Page 10 of Dial B for Billionaire

I set the phone down on the coffee table a little too hard, chest tight.

She gave me thewrong number.

On purpose?

All that charm. That spark. That flirty little game about making me call her. And the whole time… Is she laughing behind my back?

My jaw clenches. Heat rises in my chest. Not embarrassment—fucking humiliation. Sharp. Sudden. Like a slap.

Caleb was right. Again.

My phone buzzes.

Her:

No bother at all, handsome. These things happen. Though I'm disappointed we won't be continuing our… conversation. If you change your mind, I'm Diana. And I'm very good at keeping secrets.

I don't reply.

Don't even look at the screen again.

I down the rest of my scotch in one sharp burn and walk to the windows, gripping the edge of the glass wall like it might anchor me.

Whatever that was tonight. It wasn't real.

My jaw tightens until I taste metal. Lesson learned.

LAYLA

“For the last time, I am not going out this weekend.”

I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear as I flip through the latest stack of financial reports. The numbers swim before my eyes, each column more depressing than the last. Payroll barely covered. Vendors demanding upfront payments. Our once-healthy cash reserves now hovering dangerously close to seven figures—and not the good end of seven figures. We're not just bleeding cash. We're hemorrhaging it.

“You've said that for a month straight,” Serena says, her voice crackling through the speaker. “I'm starting to forget what you look like. Are you still brunette? Do you still have all your limbs? These are important details.”

“Pretty sure I still have the same face,” I mutter, squinting at a column that refuses to balance no matter how many times I check the math. “Just with darker under-eyes and a mild caffeine tremor. Actually, not mild. I've upgraded to full-on vibration mode.”

“Which is exactly why you need to come out tomorrow night. There's a new rooftop bar on Michigan. Live music. Men who don't smell like medical adhesive samples. Drinks that contain actual fruits and vegetables, which I'm told are important for human survival.”

“Are you calling vodka a vegetable right now?”

“Yes. I’m also referring to cocktails as fruit, so it counts as wellness.”

I smile despite myself, mentally calculating how long we can run at this burn rate before we start making very hard choices. Six months? Maybe less if the prototype testing hits another snag.

“I appreciate the offer, but I'm drowning, Rena. Dad's buried in the lab building his dream machine, and I'm trying to stop this place from flatlining. Someone has to be the adult in the room.”

I don't mention just how close we are to that flatline. No need to drag her into the deep end with me. She has enough to worry about with her cosmetics campaign launch next week.

“One night,” she says. “Four hours. Bring your laptop and doom-scroll spreadsheets between drinks if it helps. I'll even find us a designated crying corner where you can sob into financial projections while I hand you shots. Super trendy.”

“I haven't done shots since the night I ended up using a taco as a pillow at two a.m.”

“Exactly! Don't you want redemption? A chance to pass out on higher quality Mexican food? I know a place with fantastic enchiladas that are so bouncy they’ll cradle your face without ruining your makeup.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“I get that you’re busy.” Her tone softens. “But, seriously, Layla. I miss you. Audrey misses you. The barista at Bloom & Brew asked if you died. Literally asked me if I needed grief counseling resources.”

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