5. Layla
LAYLA
H e walks away without looking back. No hesitation. No apology. Nothing.
Just like at the festival.
Seven weeks. That's our runway before Carmichael Innovations—my father's twenty-five-year legacy—dissolves like sugar in hot coffee.
The air feels electric, like Bennett Mercer left some invisible current crackling in the room.
I press my palm against my chest, willing my heart to slow.
How can my body still react to him after he just carved up our company like a Thanksgiving turkey?
My skin tingles where his gaze lingered.
My pulse hammers from standing so close to him.
And the worst part? I spent a month daydreaming about this man!
“Traitor,” I mutter to my racing heart. You can't feel betrayed by someone who never actually called when he said he would. Someone who dismissed you like you were as worthless as the company he plans to gut .
But my stubborn body disagrees. Even while my brain screamed at him across that table, I couldn't stop noticing everything. The sharp line of his jaw. Those broad shoulders stretching his tailored suit. His long fingers—the same ones that brushed mine when he took my number at the festival.
“Ugh!” I slump into my chair, dropping my head into my hands. “He wasn't supposed to be this person.”
Not this ruthless shark who measures human beings on spreadsheets. I wasn't supposed to feel this... this...
The door swings open. I snap upright as my father shuffles back in, shoulders hunched like they're carrying the weight of his crumbling company.
“Layla.” He drops into the chair beside me. “I'm sorry you found out this way.”
The shock on my face hardens into something sharper. “A heads up would've been nice. I've spent weeks going cross-eyed over spreadsheets, trying to figure out why our numbers never balanced.”
“I was going to brief you fully this afternoon.”
“Brief me?” I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. “Like I'm some junior manager? I'm your COO, Dad. I'm your daughter.”
“Exactly.” He finally meets my eyes. “That's why I didn't tell you sooner. I knew how you'd react.”
“With reasonable questions? Like why you'd entertain an offer that undervalues us by half? Or why the board's been kept in the dark for months?”
“It's not that simple, Layla.”
“Seven weeks.” I lean forward, tapping my finger on the table with each word. “We have seven weeks before we run out of money completely. How long have you known that?”
His silence is answer enough.
“Three months,” he finally admits.
The words hit like a slap.
“Three months?” My voice rises. “And you didn't think that was something your COO should know about?”
“I thought I could fix it.” His voice shrinks. “The NeuraTech prototype—if we could just get it to clinical trials, the valuation would triple.”
“But it's not ready.” I cross my arms. “You know that.”
“It needs more time.”
“Time we don't have.” I flatten my hands on the table. “Why Mercer? Why not look at other options?”
His head snaps up, eyes flashing. “You think I didn't? You think this was my first call?”
The heat in his voice startles me.
“Every other offer was worse,” he continues, knuckles white as he grips the armrest. “They wanted to gut the IP and dissolve the company. No jobs. No legacy. Mercer was the only one who offered anything worth keeping.”
“And slashing seventy percent of our staff is a win?” I shoot back.
“It's better than zero.” His voice cracks. “Don't mistake realism for surrender. I detest men like Mercer far more than you do.”
“So you sold us out to a man you hate?”
“I lost my first company this way, Layla.” Something haunted flickers in his eyes. “Men in expensive suits who dismantled everything I built. You think I don't know what's coming? ”
The revelation catches me off guard. Dad rarely talks about his life before Carmichael Innovations.
“So why?—”
“Because we're out of time!” He slams his hand against the table, making me jump. “The recall drained everything. The prototype needs work. No bank will touch us.”
His shoulders sag. In the harsh fluorescent light, he looks old. Defeated.
“It's this or bankruptcy. At least this way, something with the Carmichael name might survive.”
I want to scream. To cry. To flip the table. Instead, I breathe.
“You did this behind my back. For months.”
“I was protecting you?—”
“No.” My voice could slice steel. “You were protecting yourself. From the hard conversation. From admitting your dream is dying.”
He winces, and for a moment, I hate myself for the hurt in his eyes. This man taught me to ride a bike, to believe I could do anything. Now he looks broken, and I want to comfort him and shake him at the same time.
