29. Layla
LAYLA
“ A nd with that final revision, I think we're done.” Vicky Hammond closes her portfolio with a snap that makes me jump after four hours of the most boring budget meeting in corporate history.
“Thank you, everyone,” I say, gathering my scattered notes and trying not to look as exhausted as I feel. “The team will work these changes into our timeline.”
Chairs scrape against the floor as people rise, collecting laptops and coffee cups. Six weeks since the acquisition, and these meetings still feel awkward—two groups of people pretending to get along.
Vicky approaches as the room empties, her suit still perfect while mine feels like I slept in it. “Good work pushing back on the research cuts,” she says, surprising me. “Your defense of the neural mapping budget was... convincing.”
“Thanks.” I stuff papers into my bag. “I just need my team to have enough time to make this work.”
“That's why you're still here,” she replies with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “Your ability to balance innovation with business reality. Not a common skill.”
The compliment feels weird. I never know where I stand with Vicky. Bennett's second-in-command is scary smart and impossible to read. During our first meeting, she looked at me like a purchase she wasn't sure was worth the money.
“I learned from watching my father,” I say, zipping my bag. “Though he always favored innovation over practical stuff.”
“Hence the acquisition.” Her tone is dry. “Though you're handling the transition better than most would.”
Another compliment? With her, it's hard to tell.
“It helps knowing what's coming,” I reply. “Makes it easier to plan.”
Something flickers across her face. So fast I might have imagined it. “Of course.”
She checks her watch. “I need to prep for my next meeting. Don't forget the board presentation next week. Bennett wants us both there.”
“Looking forward to it,” I lie, already dreading another round of explaining medical devices to people who think they're like office supplies.
After she leaves, I head back to my office, dropping my papers on the desk with relief. My phone buzzes with a text from Bennett in response to me telling him earlier I wouldn’t be home for dinner tonight.
Bennet:
Call me when you’re on your way. I’ll order in.
My fingers hover over the screen. Things between us have been intense since the night I told him I loved him.
He didn't say it back, and I honestly hadn't expected him to, but something changed.
He's been more present, more willing to adjust his schedule for me.
Last night, I caught him watching me read with an expression that made my heart flip.
Typing out my reply, I smile despite my exhaustion.
me:
Sounds perfect. I’ll be at your place around 8pm.
Bennet:
Our place. And don't work too hard.
Warmth spreads through me. That switch from 'your' to 'our' feels huge.
Me:
Can't wait. See you then.
I drop my phone and take a breath. I'm about to head for coffee when I realize I grabbed some of Vicky's folders by mistake.
“Great,” I mutter. The last thing I want is to face her again after that exhausting meeting. But if I don't return them now, I'll forget.
I flip through the papers to separate mine from hers. That's when I see it.
A timeline I recognize—except mine doesn't have a heading that says: Phase Two .
Phase Two?
Wait. There are phases? Plural?
I pull out my own folder and scan everything. I've only been briefed on the twelve-month integration I'm managing now. I know there must be long-term plans, but no one's shared details with the Carmichael team.
I shouldn't look. This isn't meant for me.
But my fingers are already flipping pages.
Financial projections. Product line evaluations. A detailed plan for the future of Carmichael Innovations, all laid out with timelines. My heart races as I scan phrases like 'restructuring committee' and 'cost-reduction measures.'
Each word tightens the knot in my stomach.
Then I find the section on layoffs and personnel changes.
The world tilts.
Phase Two begins after year one. Complete absorption of Carmichael Innovations into Mercer Healthcare.
Campus closure. Remaining staff moved to Mercer headquarters.
Ninety percent of positions redundant. Research division reduced to a small team focused only on maintaining NeuraTech, not developing it.
My father's position terminated.
My position terminated.
A plan to destroy everything we built, laid out in bullet points and charts.
My hands shake as I keep reading. There's a note about me: 'COO position redundant after integration. Potential retention as consultant based on performance (3-month maximum).'
The room spins. After everything—all the late nights, all the compromise, all the defending this acquisition to our staff—they've given me a potential three-month consulting gig before throwing me away completely .
And Bennett knows. Has known all along.
While I've been falling in love with him, sharing his bed, moving into his home, he's still been planning to eliminate my job. Planning to destroy what's left of Dad's legacy. Planning to fire almost everyone I care about.
The betrayal hits like a punch to the chest, stealing my breath.
Has this all been a lie? Lisbon, the closet he built for me, the way he looks at me when we're alone—was it all just distraction while he dismantled my life?
My phone buzzes.
Bennett:
Thai or Italian?
The betrayal is so sharp it feels physical, like acid in my throat. How can he act so casual while planning my execution in footnotes?
I stand, needing to move, to breathe.
This must be a draft. Or a worst-case scenario analysis. Something they ran by legal and buried.
But then I see the date. Last week. And the signature: B. Mercer.
Not buried. Not hypothetical. Real. Approved. His.
The man I love is systematically destroying everything I've worked for while sleeping beside me each night.
What else has he hidden?
My phone rings—Dad calling. The universe has perfect timing.
“Dad,” I answer, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“Layla.” His tone is unusually warm. “Do you have a minute? ”
“Dad, I can’t really deal with this right now.”
“Please. I'm calling to apologize.”
“Dad—”
“Let me finish. I've been so focused on what we're losing that I haven't seen what you're saving. The neural mapping project is thriving. Jobs that would have disappeared are still here. You're doing amazing work under impossible circumstances.”
The irony is so painful I almost laugh. If only he knew what I just discovered.
“I appreciate you noticing, Dad,” I whisper.
“I was hoping I could take you to dinner tonight. To apologize properly.”
My eyes flick to the damning folder. I can't do this now. Not when I'm still reeling, not when I might say something I'll regret.
“Actually, Dad, I'm swamped,” I say, words tumbling out too fast. “Can we talk later? Maybe this weekend?”
“Oh.” Disappointment fills his voice. “Of course. This weekend?”
“Yeah. I’ve just got so much on.”
“OK. Um…Is everything all right? You sound off.”
“Just tired. Long meeting.” Not entirely a lie. “I'll call you, OK?”
“All right. It’s good to hear your voice, Layla.”
When I hang up, the silence feels deafening. I stare at the folder, at the evidence of betrayal laid out in corporate language.
Phase Two. Job eliminations. Campus closure.
Dad has no idea what's coming. Neither did I until now.
I reach for my desk phone and dial my assistant who answers on the first ring. “I need you to cancel everything for today. I'm not feeling well.”
“No problem, Ms. Carmichael. Do you need anything?”
“Just to go home,” I whisper, hoping she didn't hear my voice break.
Because if I don’t get out of here, I’m going to shatter.