2. Bennett
BENNETT
“ T hat was unnecessary,” I say as our driver eases into traffic. “Dominic is capable of handling Tokyo alone.”
“He already has.” Beside me, Caleb doesn't even glance up, his thumbs moving in rapid succession across his phone screen. “You can thank me later.”
“For fabricating a reason to drag me away from an interesting conversation?”
Now he looks up. One eyebrow arches in that annoyingly familiar way I've seen since our first year at Harvard Business School. “Interesting? You looked at her like she was the answer to a question you didn’t know you’d been asking.”
I glance out the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and blue. He's not wrong, which is precisely why his interruption was both irritating and probably necessary.
“Just be careful,” Caleb says, voice dipping into that rare territory he reserves for friendship rather than legal advice. “Random encounters like that don't happen without strings. Not with men like us.”
“She didn't even know who I was.”
“You don't know that,” he counters. “Your face has been on those damn 'Most Eligible Billionaire' lists for the last three years. Half the internet has a crush on you.”
I scoff. “So has yours.”
“Exactly. Which is why I recognize the signs.”
His cynicism isn't unfounded. We've both been burned by people who saw our names as assets, not identities.
“She felt genuine,” I say, surprised by the softness in my voice.
Caleb lowers his phone, just enough to shoot me a look. “So did Rachel Donovan. Until she turned out to be the daughter of your rival's CFO and was stealing intel every time you took a damn shower.”
I flinch. That one still stings, even though it happened early in my career. I was too young, too trusting, too careless. She was a mistake I swore I’d never make again.
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 facade 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, a pull I'd forgotten existed. A reminder of what it felt like to want .
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 to me . 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?
My brow furrows. She's joking, right?
me:
Are you telling me you attended more than one street festival where you approached a guy and commented on his face symmetry tonight?
her:
Oh! THAT festival. Of course. You’re that guy with…the face.
OK. Still playful. A little vague, but I'll roll with it.
me:
An important quality to have. Almost as important as a name. You said you’d give me yours if I called...
her:
I did, didn't I? But you're texting, not calling. So…
She’s got spunk. I find myself smiling.
me:
I could call right now.
her:
Let's not rush things. I think there's something exciting about a little mystery, don't you?
My eyebrow raises. Not the response I expected.
me:
So, Mystery Woman, what are you doing right now?
her:
Unwinding with a glass of wine. After an… eventful day. You?
I glance out at the city below.
me:
The same, but scotch. Thinking about an unexpected encounter that ended too soon.
her:
That sounds intriguing. What made it so memorable?
I pause. It’s a fair question. And it’s not the answer she probably expects.
me:
You did. Your boldness. Most people don't approach me like that.
her:
I like bold moves. Sometimes the best things in life come from impulse.
I smile. She's got bite. I like that.
me:
Agreed. Though I wish we'd had more time before my associate dragged me off.
her:
Business always calls. What do you do that's so important?
me:
Investments. Mergers. Nothing sexy on paper, but it pays the bills.
her:
I don't know. Symmetry and business savvy? You could probably get a spread in Forbes AND Evolutionary Biology Monthly.
me:
Not as exciting as a COO. Impressive title for someone who prefers anonymity.
her:
Mysterious is the new black. You should try it sometime.
I stare at her reply, the words making my heart kick up. She could still be anyone. She could still be anything. But, damn it, I want to know.
I smile, thumb flying over the keyboard.
me:
I'll work on it.
her:
I sense a man who likes to be in control.
me:
Of course. I wouldn’t be a success if I didn’t.
her:
I suppose that depends on how one defines success.
OK. That's new. And interesting. My fingers tighten on the glass.
me:
And how would you define it?
her:
You first, Mr. Control.
Something about her name choice sends an unexpected jolt through me. I realize I'm actually enjoying the game.
me:
Building something real. Owning every decision. Not needing anyone else's approval.
her:
Mmm. A man who knows what he wants. Are you always this decisive?
me:
In business? Yes. In bed? I like to take my time.
There's a long pause.
The seconds tick by. My heart rate increases, a response I usually associate with high-stakes negotiations, not text messages.
Then. A buzz.
her:
I'd like to be appreciated like that. Thoroughly. How about you tell me what you’re wearing right now?
My brows lift. Heat pools in my stomach.
me:
Still in the same clothes. Just got home. Living room.
her:
Alone?
me:
Yes.
her:
Describe it to me. I want to picture it.
me:
how about I show it to you?
her:
You mean... a picture?
I hesitate. This kind of openness is foreign territory, but the thought of it sends a thrill through me.
In this moment, there are no rules, no safeguards. Only discovery. Only risk. I’m not used to wanting like this, not used to making leaps without knowing where I’ll land. It feels reckless. It feels refreshing. It feels fucking good.
me:
Exactly.
No reply. Just the typing bubbles.
me:
You said you like bold.
There’s a beat of time where the bubbles stop then start a few times before the next message pops up.
her:
I do.
I set my drink down and take a quick selfie—city lights behind me, henley unbuttoned, scotch in frame. Relaxed. Casual.
I send it.
A minute passes.
Two.
Three.
The wait is excruciating. I find myself pacing, something I never do.
Then…
her:
My goodness. You're even more handsome than I imagined. That view's not bad either.
me:
Your turn.
Another pause.
Then a photo appears.
I tap it open.
And go completely still.
No.
It's not her.
Not even close.
The woman in the photo is at least twenty years older. Flawless makeup, auburn hair swept into a silky wave. She's reclined against a velvet headboard in a deep red silk robe, holding a glass of wine and smiling like we've been flirting for hours.
Her:
What do you think? I know I’m not the festival girl you were expecting. But I’m a lot of fun. Care to continue our conversation?
I stare at the screen.
Once.
Twice.
No. No, this can't be right.
me:
I think I have the wrong number. Apologies for bothering you.
I set the phone down on the coffee table a little too hard, chest tight.
She gave me the wrong number.
On purpose?
All that charm. That spark. That flirty little game about making me call her. And the whole time… Is she laughing behind my back?
My jaw clenches. Heat rises in my chest. Not embarrassment—fucking humiliation. Sharp. Sudden. Like a slap.
Caleb was right. Again.
My phone buzzes.
Her:
No bother at all, handsome. These things happen. Though I'm disappointed we won't be continuing our… conversation. If you change your mind, I'm Diana. And I'm very good at keeping secrets.
I don't reply.
Don't even look at the screen again.
I down the rest of my scotch in one sharp burn and walk to the windows, gripping the edge of the glass wall like it might anchor me.
Whatever that was tonight. It wasn't real.
My jaw tightens until I taste metal. Lesson learned.