3. Layla
LAYLA
“ F or the last time, I am not going out this weekend.”
I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear as I flip through the latest stack of financial reports.
The numbers swim before my eyes, each column more depressing than the last. Payroll barely covered.
Vendors demanding upfront payments. Our once-healthy cash reserves now hovering dangerously close to seven figures—and not the good end of seven figures.
We're not just bleeding cash. We're hemorrhaging it.
“You've said that for a month straight,” Serena says, her voice crackling through the speaker. “I'm starting to forget what you look like. Are you still brunette? Do you still have all your limbs? These are important details.”
“Pretty sure I still have the same face,” I mutter, squinting at a column that refuses to balance no matter how many times I check the math. “Just with darker under-eyes and a mild caffeine tremor. Actually, not mild. I've upgraded to full-on vibration mode. ”
“Which is exactly why you need to come out tomorrow night. There's a new rooftop bar on Michigan. Live music. Men who don't smell like medical adhesive samples. Drinks that contain actual fruits and vegetables, which I'm told are important for human survival.”
“Are you calling vodka a vegetable right now?”
“Yes. I’m also referring to cocktails as fruit, so it counts as wellness.”
I smile despite myself, mentally calculating how long we can run at this burn rate before we start making very hard choices. Six months? Maybe less if the prototype testing hits another snag.
“I appreciate the offer, but I'm drowning, Rena. Dad's buried in the lab building his dream machine, and I'm trying to stop this place from flatlining. Someone has to be the adult in the room.”
I don't mention just how close we are to that flatline. No need to drag her into the deep end with me. She has enough to worry about with her cosmetics campaign launch next week.
“One night,” she says. “Four hours. Bring your laptop and doom-scroll spreadsheets between drinks if it helps. I'll even find us a designated crying corner where you can sob into financial projections while I hand you shots. Super trendy.”
“I haven't done shots since the night I ended up using a taco as a pillow at two a.m.”
“Exactly! Don't you want redemption? A chance to pass out on higher quality Mexican food? I know a place with fantastic enchiladas that are so bouncy they’ll cradle your face without ruining your makeup.”
“I really shouldn’t. ”
“I get that you’re busy.” Her tone softens. “But, seriously, Layla. I miss you. Audrey misses you. The barista at Bloom & Brew asked if you died. Literally asked me if I needed grief counseling resources.”
Guilt pinches behind my ribs like a crab that's moved in and started redecorating. I've barely seen them since the street festival besides a few rushed check-ins and unanswered texts.
“I'm just... trying to save twenty-five years of my father's work,” I say, tracing a finger over the nameplate on my desk: Layla Carmichael, COO. “Some days I feel like a kid playing dress-up in her dad's clothes. Other days I'm terrified I might be the only grown up making decisions.”
“Meanwhile, you’re working yourself into an early grave. Stellar plan, Lay. I can see the epitaph now: 'Here lies Layla Carmichael. She had incredible spreadsheet skills but forgot humans need sunlight and fun to survive.'”
“I’m doing OK.”
“OK? When was the last time you even had sex? It’s great for stress relief, you know?”
“Need I remind you what happened the last time you talked me into approaching someone?” I say, sharper than I mean to. “I spent two weeks diving for my phone like Pavlov's dog, waiting for a call that never came.”
“Festival Guy?” She lets out a huff. “Please. His jawline wasn't even that impressive.”
“You literally called him a 'living sculpture.' You said his cheekbones could cut glass.”
“I was drunk on sangria and high on matchmaking hormones. My judgment was compromised. Those dimples were a tactical diversion.”
I laugh, spinning my chair to face the window.
The original Carmichael Innovations building sits at the front of the campus, small, brick, and proud.
The birthplace of everything. Dad's dream given physical form.
And lately, the weight of all that history feels like it's pressing on my spine, vertebra by vertebra.
“I really thought we clicked,” I admit. “And then… nothing. Radio silence. Not even the courtesy ghost.”
“His loss,” Serena says. “He was probably intimidated by your massive?—”
“Professional accomplishments?”
“I was gonna say tits, but sure. Let's go with your brain and leadership qualities.”
Before I can respond with the appropriate level of outrage, an email notification pings. Subject line: BOARD MEETING – URGENT.
Dad's name.
My pulse jumps like it's been electrically shocked. “Listen, I have to go. Dad called an emergency meeting in thirty.”
“On a Friday? That's ominous. Did something explode in the lab again?”
“Probably just R&D budget stuff.” The lie lands bitter in my mouth, coating my tongue like cheap coffee. “Routine panic.”