“This isn't just unfair to me,” I add, softening slightly. “It's unfair to our staff. And to Mom. She gave up her career for this company.”
“Mercer Capital is our best option,” he says quietly. “The board will see that. Even if you don't.”
I shake my head. “Then I guess I need to prepare for what's coming.”
“Layla—”
“Don't.” I hold up my hand. “I'll be professional. I'll do my job. But don't expect me to pretend this didn't break something. ”
I stride out, each click of my heels against the polished floor like a tiny explosion.
My office feels smaller now. Like the walls have closed in, like I'm sitting at someone else's desk with someone else's problems. Like I'm just borrowing time.
I sink into my chair and punch in the CFO’s extension. He answers on the second ring.
“Harold Winters.”
“I need the real numbers,” I say, skipping the pleasantries. “All of them. No sanitizing. No summaries.”
A pause. “Layla, I?—”
“How long have you known?”
He sighs, the sound crackling through the phone. “Your father asked me not to?—”
“I'm not a child, Harold. I'm the COO.” I press my fingers against my temple, where a headache blooms like an ugly flower. “Did everyone know except me?”
“Not everyone. Just the executive committee.”
“Great. Fantastic.” I twirl a pen between my fingers, nearly snapping it. “So I'm the last to know we're circling the drain?”
“Robert thought if you knew how bad things were?—”
“What? I'd panic? Quit? Tell the truth to our employees?”
“He was trying to protect you.”
“That seems to be the theme of the day,” I snap. “Here's a newsflash: withholding critical financial information from your COO isn't protective—it's sabotage.”
“You're right.” His voice softens. “I told him that. For what it's worth, I'm sorry.”
I exhale slowly. “Just send me everything. Now. The real burn rate, cash reserves, projected runway. ”
“I'll email it over right away.”
I hang up and immediately dial the lab. Audrey picks up, sounding distracted.
“Thornton.”
“Audrey, it's Layla. I need to talk about the NeuraTech prototype.”
“I heard about the meeting.” Her voice drops. “Is it true? Mercer Capital is buying us out?”
“Board hasn't voted yet, but it looks that way.” I flip through Mercer's acquisition packet. “I've been going through his valuation, and I noticed something. The NeuraTech prototype isn't factored in anywhere.”
“That's because it's not ready,” she says. “We're still in early testing. Nothing we can show investors yet.”
“But it works, right? The last report I read said five months.”
A pause. “In controlled conditions. And that five months is the development time we still need before even thinking about clinical trials.”
“What if we accelerated? If we could show Mercer what the prototype can do—even in early stages—it would change the valuation, right?” Hope flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. “Could it save more jobs?”
A longer pause. I can practically hear Audrey's brilliant mind calculating possibilities.
“Maybe,” she says finally. “But we'd need to get it running consistently first. Real results, not just projections.”
“How quickly could we do that?”
“We’d have to quit working on anything but this.”
“Absolutely. ”
“And with our current staff and resources?” She makes a skeptical sound. “Two months minimum.”
“We have ten days,” I tell her. “Maybe less.”
“Jesus.” She takes a breath. “I'll need the whole team working overtime. And even then...”
“Make it happen,” I say, a new determination hardening my voice. “Please? Whatever you need, you've got it. This might be our only chance.”
“Lay, this is crazy. You know that, right?”
“I do. But at least it’s something. I can work with crazy. But I can’t work with nothing at all.”
“Understood. We'll get started right away.”
“Thank you, Audrey.”
Harold's files hit my inbox as I hang up. I scan them. And then immediately wish I hadn't.
Six weeks. Not seven.
My stomach lurches as the reality sinks in. I stare at the numbers, heart pounding, then lean back and press my hands over my face. Everything is worse than I thought.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Serena:
Rooftop bar Saturday, 9PM. I've informed the universe you'll be there. Resistance is futile.
I manage a faint smile.
Me:
Fine. But make it tequila.
Serena:
That's my girl !
I tuck the phone aside. I can't stop the collapse right away. But maybe I can breathe. For a few hours, at least.
And then? Then I'll figure out how to save what's left of my father's legacy. Even if it means going toe-to-toe with the devastatingly handsome corporate shark who’s about to own us.