Page 26 of Dial B for Billionaire

My breath hitches. Something cold and hot twists in my stomach all at once.

Festival Guy.

Bennett Mercer.

I blink, but the image stays sharp. Like it’s burned into the screen. And into my memory.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, pulse stuttering as a chill races across my skin.

My mom lifts a brow, misreading the reaction. “I know, right? Gorgeous,” she says, reclaiming her phone. “He never gave me his name, but the conversation did get a bit spicy. Then he realized I wasn't who he thought I was and ghosted. Shame, really.”

“Bennett.” My mouth goes dry.

“Bennett?”

I force myself to nod, fighting a rising wave of panic. “Bennett Mercer.”

She raises a brow. “You know him?”

“You could, ah, say that.” I reach for my wine, the glass suddenly slippery in my grasp. “Mom. What's your number again?”

“You know this. Practically the same as yours. Except?—”

“The last two digits are flipped,” I finish, horrified.

“Exactly. We got our plans together, remember? It was so funny at the time. But, boy, does it make remembering each other's number easy.”

My stomach sinks. A slow, dawning horror washes over me.

“Oh, god.”

And just like that, it all clicks. The silence. The tension in the boardroom this morning. The look he gave me like I'd kicked his dog.

He thought I gave him a fake number.

And I thought he ghosted.

“Layla?” Mom peers at me. “You've gone pale. What's going on?”

“That's him. That's the CEO who's buying Dad's company.”

She stares. “Symmetrical face guy is yourcorporate raider?”

“And it gets worse,” I whisper. “I'm the girl he met at the festival. He was trying to textme.” I take a gulp of wine before I let out a slow breath. “I think... well, I guess—since he texted you—I gave him your number instead of mine.”

“Ohhh,” she says, realization dawning. “How did that happen?”

“I was nervous. My fingers were sweaty…”

“Oh gosh.” She offers me the phone again, and I scroll through the messages, dread rising with every word. The flirty banter. The moment the tone changed.

He thought I'd played him.

“This is awful.” I bury my face in my hands. “He must've thought I was messing with him. Giving him a fake number to humiliate him.”

“And now he's buying your company,” Mom says, her voice caught between mortified and fascinated. She blinks, setting her wineglass down with a soft clink.

“No wonder he looked at me like I'd personally betrayed him during the meeting.”

---