Page 23 of Dial B for Billionaire

“I said it's not a problem.” My tone is final. Absolute. “I don't mix business and personal. Ever.”

“Right,” he says, settling back. “Paragon of emotional detachment.”

“Precisely.”

“Which explains why your knuckles are white from squeezing that armrest to death.”

I release the leather, flexing my fingers. “I'm annoyed. I got played.”

“If you say so.” He doesn't look up. “But prepareyourself for seeing her again. Due diligence isn't a one-night stand.”

I say nothing. He has no idea how prepared I am. How much mental energy I'm already wasting on anticipating our next encounter. That's precisely the problem.

“I'm always prepared, Caleb. That's why we close deals others can't.”

“Hm.” It's the sound he makes when he disagrees but values his life too much to push.

The car stops outside our building. Before I can escape, Caleb grabs my arm.

“Saturday. Rooftop. Eight o'clock. I'll send details.” His voice softens. “You need to decompress. Last quarter nearly killed us both.”

I consider refusing. But he's not wrong. I've been living on espresso and spite.

“Fine. Send it.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “That easy?”

“Don't make me change my mind.” I pause. “And don't think I don't know what this is.”

“Concerned friendship?”

“Monitoring my mental state to protect the deal.”

He doesn't deny it. “Two birds, one stone.”

I step into bright sunlight, the city's afternoon glare bouncing off glass towers. “I'll see you upstairs. Need to make a call.”

He nods and vanishes inside. I stay on the sidewalk, pulling out my phone.

I scroll to Jenna, my executive assistant, and type:

Me:

I need everything we have on Layla Carmichael. Education. Work history. Personal background. Especially any ties to other private equity or VC groups.

Her reply is instant:

Jenna:

How deep?

Me:

Deep enough to know if she's playing an angle.

I pocket my phone and inhale. City exhaust, the sharp tang of the lake not far away.

This isn't personal.

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