15. Bennett
BENNETT
T wenty minutes. I've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes, and the numbers still refuse to make sense.
I slam the laptop shut harder than necessary. The sharp crack echoes through my office like a gunshot. My hands shake as I press them against my eyes—actually shake, like I'm some rookie analyst instead of a man who's built an empire on ice-cold control.
The Tokyo team insists their projections are accurate, but there's a fifteen-million-dollar discrepancy I can't account for. Under normal circumstances, I'd have spotted the error in minutes.
But today is anything but normal.
Because I can't stop thinking about her voice. Those small, breathless sounds she made. The way she said my name when she came.
Fuck.
This is precisely why I don't mix business with pleasure.
It's been less than twelve hours since that phone call, and I'm already distracted, unfocused.
Compromised. My coffee sits cold on the desk, untouched since morning.
I've clicked my pen so many times Jenna probably thinks I'm sending Morse code.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Jenna:
Tokyo team calling in five minutes.
I straighten my tie, then immediately loosen it because it feels like a noose. This is ridiculous. I've built a multi-billion-dollar company through discipline and focus. One late-night phone call shouldn’t derail me.
And yet.
I've barely managed to reopen the Nakamura documents when my phone rings. Not the office line. My personal cell.
Layla.
My thumb hovers over the answer button. My chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to need. For one weak, unprofessional moment, I consider letting fifteen executives in Tokyo wait just to hear her voice wrap around my name again.
Instead, I silence the call and grab my office line as it begins to ring.
“Mercer,” I answer, voice crisp and controlled. As if I hadn't been panting her name into the darkness just hours ago.
The Tokyo team launches into explanations about market projections and growth metrics. I make the appropriate responses, ask the right questions, but part of my mind remains stubbornly fixed on that silenced call. On what she might have wanted to say .
Was it regret? Second thoughts? Or something that would make my day infinitely more complicated?
“These projections assume a twenty-two percent growth rate in the first year,” I say, forcing myself back to the task. “That's significantly higher than industry standard. What's your basis?”
As they scramble to justify their optimism, my desk phone lights up with an internal call from Caleb. I ignore it. My cell buzzes with his text.
Caleb
Emergency. Meeting at Cruz Financial re: Nakamura. All hands needed. Now.
Shit.
“I need to review these numbers more thoroughly,” I tell the Tokyo team, keeping my tone even. “Be available for my team’s questions.”
I end the call and immediately dial Caleb.
“What happened?”
“Dominic's team found fraud,” he says without preamble. “Real fraud, with inflated assets and hidden liabilities. We need to contain this before the market catches wind.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that you need to cancel everything else today. Logan's already heading to Dominic's office. I've got legal assembling in conference room A.”
I check my calendar. Three meetings at Carmichael Innovations, including the NeuraTech development session with Layla and her team.
“I'll be there in five,” I tell Caleb, already mentally shifting priorities .
But as I gather my materials, my thoughts drift back to her. To the fact that I'd see her in person for the first time since last night. Since I learned that wanting her and having her are two very different kinds of torture.
I press the intercom. “Jenna, I need you to cancel my Carmichael meetings today. Something's come up with Cruz Financial.”
“Already on it,” she responds efficiently. “Vicky can handle the operational review. Should I reschedule the NeuraTech session for tomorrow?”
The sensible answer is yes. Let Vicky handle it all.
“No,” I say instead. “Have Ms. Carmichael bring the prototype development plan to my office by end of day.”
“I can send a courier?—”
“Ms. Carmichael personally,” I repeat. “I need her input on the technical specifications.”
“Yes, sir.”
I head toward conference room A, mentally berating myself for the transparent excuse. There's no legitimate business reason why Layla specifically needs to deliver those materials personally.
Except that I want to see her.
Need to see her.
The next six hours blur into crisis management. What Dominic's team uncovered in the Nakamura deal isn't just concerning, it's deliberate. Asset values inflated by millions. Liabilities buried in subsidiary paperwork. A calculated attempt to slip past our due diligence.
By six-thirty, we've cornered Nakamura's board into accepting a revised deal that accounts for actual asset values, plus penalties for misrepresentation, or they can explain themselves to the SEC .
“That could have gone much worse,” Caleb says as we wrap up, shuffling through legal documents like a dealer counting cards.
Dominic Cruz leans back in his chair, designer suit somehow still immaculate despite the day from hell. “Could have gone better too. This kind of shit should never make it past initial review.”
“Agreed,” I say, checking my watch. Thirty-five minutes until Layla arrives. “What's your recommendation?”
“Full integration during the transition period.” Dominic's usually playful demeanor has sharpened into something laser focused. “My team works hand-in-hand with yours through every step of the Nakamura integration. We catch any other buried surprises before they explode.”
“That's a lot of coordination,” Caleb points out. “Who manages that kind of cross-team operation?”
“Jenna,” I say immediately. “She already handles our deal flow, and she's got the organizational skills to keep both teams in line.”
Dominic's grin returns. “Your ice-queen assistant? This should be fun.”
“She's not an ice queen,” I defend automatically. “She's professional.”
“Sure, that’s what it is.” He stands, smoothing his jacket. “I'll enjoy melting that particular glacier.”
