Page 31 of Dial B for Billionaire

“I texted her. Once. Wrong number.”

“She gave you a fake number, then acted blindsided when she saw you again?” Caleb lets out a low whistle. “That’s cold.”

“Or careless.”

“Or both.” He watches me. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it’s irrelevant.”

“Is it?”

I stare down my drink. “Yes.”

“You’re off balance.”

“I don’t get off balance.”

“Sure,” he deadpans.

I glance at him.

“So what now? You gonna sit here and glare at her until she trips on her heels?”

“I'm going to finish my drink. Then go home.”

It’s a lie.

I’m anchored here like gravity recalibrated just for her. My pulse synced to her movements. Watching her like she’s some illusion I might blink away if I stop.

“She looked blindsided, Bennett,” Caleb says, quieter now. “That wasn’t a con in the boardroom.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours. Always. Which is why I’m telling you—you may have read her wrong.”

I don’t answer.

Because for the first time in a long time… I don’t know what I know. A flash of movement pulls my attention back to her table. She's standing.

She says something to her friends, then heads toward the bar.

The bar right near us.

Every rational instinct flares—leave, get out, walk away now—but I don’t move.

I stay frozen, muscles locked, as if leaving would confirm something I can’t name.

Caleb clocks it. Raises a brow. “Looks like fate’s taking over.”

“There’s no such thing as fate.”

“Then someone should tell your face. It didn’t get the memo.”

I shoot him a glare, then glance back, just in time to catch her leaning against the bar, speaking to the bartender.

That dress. That mouth. That hair I’ve already memorized in more ways than I should admit.

The line of her neck as she laughs—Jesus.

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