Page 12 of Dial B for Billionaire

“Thank you for being here,” he says. “I won't waste your time.”

The hush is instant. Even the usual creaking of chairs stops.

“Our situation following the ArterialSeal recall has become… untenable. Despite our efforts, our cash reserves have run dangerously low.”

A ripple of murmurs. I keep my face composed, but my stomach drops like I've swallowed a stone. Dad never admits weakness. Not to the board, not to anyone. Not even when his first company failed. Not even when mom left.

“After careful consideration,” he continues, “I've decided to pursue outside support. This morning, I received an acquisition offer I can’t say no to.”

Dead silence.

My spine locks. The pen in my hand freezes mid-tap against my notepad.

“I've invited the interested party to present their proposal directly. They should be here any moment.”

The door opens, and we all stand.

Two men enter.

The first is tall, with neatly styled hair, sharp suit. He’s clearly legal. Controlled, practiced, efficient—oddly familiar, but I can’t place why or where I might have seen him. He scans the room like he's cataloging potential threats before stepping aside so the second man becomes visible.

Holy shit.

My breath catches, lungs suddenly forgetting their basic function.

Those steel-blue eyes.

That perfectly symmetrical face.

Festival Guy.

The ghost who's been haunting my phone notifications for weeks.

My stomach drops like I've hit a pocket of turbulence at 30,000 feet.

No. No way. This can't be happening.

Except he's not in a henley and jeans this time. He's wrapped in power. Charcoal suit, polished shoes, screaming authority. The casual, almost playful man from the festival has vanished, replaced by someone who looks like he eats companies like ours for breakfast and doesn't even need hot sauce.

I go cold, then hot, then cold again, my body unable to decide between fight or flight or total system shutdown. My fingertips tingle like I've pressed them against ice. The pen in my hand might as well be made of lead, impossible to lift.

“Everyone,” my father says, “this is Bennett Mercer, CEO of Mercer Capital, and his counsel, Caleb Kingsley.”

Bennett Mercer.

The name lands like a gavel in a silent courtroom.

His gaze sweeps the room, clinical and calm. Until it lands on me.

And stops.

His expression doesn't flicker. Not a single muscle twitches.

But his eyes…

They recognize me.

And they don't soften.

---