Page 118 of Dial B for Billionaire

“Your father called.” She pushes past me, then stops dead. “Dear God. It looks like a frat house. Smells like one too.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Mom.”

She navigates through the debris field of tissues and Thai food boxes, opening windows as she goes. “He's worried. Said you claimed stomach flu but sounded off when you last spoke.”

“Emotional flu. Same symptoms, harder to cure.”

“Ah.” She turns, hands on hips. “The symmetrical-faced accidental texter?”

“Bennett Mercer. Dad's corporate overlord. My... whatever he was.”

Her eyebrows climb. “Well, that's quite the plot twist. How deep?”

“Incredibly.” I slump back onto the couch. “Six weeks of me choosing to believe in him. Of betting on something real while he bet against everything I stood for. Six weeks of me falling in love with him…”

She sits beside me, moving a pizza box to make room. “Tell me.”

So I do. The words tumble out—the closet full of designer clothes, the art studio he built me, how he made me feel like I mattered. Then Phase Two. Ninety percent of our people gone. Dad's position eliminated. Mine reduced to a three-month pity consulting gig.

“And he knew,” I finish. “The whole time he was asking me to move in, he knew I thought my work was saving us and he never once told me it didn’t matter.”

Mom's quiet for a moment. “What did he say when you confronted him?”

“That he's in acquisitions, not benevolence.” The words still sting. “Like I should be grateful he's keeping me while tossing everyone else.”

“Mm.” She stands, heading for my kitchen. “When's the last time you ate actual food?”

“Takeout counts as food.”

“Food with actual vitamins, I mean.” She opens my fridge and recoils. “Is that... was that yogurt?”

“Maybe?”

She shuts the fridge with finality. “Right. Shower first.Then food. Then we talk about you hiding in here like a wounded raccoon.”

“I'm not hiding. I'm processing.”

“You're marinating in your own funk.” She points toward the bathroom. “March. I'll attempt to excavate your kitchen.”

Under the hot water, I try not to think about Bennett's shower—rain showerhead, marble bench, his hands on my skin. But everything reminds me of him. The fancy shampoo he bought me. The way he'd join me, claiming water conservation while pressing me against the wall.

I scrub harder, like I can wash away the memories along with three days of grief.

When I emerge, Mom's performed some kind of kitchen miracle. There's toast, scrambled eggs, and tea that doesn't smell like despair.

“Eat,” she commands.

I take a bite and realize I'm starving. “Dad must be thrilled. The evil billionaire broke his daughter's heart.”

“Your father is only worried about you, right now.” She sips her tea.

“That's a first.”

“Don't be flippant, Layla. I know things have been strained between you two. But his care is genuine. He wants what’s best for you. He did go to Bennett, after all.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But it doesn't change anything. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Right.” She sets down her mug with deliberation. “So you're done? Walking away from both the man and the company?”

---