Page 5 of Dial B for Billionaire

But this felt different. The woman at the festival didn’t come with a pitch or an offer to talk business over an intimate dinner. She blurted out that ridiculous line about my symmetrical face, like it escaped before her brain could catch it. She challenged me without flinching. No pretense. No angle. Just… her.

“Still,” I say, shifting in my seat. “You didn’t have to drag me off like that.”

Caleb snorts. “Five more minutes and you'd have invited her home with you.”

“I wouldn’t have?—”

“You handed her your unlocked phone,” he cuts in. “At a street festival. You've never done that. It was reckless.”

I lean back, exhaling through my nose. The phone is still in my pocket, heavier now. She’s saved as‘Mine’. No name. No last initial. Just a feeling. A bone-deep knowing that this was supposed to happen.

The car pulls up to my building, The Zenith, where the doorman steps forward to open the door before we've fully stopped.

“I'll look over the revised terms and call you in the morning,” I tell Caleb as I slide out.

“Try to get some sleep,” he calls after me. What he really means is:Don’t let her get under your skin.

I barely respond, already focused on the sleek glass-front façade of the building.

“Good evening, Mr. Mercer.” The doorman nods as I pass.

“Evening, Thomas.” The words come easily, muscle memory by now.

The lobby is marble and silence. The private elevator is waiting, its doors already open, and I step inside alone. No music, no buzz. Just the low hum of ascent and the weight of thoughts I probably shouldn't be entertaining.

I hadn't even planned to be there tonight. A potential client had floated the idea of a casual meeting at a restaurant nearby, then canceled last minute with some vague excuse. The bustle of the streets caught my attention, so I stayed. Watched. Observed. Sometimes it helps to remind me what the world looks like outside of meetings and acquisitions and portfolios.

Then she appeared.

Laughing. Animated. The moment she stepped into view, everything around me shifted. She disarmed me with a single glance, and I felt something deep in my chest, apull I'd forgotten existed. A reminder of what it felt like towant.

The elevator opens directly into my penthouse. The motion-sensing lights rise to a soft, warm glow as I enter. The space is sleek, gray and glass. Ordered, controlled. Exactly as I designed it. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of Chicago's skyline, the lights arranged in predictable patterns of commerce and residence. Everything in its place. Everything except the memory of her infectious laughter, the way her lips curved as she fumbled through her words…

I cross to the bar and pour two fingers of Macallan 25, savoring the weight of the tumbler in my hand. The ritual helps. So does the burn.

Still, nothing about her wants to file itself away properly.

The curve of her smile. The fearless way she walked up to me. The ridiculous compliment about my face. And the fact that she didn't ask for anything—not a name, not a title, not a resume. She was happy just talking tome. Some guy she met in a crowd.

I slide my phone from my pocket, my thumb hovering over the screen.

My father used to say real connection was a luxury most men couldn't afford. But I am not my father. And standing there tonight, I felt it. Brief, electric, and utterly unearned.

A simple message. Low risk. Enough to make contact without pushing too hard.

I re-read it four times.

Me:

Symmetrical face guy here. You made quite an impression tonight.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself and set the phone down. I stare at it for a beat, then turn back toward the windows, scotch in hand. Calculated risks, I understand. This feels different. Unquantifiable.

Three agonizing minutes later, it buzzes.

her:

Well hello there. An impression? That sounds promising. Remind me where we met?

---