Page 47 of Dial B for Billionaire

“Four pages. Graphs. Scientific articles about parasites. He CC'd your entire board.”

“Of course he did.” I can hear her rubbing her temples through the phone. “Yesterday he printed out pictures of you and drew devil horns on them. I found them taped to the lab door.”

Despite everything, my mouth twitches. “Creative.”

“He's convinced you're going to turn NeuraTech into—and I quote—'a soulless profit tentacle of the Mercer empire.'”

“Dinner tonight. Lorenzo's. Seven-thirty.” I lean back, already imagining her across from me. “Can you make him behave?”

“I can try. But he's like a terrier with a bone when he thinks he's right.”

“I need this contained, Layla. The board's already nervous about the changes we’ve made to the timeline.”

“I know.” Her voice drops. “I'll handle him. Somehow.”

Silence stretches between us, charged with everything we're not saying.

“It's been a long week,” she says finally.

“Yes.”

“That thing you said. About my dress.”

My pulse kicks up. “What about it?”

“I think your assistant overheard and told someone. I've had three people ask me if we're sleeping together.”

“What did you tell them?”

“The truth. That we're maintaining professional boundaries.”

“Right.” The words taste like ash. “Professional boundaries.”

“Exactly.” She pauses. “Even though you look at me like you're imagining what I'd look like naked.”

My cock goes rock hard. “Layla?—”

“I'll see you tonight, Bennett. Try not to growl at any more coffee vendors.”

She hangs up before I can respond. I stare at the phone, adjusting myself under the desk.

Professional boundaries. Right.

I'm so completely fucked.

LAYLA

Lorenzo's doesn't just whisper money, it practically purrs it. The kind of place where the waiter knows which fork you're supposed to use for your salad, and silently judges you if you get it wrong.

Right now, it's also the seventh circle of corporate hell.

We're forty-three minutes into what should've been a peace summit. Instead, it's more like watching two prize fighters circle each other while I referee in heels that are pinching my toes. Dad's been stabbing his salmon like it isn’t dead enough. Bennett's cutting his steak with the precision of a surgeon who's one wrong move from amputating something important.

I've managed three bites of risotto. It tastes like disappointment with a hint of truffle oil.

“So.” Dad's voice could freeze Lake Michigan. “This multi-application approach to NeuraTech. Walk me through it again.”

Bennett sets down his knife with deliberate care. Under the table, his knee shifts, barely grazing mine. Thecontact is so brief I might've imagined it, except for the way his jaw tightens.

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