Page 94 of Dial B for Billionaire

“It was a very large, very mean horse,” he protests, eyes laughing.

“What about you?” he asks. “What secrets is Layla Carmichael hiding?”

I bite my lip, considering. “I applied to art school before engineering. My portfolio was actually accepted.”

His eyebrows rise. “I didn't know you were an artist.”

“I'm not, really. Not anymore.” I trace the condensation on my water glass. The acceptance letter had been tucked in my desk drawer for months before I finally threw it away. “My father convinced me engineering wasmore practical. He wasn't wrong, but sometimes I wonder who I might have been.”

The admission feels like confessing to a crime. I've never told anyone about that acceptance letter, not even Serena.

“Do you still draw?”

I shake my head. “Not in years.”

“Why not?”

The question pierces something tender. “I guess I figured if I wasn't going to do it professionally, why bother?”

“That's sad.” His voice is gentle. “Some things are worth doing simply because they bring joy.”

The observation surprises me. Bennett's entire life seems built around productivity and purpose.

“What about you?” I ask. “What do you do simply for joy?”

“I play piano. Not well, but it settles my mind.”

“Classical?”

“Mostly. Some jazz. My mother taught me before she died.”

The casual mention catches me off guard. He's never spoken of his family.

“How old were you?” I ask gently.

“Sixteen. Car accident.”

“I'm so sorry.” My chest tightens at the pain in his voice. “And you’ve lost your father too?”

He nods. “I was twenty-two when that happened. But it was a long time ago now.” He shrugs, but I see the tension in his jaw.

“Still.” I reach across the table, squeezing his hand. “That's young to lose both parents.”

“After my mother died, I was angry at everything.” His voice drops. “The driver who hit her car. The doctors who couldn't save her. The world for taking her away. My father tried, but he was broken too. Worked double shifts, came home exhausted, barely speaking.”

I listen, sensing he rarely shares this part of himself. His thumb traces my knuckles, anchoring himself to the present.

“I promised myself I'd never let that happen again. I needed to be the one in control, the one making sure everything worked. And that’s what pushed me into finance—into this world where I could take something broken and fix it.”

“So you built a wall,” I say softly, my heart aching for him, for that boy who lost so much too young. “A wall around your heart.”

“Yes.” He leans back, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “But then you came along and crashed straight through it. I’m still trying to figure out how to rebuild.”

“Rebuild while keeping your heart open, I hope?”

“Exactly,” he admits, his expression shifting as if the weight of our conversation just settled heavily on his shoulders. “You're an enigma, Layla. Turning my whole world upside down and making me question everything I thought I wanted.”

“Does that scare you?” I ask, wanting to understand how deep this really goes. “The idea of feeling more than just in control?”

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