.

“Layla Carmichael, Chief Operations Officer.” Audrey raises her cup in a toast, her curls bouncing as she gives me a solemn nod. “The title carries a statistically significant increase in corporate authority and a seventy-eight percent probability of ulcer development within the first year.”

I clink my cup against hers, laughing despite the grip my anxiety has on my chest. “Definitely terrifying. It’s like I got handed the keys to a spaceship and everyone’s acting like I’ve had flight training.”

“Oh, please,” Serena groans, rolling her eyes so dramatically she might strain something. “You’ve been piloting that thing solo for months while he plays mad scientist in the engine room. I've seen enough corporate disasters at Luminous to know that your dad's company would have flatlined without you. This promotion just makes official what everyone already knows.”

She's not wrong. Carmichael Innovations is my dad's baby, his legacy, and lately he's left all the actual operations to me while he tinkers away in the R&D lab. The promotion just made official what I’ve already been doing—navigating the cockpit while he disappears into the engine room to invent warp drive.

“I want to prove I earned it,” I admit, tracing the rim of my cup. “That it's not just nepotism.”

“Anyone who's worked with you knows that's crap,” Audrey says, adjusting her glasses. “You’re the only one in that building who understands both the tech and the business. Your dad’s lucky to have you.”

Before I can argue, Serena stiffens beside me and clamps a hand around my arm with surprising force. “Three o'clock. Don't be obvious.”

My stomach flips as I follow her line of sight. Subtlety has never been my strong suit, so I make it weird immediately, whipping my head around like I'm watching a tennis match with one player.

And then I see him.

Holy. Hell.

He’s standing alone near the food trucks, taller than everyone around him, like the universe got bored and decided to make just one guy inconveniently hot. Dark jeans. Gray henley pushed to the elbows. Lean, broad-shouldered frame that looks like it was hand-selected from a military romance cover shoot. And a jawline sharp enough to qualify as a weapon in at least twelve countries. His hair’s dark, neat but tousled in that infuriatingly perfect way that screams effortless sex. But it’s his eyes that short-circuit my brain. They’re cool, focused. Like he’s analyzing the entire scene for classified intel. And now he’s locked onto me, like I’m the variable that doesn’t fit the algorithm.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, snapping my gaze back to my friends. “He's unreal.”

“Go talk to him,” Serena hisses.

My stomach executes a full Olympic-level gymnastics routine—ten-point-zero on the dismount. My palms go instantly damp, like my body's decided to start its own personal humidity system in honor of his jawline.

“Sure.” I bark a laugh. “Right after I grow a new personality, lose a solid twenty pounds,andstop sweating through this dress.”

“Layla.” Audrey gives me her calm-in-a-crisis voice. “Your curves are hot. Your brain is hotter. He’d be lucky to breathe the same air as you.”

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “He probably wasn’t even looking at me.”

“He wasdefinitelylooking at you,” Serena insists. “I swear on my entire collection of vintage Louboutins.”

“He was not—” I glance again.

He's watching me.

Holy shit.

Our eyes lock.

Everything around us—the music, the crowd, the flutter of paper lanterns—fades to white noise. I forget how to breathe. My heart thunders in my ears, but everything else dims, like someone turned down the volume on the world and cranked him up to full blast. His lips curl, just slightly. Not a smile. Not smug. Just… intrigued.

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