7. Layla
LAYLA
“ Y ou're not eating.”
Mom gestures toward my barely touched gnocchi, concern etched into the fine lines around her eyes. Diana Carmichael has always been perceptive. Especially when I'm trying to hide something.
“I'm pacing myself,” I say, dragging a single potato pillow through the cream sauce. “Unlike some people who inhale their food like it's trying to escape.”
“Life's too short for slow eating.” She takes another bite of salmon and closes her eyes in appreciation. “Especially when it's this good.”
Our cozy Italian spot has been our mother-daughter tradition since high school with its soft lighting, red-checked tablecloths, and a chef who still pinches my cheeks like I'm twelve.
Tonight, the comfort only highlights how much has changed in the eight hours since Bennett Mercer walked into our boardroom and upended everything.
“So,” she says, setting down her fork, “are you going to tell me what's wrong, or should I start guessing? Bad day doesn't begin to cover that look on your face.”
I set my fork down too. “Did you know? About Dad selling the company?”
Her expression shifts. Just enough to confirm everything.
“Ah.”
“That's not an answer.”
“You already know the answer,” she says, sipping her wine as I just stare at her. “Yes.” She sighs. “He told me about a month ago.”
Another one. Another person who knew before I did.
I pick up my fork again. “You didn't think to mention it?”
“It wasn't my place, sweetheart.” Her voice softens. “That was your father's responsibility.”
“Except he didn't tell me.” I stab a piece of gnocchi with a little more force than necessary. “Not until the buyer was already walking into our boardroom this morning.”
“That sounds like your father.” A sad smile crosses her face. “Always waiting for the miracle solution that never comes.”
She looks different lately. Lighter in a way. The auburn highlights in her hair seem brighter. Her outfit pops with color instead of the muted tones she used to favor.
“Is that why you left?” I ask. “Because of the company?”
She considers, twirling her wineglass by the stem. “Not directly. But his pride... his refusal to ask for help... yes, that was part of it.”
“He kept the company's finances from me. ”
“In his mind, admitting the company was failing meant admitting he was failing.”
“But he hasn't. The recall wasn't his fault?—”
“It doesn't matter whose fault it was.” She gently covers my hand with hers. “He built Carmichael Innovations from nothing. Its success was his identity. Losing it... breaks that.”
I blow out a slow breath. “Well, now some corporate raider is going to tear it apart. And I get to watch from the front row.”
“Terrible timing,” she agrees. “Right after your promotion. We haven't even celebrated properly.”
“Hard to celebrate when I'm suddenly responsible for three hundred people staring down unemployment.” I take a long sip of wine. “And all before the weekend even starts.”
Mom gives me a half smile. “Then maybe we celebrate resilience instead. Because if anyone can find a way through this, it's you.”
“You think? Because most days it feels like I'm barely treading water.
This is my first COO role, and instead of proving myself, I'm flailing.” I let out a shaky breath, trying to shake off the weight settling behind my ribs.
“But anyway. Enough about my disaster Friday. How are you? Is the new apartment still working out?”
Her face lights up. “It's wonderful. So much natural light. I walk by the lake every morning.”
“You seem... happier,” I say carefully.
“I am.” Her smile is soft but real. “I didn't realize how much I'd dimmed myself until I had space to shine again.”
The honesty in her voice makes something in my chest ache. “I'm glad. ”
“Oh! And I've started dating.”
I blink. “Dating? Like, men-who-aren't-Dad dating?”
“That's generally how it works,” she says with a smirk. “I'm fifty-two, not dead.”
“I know, I just... wow. OK. Dating.”
“Nothing serious,” she assures me. “Mostly coffee. Conversation. Though there was one interesting exchange a few weeks back...”
She trails off, like she's unsure whether to continue.
“What kind of exchange?”
“This random text. A very attractive man who thought we'd met before.”
A prickle runs down my spine. “Had you?”
“No! That's what made it so odd. But he was convinced. It got a little flirty, actually.”
“Mom! Please tell me you didn't sext a stranger.”
“Not sexting. Just… mature dialogue.” She pulls out her phone, scrolling. “Here. He even sent a photo. Very handsome. Said something about a festival. Symmetrical face.”
I freeze. “Symmetrical?”
“Yes. Like, perfectly symmetrical. Strong jaw, piercing blue eyes... said we'd met at a festival.”
My pulse skips. “Can I see?”
She hands over the phone.
And everything stops.
Steel-blue eyes. Sharp jawline. City lights behind him. A tumbler of scotch in one hand.
My breath hitches. Something cold and hot twists in my stomach all at once.
Festival Guy.
Bennett Mercer .
I blink, but the image stays sharp. Like it’s burned into the screen. And into my memory.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, pulse stuttering as a chill races across my skin.
