31. Layla
LAYLA
T he knocking won't stop.
“Layla? It's Mom. I know you're in there. Your doorman told me you haven't left in days, and frankly, I'm concerned about the smell.”
I peel myself off the couch, catching my reflection in the hallway mirror. My Northwestern sweatshirt has achieved new levels of filth. My hair could deep-fry chicken. Three days of takeout containers form a monument to heartbreak on my coffee table.
I crack the door. “How did you?—”
“Your father called.” She pushes past me, then stops dead. “Dear God. It looks like a frat house. Smells like one too.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Mom.”
She navigates through the debris field of tissues and Thai food boxes, opening windows as she goes. “He's worried. Said you claimed stomach flu but sounded off when you last spoke.”
“Emotional flu. Same symptoms, harder to cure. ”
“Ah.” She turns, hands on hips. “The symmetrical-faced accidental texter?”
“Bennett Mercer. Dad's corporate overlord. My... whatever he was.”
Her eyebrows climb. “Well, that's quite the plot twist. How deep?”
“Incredibly.” I slump back onto the couch. “Six weeks of me choosing to believe in him. Of betting on something real while he bet against everything I stood for. Six weeks of me falling in love with him…”
She sits beside me, moving a pizza box to make room. “Tell me.”
So I do. The words tumble out—the closet full of designer clothes, the art studio he built me, how he made me feel like I mattered. Then Phase Two. Ninety percent of our people gone. Dad's position eliminated. Mine reduced to a three-month pity consulting gig.
“And he knew,” I finish. “The whole time he was asking me to move in, he knew I thought my work was saving us and he never once told me it didn’t matter.”
Mom's quiet for a moment. “What did he say when you confronted him?”
“That he's in acquisitions, not benevolence.” The words still sting. “Like I should be grateful he's keeping me while tossing everyone else.”
“Mm.” She stands, heading for my kitchen. “When's the last time you ate actual food?”
“Takeout counts as food.”
“Food with actual vitamins, I mean.” She opens my fridge and recoils. “Is that... was that yogurt?”
“Maybe?”
She shuts the fridge with finality. “Right. Shower first. Then food. Then we talk about you hiding in here like a wounded raccoon.”
“I'm not hiding. I'm processing.”
“You're marinating in your own funk.” She points toward the bathroom. “March. I'll attempt to excavate your kitchen.”
Under the hot water, I try not to think about Bennett's shower—rain showerhead, marble bench, his hands on my skin. But everything reminds me of him. The fancy shampoo he bought me. The way he'd join me, claiming water conservation while pressing me against the wall.
I scrub harder, like I can wash away the memories along with three days of grief.
When I emerge, Mom's performed some kind of kitchen miracle. There's toast, scrambled eggs, and tea that doesn't smell like despair.
“Eat,” she commands.
I take a bite and realize I'm starving. “Dad must be thrilled. The evil billionaire broke his daughter's heart.”
“Your father is only worried about you, right now.” She sips her tea.
“That's a first.”
“Don't be flippant, Layla. I know things have been strained between you two. But his care is genuine. He wants what’s best for you. He did go to Bennett, after all.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But it doesn't change anything. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Right.” She sets down her mug with deliberation. “So you're done? Walking away from both the man and the company?”
“What else can I do? Pretend it's fine that he's destroying everything? ”
“Everything?” Her tone sharpens. “Or your father's version of everything?”
I stop mid-chew. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. Which is why I'm going to say something you won't like.” She leans forward. “This stance you’re taking—where it’s your vision or nothing at all—it’s doing to Bennett exactly what your father did to me.”
My head snaps back. “What do you mean?”
“You’re choosing the company over your relationship.”
“That's completely different?—”
“Is it? I spent thirty years with a man who put Carmichael Innovations above our marriage. Above our family. Above me. And here you are, ready to throw away something you say is real for the same company.”
“I'm fighting for people's jobs!”
“You're fighting for an ideal.” Her voice gentles. “One that was already lost the day your father signed those papers.”
The eggs turn to sawdust in my mouth. “So I should just accept it? Roll over while Bennett dismantles everything?”
“I'm saying Bennett didn't create this situation. Your father's choices did.” She reaches across the table. “The company was bankrupt, honey. Without Bennett, everyone would have lost their jobs immediately. At least this way, some people got another year.”
