Page 122 of Dial B for Billionaire

“You're saying I'm distracted.”

“I'm saying you're love sick,” she replies, abandoning caution. “Beyond recognition.”

“I'll fix it,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Call her. Text her,” Jenna says softly. “Go see her. Tell her how you feel. Don't wait until it's too late.” She leaves, closing the door with a quiet click that sounds like an accusation.

I stare at my phone on the desk. Text her. As if Ihaven't been typing and deleting messages like a lovesick teenager. As if I haven't been pouring out everything I thought I could never say—missing her, needing her, wanting her so much I can't breathe.

I'm sorry,I keep writing.

I need you,I keep writing.

Please,I keep writing.

But none of it scratches the surface of how fucking hollow I feel.

When I don’t hear back, I stare out the window, searching for an answer in the steel and glass of Chicago. The city I've always controlled, always owned, always made bend to my will.

There has to be a way to get her back. To make her understand that what we have is bigger than even we knew.

“Fuck it.” I pick up my cell and type out yet another text, knowing I won’t get a response, but needing the hope of contact anyway.

me:

Your assistant says you're still out sick. I know that's not true. I'm worried about you.

I stare at the screen after I hit send, willing her to respond. To give me something. Anything.

I’m about to toss my phone back on the desk when three dots appear.Holy shit.My heart hammers.

Layla:

I'm fine.

Two words that say nothing and everything. I’m so fucking elated that I type back before I can stop myself:

me:

You're not fine. Neither am I.

Layla:

I can't do this right now.

Me:

When?

Layla:

I don't know.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could push. Demand. Take control like I do with everything else. Instead, I type two words that feel like surrendering.

me:

I'll wait.

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