My mom lifts a brow, misreading the reaction. “I know, right? Gorgeous,” she says, reclaiming her phone. “He never gave me his name, but the conversation did get a bit spicy. Then he realized I wasn't who he thought I was and ghosted. Shame, really.”
“Bennett.” My mouth goes dry.
“Bennett?”
I force myself to nod, fighting a rising wave of panic. “Bennett Mercer.”
She raises a brow. “You know him?”
“You could, ah, say that.” I reach for my wine, the glass suddenly slippery in my grasp. “Mom. What's your number again?”
“You know this. Practically the same as yours. Except?—”
“The last two digits are flipped,” I finish, horrified.
“Exactly. We got our plans together, remember? It was so funny at the time. But, boy, does it make remembering each other's number easy.”
My stomach sinks. A slow, dawning horror washes over me.
“Oh, god.”
And just like that, it all clicks. The silence. The tension in the boardroom this morning. The look he gave me like I'd kicked his dog.
He thought I gave him a fake number.
And I thought he ghosted .
“Layla?” Mom peers at me. “You've gone pale. What's going on?”
“That's him. That's the CEO who's buying Dad's company.”
She stares. “Symmetrical face guy is your corporate raider ?”
“And it gets worse,” I whisper. “I'm the girl he met at the festival. He was trying to text me .” I take a gulp of wine before I let out a slow breath. “I think... well, I guess—since he texted you—I gave him your number instead of mine.”
“Ohhh,” she says, realization dawning. “How did that happen?”
“I was nervous. My fingers were sweaty…”
“Oh gosh.” She offers me the phone again, and I scroll through the messages, dread rising with every word. The flirty banter. The moment the tone changed.
He thought I'd played him.
“This is awful.” I bury my face in my hands. “He must've thought I was messing with him. Giving him a fake number to humiliate him.”
“And now he's buying your company,” Mom says, her voice caught between mortified and fascinated. She blinks, setting her wineglass down with a soft clink.
“No wonder he looked at me like I'd personally betrayed him during the meeting.”
I scroll further. My stomach drops. “Mom. You sent him a picture of yourself in bed.”
She snatches the phone back. “It was tasteful! Just a little décolletage. You couldn't see anything.”
“I'm going to die.” I press my fingers to my temples, half-laughing, half-horrified .
“If it helps, he ghosted me the moment he realized the mistake.”
“That doesn't help!”
“He was polite!” she insists. “A perfect gentleman, actually.”
I groan again.
Mom watches me, and her expression shifts from bemusement to seriousness. “You need to tell him.”
My head jerks up. “What?”
“You're working together. You need to clear the air.”
“I don't even know how to begin that conversation.”
“Start with the truth. The digits were transposed. You didn't mean to mislead him.”
“He probably wouldn't believe me.”
“Then show him your number next to mine.” She tilts her head. “He may not like it, but he'll respect it.”
I rest my hands on the table, breath catching. “He doesn't trust me. And I need him to trust me if I'm going to save this company.”
“Exactly. Honesty earns trust.” She pauses, her gaze thoughtful. “And Layla? You might not what to hear this, but... there was something in his messages. He wasn't just flirting. He was curious. Asking real questions. About life. Meaning. You don't fake that kind of interest.”
I blink. “You read that from his texts?”
“Sweetheart, I raised you. I know how people communicate when they care.”
My pulse stutters. The idea of it, of him actually being interested in me, is terrifying. It wedges something uncomfortable in my chest.
“Even if that's true,” I say slowly, “it's too late now. He already hates me. And even if he was still interested, the dynamic has shifted. I still need to protect my people.”
Mom gives a knowing nod. “Then do both. Fight for the company. And fight for clarity.”
“Do I even want clarity?”
“Layla.” She thins out her lips and uses her mom voice on me, and I immediately react.
“OK. I'll talk to the guy.” I stand, pulling out my wallet. “But not until I've gone through everything one last time. If we can get the NeuraTech prototype developed in time, it might be our last hope.”
Her eyebrows rise. “It's almost ready?”
“Not really. But Audrey said they might be able to get it working sooner. If they can do that, the valuation goes up, and then I can argue to save for jobs. It's a longshot, but it's the one piece of leverage I have.”
Mom reaches for the check. “Let me get this. You've got a legacy to save.”
I smile faintly, still reeling from everything. “Thanks, Mom. As weird as this was, thanks for clarifying... well, all of it.”
“My pleasure.” She cups my face. “And Layla? Don't write off a connection just because it's messy.”
I wave her off, giving her a quick hug then heading for my car with a head full of prototype schematics and business strategy and one very inconvenient realization.
Bennett Mercer tried to contact me.
And I need to tell him why he reached my mother instead.
Right after I find a way to save three hundred jobs from his corporate chopping block. And figure out how to stop his perfectly symmetrical face from dismantling my father's legacy one spreadsheet at a time.