Page 45 of Dial B for Billionaire

I flee before my body can override my brain. In the elevator, I slump against the wall, pulse racing like I've run a marathon. My legs are actually shaking. From words.From three little words and the way his eyes went dark when he said them.

I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache he's left between them. Again.

Twelve months of this. Twelve months of pretending I don't want him to bend me over that pristine desk.

This is going to be the longest year of my life.

And I'm definitely going to need better underwear.

BENNETT

“Three workouts yesterday?” Caleb's standing in my doorway like he's caught me embezzling. “Jenna says you went through four shirts and scared two interns in the gym.”

“It's been a challenging week.” I don't look up from the Nakamura contract revision. Fifteen pages of legal gymnastics that should hold my complete attention. Instead, I'm calculating how many hours until I might accidentally run into Layla by the coffee station.

“A challenging week.” He steps inside, closing the door. “Is that what we're calling your slow descent into madness?”

“I'm not?—”

“Monday: You rescheduled a board call because it conflicted with the Carmichael integration meeting. Tuesday: You personally reviewed janitor schedules for the NeuraTech lab. Wednesday: Logan caught you staring at Layla's ass for a full thirty seconds during his presentation.”

I finally look up. “Logan's exaggerating.”

“Logan timed it.” Caleb drops into his usual chair. “And let's not forget last week's masterpiece—telling her the green dress looked good on her. In front of Jenna. Who told Claire. Who told the entire forty-second floor.”

“Since when do you listen to office gossip?”

He grins. “Since always. The ladies love a man who listens. You should try it sometime instead of just growling at them.”

“I don't growl.”

“You literally growled at the coffee vendor this morning because he was talking to Layla too long.”

Fuck. “He was holding up the line.”

“He was taking her order.” Caleb leans back, studying me like I'm a fascinating specimen. “I'm actually impressed you've held out this long. It's been, what, three weeks since the rooftop? I had money on you cracking by day three.”

“You bet on my self-control?”

“Everyone did. Vicky has you making it a month. Jenna thinks you'll snap during the board presentation next week.” He pulls out his phone. “Want to know what odds they're giving?”

“This is wildly inappropriate.”

“So is eye-fucking your acquisition target's daughter, but here we are.” His grin widens. “The entire finance department has a spreadsheet.”

My phone buzzes before I can respond. Email from Robert Carmichael with the subject line: URGENT - Corporate Vampirism and the Death of Innovation.

“Christ,” I mutter, opening it.

It's worse than a manifesto. It's a declaration of war. Four pages of increasingly unhinged metaphors comparing me to various parasites, complete with attached scientific articles about bloodsucking organisms. The phrase “Bennett Mercer's soulless money machine” appears seven times.

“Let me guess,” Caleb says. “Robert's having another episode?”

“He's completely lost it.” I scroll through charts he's made showing 'Innovation Death Spirals.' “This is the fifth email this week. He CC'd the entire board.”

“And the press?” Caleb leans forward to look.

“Not yet. But he's threatening to call Wright Media. Says the public deserves to know how we're 'murdering the future of medical innovation.'”

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