Page 48 of Dial B for Billionaire

“Medical applications remain the priority.” His voice is steady, professional. “But the technology has broader implications?—”

“Broader implications.” Dad rolls the words around like he's tasting poison. “That's corporate speak for 'we're going to dilute the pinnacle of your life's work until it's unrecognizable.'”

“Dad—”

“Twenty-five years, Layla.” He turns to me, and the hurt in his eyes makes my chest ache. “Twenty-five years I've spent developing technology. For medical use. To help people. Not so some tech bro can use it to play video games better.”

The air gets so thick I could spread it on toast. Bennett's hand moves toward his water glass, and our fingers almost collide on the table. We both freeze. Pull back. The half-second of almost-contact leaves my skin tingling.

“Without additional revenue streams,” Bennett says, each word carefully measured, “the medical applications won't survive long enough to help anyone.”

“So you keep saying.” Dad's knuckles are white around his fork. “Tell me, Mr. Mercer, what exactly do you know about helping people? What have you built besides a fortune on the backs of other people's dreams?”

Bennett's hand clenches on the table. This time when his knee brushes mine, it's not accidental. It's seeking. A silent request for... what? Patience? Understanding?

I press back, just slightly. His exhale is audible.

“You're right,” Bennett says, surprising us both. “I'vespent my career acquiring things other people built. But I've also saved companies from bankruptcy. Preserved innovations that would've died without intervention.”

“Preserved.” Dad laughs, sharp and bitter. “Is that what how you frame what you’re doing?”

“I get the feeling,” Bennett says, voice so even I almost believe he's not angry, “that what you really want isn't a debate over business models. It's acknowledgment. For your work. For your sacrifices.”

Dad starts to retort, but Bennett holds up a finger. “I'm not belittling what you've done, Robert. I think it's brilliant. That’s why I bought it. Yes, I’ll turn a profit. That’s how it survives. But I’m also willing to do it in a way that benefits us both. You want your company to survive. You want to save jobs. And you want your work to mean something. That only happens if the core idea is as world changing as we all think it is.”

“And if it's not?”

“Then we all lose.”

“And your company eats mine and Carmichael ceases to exist.”

“Yes,” Bennett says. “But even in a worst-case scenario, your technology lives on. Maybe not with your name, but it’s still out there. It still helps people.”

Dad slams his fork against the table. “This isn’t an acquisition. It’s a hostile takeover. But instead of the company, you’re trying to acquire our dignity. I’ll have no part of it.”

“Dad!” My voice sharpens. “You signed the contract. The board agreed to the terms. Why are you sabotaging the one thing that might save us?”

His eyes swing to me and his face goes still. “I'm alsothe one who guaranteed your role, Layla. So you'd fight for us.”

The accusation lands like a slap. “I am fighting! This is me fighting! Finding ways to maximize employee retention, to save as many jobs as?—”

“By letting him turn my life's work into a toy?”

“By being realistic about market demands.” Bennett's voice carries an edge now. Under the table, his knee presses more firmly against mine. Not seeking anymore. Supporting.

“Everything's about money with you people,” Dad spits.

“No.” Bennett leans forward. “It's about survival. Your technology is brilliant, Robert. Revolutionary. But brilliance doesn't pay salaries or fund research. You know that better than anyone.”

Dad's hand trembles as he reaches for his water. “Don't presume to lecture me about?—”

“I'm not lecturing.” Bennett's tone gentles. “I'm trying to find some common ground. This plan we have for NeuraTech is a gamble. One I’m willing to support. But you need to be willing to make strategic compromises. Your own research wasn’t enough. You needed us. Or you wouldn’t have sold.”

Dad shoves back from the table. “I’ve heard enough. You're nothing but a vulture circling the dying animal and congratulating yourself when it finally bleeds out.” He tosses his napkin onto the plate. The gesture is so final, it physically shakes the utensils on the table.

“Dad,” I stand, but he rounds on me, eyes hot and wild.

“And you're helping him pick the bones.”

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