Page 113 of Dial B for Billionaire

I shouldn't look. This isn't meant for me.

But my fingers are already flipping pages.

Financial projections. Product line evaluations. A detailed plan for the future of Carmichael Innovations, all laid out with timelines. My heart races as I scan phrases like 'restructuring committee' and 'cost-reduction measures.'

Each word tightens the knot in my stomach.

Then I find the section on layoffs and personnel changes.

The world tilts.

Phase Two begins after year one. Complete absorption of Carmichael Innovations into Mercer Healthcare. Campus closure. Remaining staff moved to Mercer headquarters. Ninety percent of positions redundant. Research division reduced to a small team focused only on maintaining NeuraTech, not developing it.

My father's position terminated.

My position terminated.

A plan to destroy everything we built, laid out in bullet points and charts.

My hands shake as I keep reading. There's a note about me: 'COO position redundant after integration. Potential retention as consultant based on performance (3-month maximum).'

The room spins. After everything—all the late nights, all the compromise, all the defending this acquisition to our staff—they've given me a potential three-month consulting gig before throwing me away completely.

And Bennett knows. Has known all along.

While I've been falling in love with him, sharing his bed, moving into his home, he's still been planning to eliminate my job. Planning to destroy what's left of Dad's legacy. Planning to fire almost everyone I care about.

The betrayal hits like a punch to the chest, stealing my breath.

Has this all been a lie? Lisbon, the closet he built for me, the way he looks at me when we're alone—was it all just distraction while he dismantled my life?

My phone buzzes.

Bennett:

Thai or Italian?

The betrayal is so sharp it feels physical, like acid in my throat. How can he act so casual while planning my execution in footnotes?

I stand, needing to move, to breathe.

This must be a draft. Or a worst-case scenario analysis. Something they ran by legal and buried.

But then I see the date. Last week. And the signature: B. Mercer.

Not buried. Not hypothetical. Real. Approved. His.

The man I love is systematically destroying everything I've worked for while sleeping beside me each night.

What else has he hidden?

My phone rings—Dad calling. The universe has perfect timing.

“Dad,” I answer, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“Layla.” His tone is unusually warm. “Do you have a minute?”

“Dad, I can’t really deal with this right now.”

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