13. Layla
LAYLA
L orenzo's doesn't just whisper money, it practically purrs it. The kind of place where the waiter knows which fork you're supposed to use for your salad, and silently judges you if you get it wrong.
Right now, it's also the seventh circle of corporate hell.
We're forty-three minutes into what should've been a peace summit.
Instead, it's more like watching two prize fighters circle each other while I referee in heels that are pinching my toes.
Dad's been stabbing his salmon like it isn’t dead enough.
Bennett's cutting his steak with the precision of a surgeon who's one wrong move from amputating something important.
I've managed three bites of risotto. It tastes like disappointment with a hint of truffle oil.
“So.” Dad's voice could freeze Lake Michigan. “This multi-application approach to NeuraTech. Walk me through it again.”
Bennett sets down his knife with deliberate care. Under the table, his knee shifts, barely grazing mine. The contact is so brief I might've imagined it, except for the way his jaw tightens.
“Medical applications remain the priority.” His voice is steady, professional. “But the technology has broader implications?—”
“Broader implications.” Dad rolls the words around like he's tasting poison. “That's corporate speak for 'we're going to dilute the pinnacle of your life's work until it's unrecognizable.'”
“Dad—”
“Twenty-five years, Layla.” He turns to me, and the hurt in his eyes makes my chest ache. “Twenty-five years I've spent developing technology. For medical use. To help people. Not so some tech bro can use it to play video games better.”
The air gets so thick I could spread it on toast. Bennett's hand moves toward his water glass, and our fingers almost collide on the table. We both freeze. Pull back. The half-second of almost-contact leaves my skin tingling.
“Without additional revenue streams,” Bennett says, each word carefully measured, “the medical applications won't survive long enough to help anyone.”
“So you keep saying.” Dad's knuckles are white around his fork. “Tell me, Mr. Mercer, what exactly do you know about helping people? What have you built besides a fortune on the backs of other people's dreams?”
Bennett's hand clenches on the table. This time when his knee brushes mine, it's not accidental. It's seeking. A silent request for... what? Patience? Understanding?
I press back, just slightly. His exhale is audible.
“You're right,” Bennett says, surprising us both. “I've spent my career acquiring things other people built. But I've also saved companies from bankruptcy. Preserved innovations that would've died without intervention.”
“Preserved.” Dad laughs, sharp and bitter. “Is that what how you frame what you’re doing?”
“I get the feeling,” Bennett says, voice so even I almost believe he's not angry, “that what you really want isn't a debate over business models. It's acknowledgment. For your work. For your sacrifices.”
Dad starts to retort, but Bennett holds up a finger.
“I'm not belittling what you've done, Robert. I think it's brilliant. That’s why I bought it. Yes, I’ll turn a profit. That’s how it survives. But I’m also willing to do it in a way that benefits us both.
You want your company to survive. You want to save jobs.
And you want your work to mean something.
That only happens if the core idea is as world changing as we all think it is. ”
“And if it's not?”
“Then we all lose.”
“And your company eats mine and Carmichael ceases to exist.”
“Yes,” Bennett says. “But even in a worst-case scenario, your technology lives on. Maybe not with your name, but it’s still out there. It still helps people.”
Dad slams his fork against the table. “This isn’t an acquisition. It’s a hostile takeover. But instead of the company, you’re trying to acquire our dignity. I’ll have no part of it.”
“Dad!” My voice sharpens. “You signed the contract. The board agreed to the terms. Why are you sabotaging the one thing that might save us?”
His eyes swing to me and his face goes still. “I'm also the one who guaranteed your role, Layla. So you'd fight for us.”
The accusation lands like a slap. “I am fighting! This is me fighting! Finding ways to maximize employee retention, to save as many jobs as?—”
“By letting him turn my life's work into a toy?”
“By being realistic about market demands.” Bennett's voice carries an edge now. Under the table, his knee presses more firmly against mine. Not seeking anymore. Supporting.
“Everything's about money with you people,” Dad spits.
“No.” Bennett leans forward. “It's about survival. Your technology is brilliant, Robert. Revolutionary. But brilliance doesn't pay salaries or fund research. You know that better than anyone.”
Dad's hand trembles as he reaches for his water. “Don't presume to lecture me about?—”
“I'm not lecturing.” Bennett's tone gentles. “I'm trying to find some common ground. This plan we have for NeuraTech is a gamble. One I’m willing to support. But you need to be willing to make strategic compromises. Your own research wasn’t enough. You needed us. Or you wouldn’t have sold.”
Dad shoves back from the table. “I’ve heard enough. You're nothing but a vulture circling the dying animal and congratulating yourself when it finally bleeds out.” He tosses his napkin onto the plate. The gesture is so final, it physically shakes the utensils on the table.
“Dad,” I stand, but he rounds on me, eyes hot and wild.
“And you're helping him pick the bones.”
He storms out. The restaurant’s hush snaps back, all glassware and violin music, and every eye in the place is trained on our table. Bennett sits motionless, jaw locked, the bones of his hand pale against the white linen. I stare at my barely touched risotto.
