32. Bennett
BENNETT
“ M r. Mercer? Are you still there?”
I’m on a call with Dominic and Tokyo. The team lead's voice crackles through the speaker, and I realize I've been staring at the same spreadsheet cell for five minutes without seeing it.
“Yes. Continue.”
“As I was saying—for the third time—the Southeast Asian market may not deliver on these expected...”
Three days since Layla didn’t come home to me. Three days since she looked at me with those betrayed eyes and said she needed space. Three days, and I can't focus on a simple market analysis because all I hear is her voice breaking: I love you, Bennett. And you've been lying to me this entire time.
“Mr. Mercer?”
“I'll have Jenna send revised projections by end of day.” Dominic answers for me, and with a muttered ‘thanks’ I disconnect before they can ask anything else, before I have to pretend I remember what projections they're even discussing.
My office door opens without a knock—only one person has that privilege.
“That's the third time you've hung up on Tokyo.” Jenna sets fresh coffee on my desk, studying me with concern. “Dominic and I don’t have the authority to approve this without you. So, should I apologize and reschedule?”
“No. Yes.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Just…Handle it.”
She hesitates, which is unlike her. “Sir, you have the board presentation in an hour. The one about the Hartley acquisition?”
Hartley. Right. Another company to dissect, optimize, strip for parts. The thought turns my stomach.
“Push it to next week.”
“But sir?—”
“I said push it.”
Her lips thin, but she nods. As she turns to leave, she pauses. “I need to be frank with you, Bennett. We can’t keep operating like this while you're...” She trails off, struggling to find words that won't result in a harassment suit. “... indisposed.”
“You're saying I'm distracted.”
“I'm saying you're love sick,” she replies, abandoning caution. “Beyond recognition.”
“I'll fix it,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Call her. Text her,” Jenna says softly. “Go see her. Tell her how you feel. Don't wait until it's too late.” She leaves, closing the door with a quiet click that sounds like an accusation.
I stare at my phone on the desk. Text her. As if I haven't been typing and deleting messages like a lovesick teenager. As if I haven't been pouring out everything I thought I could never say—missing her, needing her, wanting her so much I can't breathe.
I'm sorry, I keep writing.
I need you, I keep writing.
Please, I keep writing.
But none of it scratches the surface of how fucking hollow I feel.
When I don’t hear back, I stare out the window, searching for an answer in the steel and glass of Chicago. The city I've always controlled, always owned, always made bend to my will.
There has to be a way to get her back. To make her understand that what we have is bigger than even we knew.
“Fuck it.” I pick up my cell and type out yet another text, knowing I won’t get a response, but needing the hope of contact anyway.
me:
Your assistant says you're still out sick. I know that's not true. I'm worried about you.
I stare at the screen after I hit send, willing her to respond. To give me something. Anything.
I’m about to toss my phone back on the desk when three dots appear. Holy shit. My heart hammers.
Layla:
I'm fine .
Two words that say nothing and everything. I’m so fucking elated that I type back before I can stop myself:
me:
You're not fine. Neither am I.
Layla:
I can't do this right now.
Me:
When?
Layla:
I don't know.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could push. Demand. Take control like I do with everything else. Instead, I type two words that feel like surrendering.
me:
I'll wait.
The door opens again. This time it's Caleb, and his expression suggests Jenna called in reinforcements.
“You look like someone who just discovered money can't buy everything.” He drops into the chair across from me. “It's disturbing.”
“Did you need something?”
“Several things. Dominic is pissed, says your tanking the Nakamura timeline. Harris is making noise about the Carmichael phase two changes. And you're wearing two different shoes.”
I glance down. He's right. One black Oxford, one brown. Christ.
“Also,” he continues, “you've been a disaster for three days. Jenna's fielding complaints from every international team. Apparently, you've been hanging up on people mid-sentence.”
“I’m sick of listening.”
“Then maybe you should start talking,” Caleb says. “To the person who actually matters.”
“I have,” I say, loosening my tie for the fifth time in an hour. “Twelve texts in the past three days. Eighteen unanswered calls. Flowers so big she could live in them.”
“Try something new,” Caleb suggests dryly. “Like showing up.”
I shake my head. “She doesn't want to see me. She's so furious she can't think straight.”
“Probably,” he agrees, because of course he does. “But how she's feeling now doesn't change how she felt about you. You're the only person who can fix this.”
“I’m trying. Told her I'd already revised the second phase, that I secured her position?—”
“Ah.” His voice carries understanding. “And she wasn't impressed by your selective salvation.”
I turn sharply. “I was protecting her career. I thought that was what she wanted.”
“You were protecting the woman you're sleeping with while planning to fire everyone she cares about.” He shrugs. “Not exactly a Nicholas Sparks moment.”
“When did you become a relationship expert?”
“When my best friend started walking around with mismatched shoes and hanging up on Tokyo.” He stands, joining me at the window. “You know what your problem is?”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“You're trying to have it both ways. Keep the girl and keep being the same ruthless bastard who built this empire.” He gestures at the city below. “But she's showing you that's not possible.”
“So what do you suggest? I throw away everything I've built?”
“I suggest you figure out what actually matters.” His voice takes on an edge I rarely hear. “You have more money than God, Bennett. You own buildings you've never visited. Art you've never looked at. Cars you've never driven. And for what?”