“A year of false hope.”
“A year of paychecks. Health insurance. Time to find new positions.” She squeezes my hand. “That's not nothing.”
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. His name lights up the screen, same as it has every few hours for three days. Mom notices.
“Still calling?”
“And texting. And sending flowers.” I gesture to the bouquet wilting on my counter. “Yesterday's apology roses.”
“What do they say? The texts?”
I shouldn't look. But I pull up the thread anyway:
Bennett:
Please talk to me.
I miss you.
I know I fucked up.
Let me explain.
Layla, please.
I can't fix this if you won't let me try.
I need you to know you're not just a line item to me.
You never were.
That last one makes my chest tight.
“He seems rather persistent for a cold-hearted corporate raider,” Mom observes.
“He's good with words. It's part of his job.”
“Maybe.” She stands, gathering dishes. “Or maybe he's a man who compartmentalized because he didn't know how else to handle falling for the daughter of the man whose company he just bought out.”
“You're defending him?”
“I'm suggesting that people are complicated.” She rinses plates with efficient movements. “That someone can be both a ruthless businessman and a man in love. That keeping secrets isn't always the same as lying.”
“It feels the same.”
“Feelings aren't facts, darling.” She turns to face me. “Though they're valid. You have every right to be hurt. But hiding in here won't change anything.”
“I'm not ready to see him.”
“Then don't. But at least go to work. Face your life. Make decisions from a place of strength, not from under a blanket fort of self-pity.”
“Did you just call my coping mechanism a blanket fort of self-pity?”
“If the unwashed sweatshirt fits...” She grins, and suddenly I see where I get my deflection-through-humor from. “Your father called eight times yesterday. Whatever you decide about Bennett, you can't leave Robert hanging. The company needs you right now.”
“The company needs a miracle.”
“Then give them one. You're Layla Carmichael. You don't hide. You fight—even if that fight looks like the best looking severance packet you get them.”
After she leaves, I sit in my newly tidied apartment. The silence feels different now. Less like a cocoon, more like a cage.
My laptop glares at me from the desk, unopened for three days. Emails are definitely piling up. Decisions unmade. Problems unsolved. My team depending on me while I wallow.
Mom's words echo: You're doing exactly what your father did. Choosing the company over a relationship.
Except I'm not choosing anything. I'm frozen. Stuck between loving a man who represents everything I stand against and standing against someone who's become everything to me.
My phone buzzes again.
Bennett:
Your assistant says you're still out sick. I know that's not true. I'm worried about you.
Before I can stop myself, I type back:
me:
I’m fine.
His response is immediate:
You're not fine. Neither am I.
I stare at those three words. Neither am I . Bennett Mercer, admitting weakness. Admitting he's affected.
Me:
I can't do this right now.
Bennett:
When?
Me:
I don't know.
Bennett:
I'll wait.
Two words that somehow hurt more than all his previous messages combined. Because Bennett Mercer doesn't wait. He acts. He takes. He conquers.
But for me, he'll wait.
I set the phone down and move to my closet. The Northwestern sweatshirt needs to go. If I'm going to figure this out—figure us out—I need to stop hiding.
Tomorrow, I'll go to work. Face the reality of Phase Two. Look at spreadsheets that calculate human cost in dollars and cents. Try to make the inevitable run as smoothly as possible.
But tonight, I let myself admit the truth Mom saw immediately. I miss him. Not just the sex or the luxury or the way he made me feel desired. I miss his terrible jokes about market penetration. His complete inability to cook anything besides eggs. The way he hums Chopin while reading contracts.
I miss the man who cleared out half his closet for me. Who built me an art studio I haven't even used yet. Who looks at me like I'm both his greatest risk and his only reward.
The man who's waiting.
I look at my phone again, that last text sitting on the screen like a lifeline: I'll wait.
The words blur as tears return. Not the angry tears of three days ago. Something softer. Sadder. More complicated.
I stand and take Bennett’s Harvard t-shirt from a hook, pulling it on over my head and hugging it to myself. The flare of hope feels too big, too bright to snuff out. For the first time, I start to believe he meant it: Life isn’t fair. Neither is business. But maybe love is.