Long seconds tick by.
“Layla.” His voice is soft.
I fumble to pick up my purse when Bennett's hand covers mine.
“Let him go,” he says quietly. “He needs time to process.”
I sink back down, suddenly exhausted. His hand is still on mine. Warm. Steady. I should pull away. Instead, I turn my palm up, letting our fingers tangle briefly before propriety kicks in and we separate.
“So much for keeping him contained, huh?”
“He's hurting.” Bennett's eyes move between mine. “Watching your life's work change hands... it's like losing a part of yourself.”
“Speaking from experience or because you’ve watched people grieving so many times?”
“A little of both.” A shadow crosses his face. “My father felt the same when the mill closed.”
“Your father owned a mill?”
“Worked it. But it was his identity after forty years there.” He takes a sip of wine. “He died six months later. Doctor said it was his heart, but I think it was the grief. He lost who he was.”
The vulnerability in his voice undoes something in me. “Bennett?—”
“Your father's reaction is normal,” he continues. “Expected, even. I'd be more concerned if he wasn't fighting this. ”
“Even when he's comparing you to birds of prey or Satan?”
“Especially then.” His lips quirk. “Though I prefer when he sticks to 'corporate vampire.' It's a better descriptor of what I do.”
A laugh escapes despite everything. “Last week he called you a 'soulless spreadsheet succubus.'”
“That's a new one.” He's fully smiling now, and it transforms his face. “Points for alliteration.”
We're both grinning like idiots when the waiter materializes. “Is everything prepared to your satisfaction?”
I look at our untouched plates, Dad's abandoned chair. “Actually, could we get these boxed up? And the check?”
“Of course, madam.”
When he's gone, Bennett says, “You didn't eat.”
“Neither did you.”
“I was distracted.” His eyes hold mine, and there's nothing professional in that look. “You're wearing that perfume from the festival.”
My pulse skips. “You remember something like that?”
“I remember everything about that night.” His voice drops, intimate despite the public setting. “The way you laughed at your own nervousness. How you bit your lip when you were thinking. That ridiculous comment about my facial symmetry.”
“Oh God?—”
“I went home and immediately poured a scotch,” he admits. “Sat there staring at my phone, debating how long I should wait before texting you. Settled on five minutes. Made it three.”
“Three minutes?” I laugh. “What happened to playing it cool? ”
“You happened.” He leans closer, and I catch his scent. God, he smells good. “I couldn't get you out of my head. I needed…something.”
“And you got my mom instead.”
He nods slowly. “Do you know what that did to me? Thinking you'd played me?”
“Bennett—”
“I convinced myself you knew exactly who I was. That the whole thing was calculated.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “It was easier than admitting I'd fallen for you in the span of a single conversation.”
“Bennett—”
The air between us crackles. I'm acutely aware of every point where we're almost touching—his knee against mine, our hands inches apart on the table, the heat radiating between us.
“I know.” He pulls back slightly, but his knee stays pressed against mine. “Not here. Not now.”
“Not ever,” I correct, but it sounds weak even to me.
“Is that what you want?” His thumb traces a pattern on the tablecloth, so close to my hand I can feel the movement. “For this to be never?”
I should say yes. Should establish firm boundaries. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, I say, “I don't know what I want.”
“I do.” The certainty in his voice makes me shiver. “But you're not ready to hear it.”
“Try me.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it as the waiter returns with our boxed meals and the check. Bennett pays without looking at the total, his attention never leaving me .
“Let me drive you home,” he says as we stand.
“I have my car.”
“Then I'll follow you. Make sure you get there safely.”
“I don't need?—”
“Please.” The word is soft. Un-demanding. “For my peace of mind.”
I should refuse. Instead, I nod.
The valet brings our cars, and I spend the entire drive home hyperaware of his headlights in my rearview mirror. By the time I pull into my building's garage, my hands are shaking.
He parks next to me. We sit in our respective cars for a moment, neither moving. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, we both get out.
Bennett walks me to my building's entrance and stops. Three feet of space between us might as well be the Atlantic Ocean for how carefully we're maintaining it.
“Thank you for dinner.” I sound like I'm reading from a corporate script. “And for trying with my dad.”
“Of course.” He's studying the concrete like it holds the secret to quantum physics. “About the prototype timeline?—”
“Can we not?” The words escape before I can stop them. “Just for tonight? Please?”
He looks up. Our eyes meet. The air between us gets so charged, I'm surprised we're not throwing off sparks.
“Right. I should…” He gestures vaguely toward his car.
“Right.”
Neither of us moves. We're like magnets fighting our own nature.
“Goodnight, Layla.”
“Goodnight, Bennett. ”
He turns. Takes three steps. Stops.
“Text me when you're inside,” he says without turning around. “So I know you're safe.”
My heart does something stupid and fluttery. “I live in a doorman building in Lincoln Park, not a cardboard box in an alley.”
“Humor me.”
Then he's gone, and I'm left standing there like an idiot, watching his taillights disappear and wondering how maintaining professional distance can feel exactly like foreplay.