Caleb shoots me a look that says this is going to be a disaster. “Maybe we should discuss parameters?—”
“Relax, counselor. I'll behave.” Dominic's eyes gleam. “Mostly.”
Dominic heads for the door, pausing to clap me on the shoulder. “I'll coordinate with Jenna first thing tomorrow. See if she's as unflappable as you claim.”
“She is,” I assure him.
His grin widens. “I've never met a woman who couldn't be charmed. Eventually.”
“Good luck with that,” Caleb mutters as Dominic disappears down the hallway. “Drink to celebrate our survival?”
“Not tonight.” I'm already gathering my things, checking my watch again “I need to review the Nakamura numbers before tomorrow's call.”
It's not entirely a lie. I do need to review those numbers. But that's not why I'm rushing out.
“All right,” he says, clearly too tired to question me further. “Good work today.”
But as I reach the door, Caleb's voice stops me.
“Bennett.”
I turn. He's watching me with the same expression he wore when I wanted to buy a yacht at twenty-six. Patient but firm, like he's talking me down from a ledge I don't realize I'm on.
“This thing with Layla Carmichael. Whatever's happening between you two.” He pauses. “Just... be careful. I've never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Distracted. This kind of thing wouldn’t have gotten past you a month ago.”
My jaw locks. I hate that he's right almost as much as I hate that he can read me this easily. “It's under control.”
“Listen, I like Layla. And as your closest friend, I want to see you happy.”
“But?”
The words hit like a physical blow. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means that up until now, I haven’t been taking this seriously.
I figured you two would bang, you’d get her out of your system, she’d realize what an ass you are, and you’d have moved on to barely tolerating each other by Phase Two.
But after today...” He stands, straightening his jacket.
“The Nakamura fraud should have been caught weeks ago. You know that.”
I do know that. Which makes it worse.
“So what do you want me to do—cut her off?”
“Step back from the Carmichael integration. Let Vicky handle everything while you get your head on straight.” His voice softens slightly. “Take a vacation. Go somewhere tropical. Find a willing woman who doesn't work for a company you're acquiring.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then at least maintain some distance. No more private meetings. No more personal document deliveries.” He moves toward the door. “Let Vicky take point on Carmichael. You focus on what you do best—running this company without emotional complications.”
He leaves before I can argue further. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door.
He's right. About all of it. The missed details. The distraction. The way I've been making decisions with something other than logic.
I should call it off. Cancel tonight. Let Vicky handle the prototype review like a rational CEO would.
Instead, I pull out my personal phone and type:
Change of plans. Don't bring the reports. Just come.
I delete it immediately. Too direct. Too honest about what this really is.
Change of plans. Office crisis resolved, but I'm working from home tonight. Can you come to my apartment instead? We can discuss the prototype timeline over that dinner I promised.
Still too obvious.
Finally:
me:
Change of plans. Can you bring the review documents to my apartment at 7? I'll text the address.
I hit send before I can overthink it further.
Her response takes nearly a minute.
Layla:
Your apartment?
Me:
Office will be locked down by then, and this can't wait until tomorrow.
Another pause. Then simply:
Layla:
OK. 7 PM.
I send her the address to my penthouse as I head to my waiting car. It’s six-forty, giving me just enough time to get home before Layla arrives. As I the driver pulls into the street, my phone buzzes.
Layla:
On my way. GPS says 15 minutes.
My pulse kicks up as I stare at her words. She’s coming to my private space. Where she'll see how I live when I'm not performing the role of corporate shark. Where there won't be a conference table between us.
Me:
Gate code 4728. Doorman will have a key fob for the penthouse elevator.
Her response is simple.
Layla:
See you soon.
The driver lets me out in front of the building, and I nod to the valet as I hurry through the lobby. Andrew, the evening doorman, greets me with his usual professional warmth.
“Good evening, Mr. Mercer.”
“I have a guest coming up,” I tell him, trying to sound casual instead of like a man who's been checking his watch every thirty seconds. “Layla Carmichael. Please give her an elevator fob when she arrives.”
Andrew's eyebrows rise slightly. In the three years I've lived here, I've never had a woman up to the penthouse who wasn't my housekeeper.
“Of course, sir.”
The private elevator whisks me to the penthouse, where I step into silent, empty space. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city lights emerging against the darkening sky. Everything is immaculate, pristine—my cleaning service was here this morning.
I loosen my tie, then immediately straighten it again. This isn’t about crossing boundaries anymore. That happened the moment I called her last night. The moment she answered.
This isn’t avoidance. It’s acceptance.
And still, there’s a part of me that itches with discomfort. Not because I don’t want her here. But because I do. Because I’ve built my entire career on rules, and I’m starting to think I’d break every one of them for her.
My phone buzzes.
Layla:
I’m here.
I glance at my reflection. Straighten my tie. Loosen it again. I invited her here. Not to a meeting room. Not to a rooftop bar. Here, to the place I don’t let anyone into. Not because I’m unsure of what I want.
Because I am sure. And that scares the hell out of me.
I told her I don’t do halfway. Tonight will be proof.
The elevator chimes in the distance.
Too late to turn back now.