“It's not about the money?—”
“Bullshit. It's always been about the money.
About proving you're not that kid from Southie who lost everything.” He turns to face me fully.
“But guess what? You did it. You won. You're richer than the people who looked down on you.
More powerful than the ones who said you'd never make it. So now what?”
The question hangs between us, uncomfortable in its simplicity.
“She doesn't want me,” I say quietly. “Not as I am.”
“Then change.”
“Into what?”
“Into someone who sees beyond spreadsheets. Someone who understands that companies are made of people with mortgages and kids and dreams.” He pauses. “Someone who can say 'I love you' back when a woman is brave enough to say it first.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “I couldn't?—”
“I know. Because feelings are inefficient. Vulnerability is weakness. All that bullshit you've told yourself for years.” He shakes his head. “How's that working out for you?”
I think about the empty penthouse. The art studio gathering dust. The closet full of clothes that belong to her. The bed that still smells like her shampoo. She’s everywhere. And I miss her completely.
“It's not,” I admit.
“Then do something about it. You're Bennett fucking Mercer. You move markets with a phone call. Figure out how to fix this.”
“The board would never approve a total overhaul of the integration strategy.” I stare unseeingly out the window. “They'll vote me out before they sacrifice ROI to keep three hundred extra employees.”
“They won't,” Caleb says, voice full of challenge. “Because you're the only one who could pull it off with Carmichael still making money. That's why I work with you. And that's why I know you'll convince them to change course.”
I rake a hand through my already messy hair. “I don’t know how to do this, Caleb. I can sell them on NeuraTech, on keeping everyone involved for continuity, but the rest of the company?” I shake my head. “I’m in over my head.”
“Then look outside it.” He pockets his phone. “Partner with someone who can do the things you can’t.”
“Like who?”
“That,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder, “is for your brilliant mind to figure out. I'll handle the legal framework. Make it defensible to shareholders. You just figure out what it would take.”
“OK. I’ll do it. Whatever the cost. I’ll figure it out.”
“Good. Because I swear to God, if I have to listen to Dominic whine about Tokyo one more time, I'm going to fake my own death.” He heads for the door, then pauses.
“ You’ve got this, Bennett. These past six weeks, watching you with her—it's the happiest I've ever seen you. I want to help you get that back.”
After he leaves, I sit at my desk, staring at the Phase Two documents. Line after line of cuts, terminations, eliminations. All perfectly logical. All financially sound. All destroying what Layla loves.
I pull up a fresh spreadsheet and start running different scenarios. What if we kept 60% of the research staff instead of 15%? Maintained the campus for specialized operations? Retained Robert Carmichael as a consultant?
The numbers are worse. Not catastrophic, but definitely worse. The board will hate it. Harris will raise hell. The shareholders will question my judgment.
But for the first time in three days, I can breathe.
Not because I’ve solved anything. But because I finally stopped pretending this is just business and I don’t have the power to change it.
Because I do. Sure, it could lose me my company if I’m not careful here.
But if I keep going the way I am, I could lose it anyway.
And for once, I find I care more about the woman waiting at the end of this mess than the boardroom full of people I've never truly respected.
My phone rings—Vicky.
“Bennett, we have a problem. You rescheduled the Hartley presentation?”
“I did.”
“Their team is threatening to go elsewhere.”
“I'll handle it.”
Silence. Then: “Are you all right? You've been... different this week. ”
Different. Because the woman I love walked away, and I'm just now realizing I've been measuring success all wrong.
“I'm fine. But I need you to pull together new projections for Carmichael Innovation. Multiple scenarios focusing on preservation rather than elimination.”
“Preservation?” She sounds like I've started speaking a different language. “Of Carmichael operations?”
“Yes. Full analysis by Monday. Bring in whoever you need.”
“Bennett, that's a complete reversal of?—”
“Monday, Vicky.”
I hang up and stare at the spreadsheet. It's not enough. Not close. But it's a start.
My phone sits silent on the desk. No response to my last text. No indication she even cares that I'm willing to wait. But for the first time in my life, I understand that some things can't be taken, can't be demanded, can't be acquired through force or negotiation.
They have to be earned.
I pull up the original acquisition documents, but this time I'm not looking for efficiencies to exploit.
I'm looking for value to preserve. For the first time, I'm seeing Carmichael Innovations not as a failing company to be stripped for parts, but as something three generations built with their hands and hearts.
Something worth saving.
Line item 247: Research staff reduction, 85%. I delete it.
Line item 186: Campus closure and consolidation. Delete. Type: Maintain campus for specialized operations .
Line item 94: R. Carmichael - Position terminated. Delete. Type: Consulting role, 24-month minimum.
It's not enough. I know it's not enough. But it's more than I would have done four days ago, and I’ll keep doing more. I’ll take Caleb’s advice and bring someone in who can help me do more. More than the Bennett Mercer who built this empire would have considered.
Because that Bennett Mercer had everything except what mattered.
This one is learning to be different. Learning to see people instead of numbers. Learning that success means more than market domination.
Learning to be someone who can say “I love you” back.
Even if it's too late.
Even if she never gives me the chance.
I'll wait.