Page 86 of Dial B for Billionaire

But as I lie in my too-big bed, I can't help noticing how cold the sheets feel. How quiet the room is without his steady breathing. Four nights in his arms, and my body's already forgotten how to sleep alone.Shit. I’m already too deep.

BENNETT

“That's the last of it.” Caleb closes his laptop with finality. “The deal is contained. For now.”

I lean back and stare at the city lights. The whole city glitters beyond my office windows, indifferent to corporate crises and CEOs who can't stop thinking about women in their t-shirts.

“Someone fed those numbers to their board on purpose.” I roll my neck, trying to crack out the tension. “This wasn't an accident.”

“Agreed.” Caleb loosens his tie. “My money's on Harris. He's been gunning for your position since last quarter.”

“Let him try.” The words come out sharper than intended. “It's my fucking company.”

“CEOs get unseated all the time. Especially when they're distracted.” He gives me a pointed look. “We pulled this back from the brink, but we need to address the source.”

“I'll handle Harris.” My phone sits silent on the desk.No messages. No missed calls. My fingers twitch toward it before I catch myself.

Caleb notices, because of course he does. “She's probably asleep, you know. Like normal humans are at two in the morning.”

“I wasn't?—”

“Right.” He stretches, joints popping. “Come on. Let's grab a drink at The Metropolitan. Clear our heads.”

My instinct is to refuse. To go home where her scent still lingers on my sheets. Where her coffee mug sits in my sink. Where everything will feel oddly empty without her chaos…

“Fine,” I agree, realizing I don’t want to go back to where she isn’t. “One drink.”

Caleb's eyebrows shoot up. “Alert the press—Bennett Mercer just agreed to fun. Should I check for a fever?”

“Don't push it.”

Twenty minutes later, we're at The Metropolitan Club. The leather and whiskey smell of old money can't mask the fact that I'd rather be anywhere else. Specifically, wherever Layla is right now.

“Macallan 25,” I tell the waiter. “Neat.”

“Same,” Caleb adds, then peers across the dimly lit space. “Is that Kennedy and Cruz?”

Indeed. Ronan Kennedy sits in the corner with Dominic Cruz, both men engaged in what appears to be an animated discussion over tablets and whiskey.

“Didn't know Ronan was in Chicago,” I comment.

“Want to say hello?” Caleb's already standing. “Haven't seen him since the Miami conference.”

We cross the room, expensive shoes silent on thick carpet. Dominic spots us first, his face splitting into a grin.

“Well, well. Chicago's most dangerous acquisitor graces us with his presence.” He stands, pulling Caleb into one of those half-hug things men do. “And past midnight too. Did hell freeze over?”

“Bennett's turning over a new leaf,” Caleb says. “He's practically human these days.”

Ronan rises, shaking hands with his usual efficiency. “Gentlemen. Join us?”

We settle into leather chairs just as our drinks arrive.

“What brings you to Chicago?” Caleb asks Ronan.

“Navakor Energy board meeting. Dominic's considering co-investing.”

“Considering?” Dominic laughs. “You mean you're trying to convince me to throw money at another one of your unicorns.”

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