“Fine, abandon me in my hour of need,” Serena huffs. “But this isn't over. I'm texting you time slots. I've created a PowerPoint presentation on the benefits of human interaction. There are pie charts, Layla. PIE CHARTS.”
“I'm not promising anything.”
“You don't have to. I already promised the universe. Love you, mean it, bye!”
She hangs up before I can argue. I toss my phone onto my desk and press my fingertips to my temples, trying to chase away the headache forming just behind my eyes. It's been my constant companion for weeks now, right alongside insomnia and that persistent twitch in my left eyelid.
The ArterialSeal recall destroyed our safety net.
Dad's new prototype, while brilliant, has drained our R&D reserves, and the vultures have started circling.
Private equity firms. Competitors. The kinds of people who don't see legacies, only liabilities.
The kinds of people who'd gut the building, keep the patents, and send everyone else packing.
I glance at the time. Twenty minutes. Just enough to prep the projections and pray Dad hasn't done something drastic.
The boardroom is too warm, the air stuffy with anxiety and overcompensating cologne. The usual pre-meeting small talk has been replaced by tense silence and darting glances. Even the coffee tastes bitter today, like it knows something we don't.
I settle into my usual seat beside Dad's. The board members filter in, and we exchange polite nods. Everyone knows something's coming. We just don't know what.
The door opens, and Dad enters, straightening his burgundy gear-print bowtie—a Christmas gift from the engineers that he wears to every ‘important’ meeting. Usually it makes me smile. Today it makes my heart hurt.
He doesn't sit.
He grips the back of his chair and looks around the room like he's bracing for a wave about to crash over all of us.
“Thank you for being here,” he says. “I won't waste your time. ”
The hush is instant. Even the usual creaking of chairs stops.
“Our situation following the ArterialSeal recall has become… untenable. Despite our efforts, our cash reserves have run dangerously low.”
A ripple of murmurs. I keep my face composed, but my stomach drops like I've swallowed a stone. Dad never admits weakness. Not to the board, not to anyone. Not even when his first company failed. Not even when mom left.
“After careful consideration,” he continues, “I've decided to pursue outside support. This morning, I received an acquisition offer I can’t say no to.”
Dead silence.
My spine locks. The pen in my hand freezes mid-tap against my notepad.
“I've invited the interested party to present their proposal directly. They should be here any moment.”
The door opens, and we all stand.
Two men enter.
The first is tall, with neatly styled hair, sharp suit. He’s clearly legal. Controlled, practiced, efficient—oddly familiar, but I can’t place why or where I might have seen him. He scans the room like he's cataloging potential threats before stepping aside so the second man becomes visible.
Holy shit.
My breath catches, lungs suddenly forgetting their basic function.
Those steel-blue eyes.
That perfectly symmetrical face.
Festival Guy .
The ghost who's been haunting my phone notifications for weeks.
My stomach drops like I've hit a pocket of turbulence at 30,000 feet.
No. No way. This can't be happening.
Except he's not in a henley and jeans this time. He's wrapped in power. Charcoal suit, polished shoes, screaming authority. The casual, almost playful man from the festival has vanished, replaced by someone who looks like he eats companies like ours for breakfast and doesn't even need hot sauce.
I go cold, then hot, then cold again, my body unable to decide between fight or flight or total system shutdown. My fingertips tingle like I've pressed them against ice. The pen in my hand might as well be made of lead, impossible to lift.
“Everyone,” my father says, “this is Bennett Mercer, CEO of Mercer Capital, and his counsel, Caleb Kingsley.”
Bennett Mercer.
The name lands like a gavel in a silent courtroom.
His gaze sweeps the room, clinical and calm. Until it lands on me.
And stops.
His expression doesn't flicker. Not a single muscle twitches.
But his eyes…
They recognize me.
And they don't soften.
They harden. Steel blue gone to arctic ice in a heartbeat.
“Thank you for the introduction, Mr. Carmichael,” he says, voice smooth, professional, and unfeeling. “We appreciate the opportunity to discuss how Mercer Capital can help Carmichael Innovations reach its full potential.”
We all sit. He takes the seat directly across from me.
Never once looks at me again.
But I feel his dismissal like a physical blow. The man who said he wanted to call me, the one who seemed genuinely interested, has been replaced by someone else entirely. Someone who looks right through me.
And suddenly I understand. I wasn't ghosted by Festival Guy.
I'm being haunted by Bennett Mercer. He knew. He had to have known. And now he’s here. To what? Finish the job?