33. Layla
LAYLA
T he walk from the elevator to my office feels like crossing a minefield. Five days away—three wallowing, two actually thinking about Mom's words—and now everyone's watching. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Coffee cups freeze halfway to lips. Even the printer seems to hold its breath as I pass.
“Ms. Carmichael!” My assistant practically sprints toward me, relief flooding her face.
“Thank God you're back. Legal has called six times, the integration timeline's completely blown, and someone needs to tell Vicky's team that putting a pin in things to circle back later isn't an actual answer to budgeting questions.”
“Sounds like a typical Monday.” I manage a smile that almost reaches my eyes. “Anything actively on fire?”
She falls into step beside me, consulting her tablet with the intensity of a general planning invasion.
“The board presentation's been pushed to next Thursday—R&D needs time to incorporate trial results.
The Koreans want another conference call about distribution rights.
And someone ate all the good donuts while you were gone.
We're down to the weird coconut ones nobody likes.”
“Tragic,” I murmur, scanning the hallway despite myself. No sign of Bennett. Not that I really expect him to be here. Or that I'm looking. “What else?”
“Oh, and this arrived twenty minutes ago.” She gestures to a large white box on my desk, tied with a simple black ribbon. “No delivery slip, just your name.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest—part hope, part dread, all stupid. “Thanks. Hold my calls for an hour? I need to dig out from under these emails.”
Once she's gone, I approach the box like it might explode. The elegant James Foundation logo on the lid makes me pause. Not Bennett, then. Unless...
Inside, beneath pristine tissue paper, lies an invitation that makes my eyebrows climb. The James Foundation Gala. Tomorrow night. Me and a guest.
This is like getting invited to the Oscars when you've only done community theater.
The James Foundation—Willa and Landon James's pet project that funds STEM education for underprivileged kids—throws the kind of gala where Chicago's elite pretend to care about charity while making deals that reshape industries.
Sure, the cause is noble, but everyone knows the real action happens between courses, where million-dollar handshakes seal fates over champagne. I'm nobody's idea of elite.
The note card reads:
Ms. Carmichael ,
Your presence is requested at the annual James Foundation Gala tomorrow evening at the Grand Chicago Hotel. As a key innovator in medical technology, your insights would be invaluable to our guests. A car will collect you at 7:30 PM.
We hope you can join us.
Warmly, Willa James
Key innovator? I snort. More like a corporate charity case. Someone no one cared about until Mercer came along and rebranded me.
Beneath the invitation lies a dress that makes my credit cards whimper in sympathy. Midnight blue silk that shifts to silver when the light hits it. The kind of dress designed for making entrances and breaking hearts.
My first instinct is Bennett. But would he really use Willa James as a go-between? Then again, the man bought out an entire fado club in Lisbon. Subtlety isn't exactly his strong suit when he wants something.
I grab my phone and call Dad.
“Layla!” He sounds like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Back among the living?”
“Barely. Dad, do you know anything about the James Foundation Gala tomorrow?”
“The gala? Oh. Yes. That.” He clears his throat. “I might have put your name forward. You know, representing Carmichael's future and all that.”
“You put me on the guest list for Chicago's most exclusive charity event? ”
“Well, with your mother and I... separated... and the company situation...” He's fumbling, and Dad never fumbles. “Seemed like good exposure for you. Networking opportunities.”
“Since when does networking come with couture dresses?”
“Willa likes to make an impression on first-time attendees. Especially the younger innovators.” His voice has that particular tone, like he's reading from a script someone else wrote.
“Your NeuraTech efforts deserve recognition, sweetheart.
Even if you won't return my calls to hear me say it properly.”
The guilt-trip lands perfectly. Classic Dad.
“This is really just about networking?” I press.
“What else would it be about?”
Oh, I don't know. Maybe my maybe-ex-whatever pulling strings to force a reunion? But I can't exactly say that.
“Fine. I'll go.”
“Excellent! I mean—good. That's good. For the company.”
When we hang up, unease sits heavy in my stomach. Dad's never been good at deception. Whatever's happening with this gala, he's definitely in on it.
My phone buzzes.
Serena:
Lunch? Audrey says you're back at work.
I hit call instead of typing back.
“Any Corporate Vampire sightings?” she says instead of hello.
“Haven't seen him.” My traitorous body apparently didn't get the memo about being angry—just thinking about him makes heat pool low in my belly. “But I need backup. What are your thoughts on the James Foundation Gala?”
“The one where rich people pretend to care about poor kids while networking over champagne that costs more than my rent?”
“That's the one. Wanna go with me?”
She makes a choking sound. “Go with you? Um…Obviously I'm in. I'd cancel a date with Michael B. Jordan for this.” She pauses. “Will Moneybags McMerger be there?”
“Probably.” I run my fingers over the silk dress. “He does meet the wealth requirements.”
I shoot off a quick email to my assistant, asking her to check the guest list so I can be sure.
“Then we're definitely going. I need to see what he looks like when you walk in wearing whatever devastating outfit we pick out for you.”
“They sent me a dress.”
“Ooooh, fancy.” She sounds approving. “Snap a pic right now.”
I spread the dress out on my desk and send a photo.
“Oh my god,” Serena breathes a couple of seconds later. “This is power moves only. You will look insane . Like if Maleficent had a Northwestern MBA and a heart of gold.”
“You have to come over and help me with hair,” I say as my computer pings with a reply from my assistant. I stare at the screen as I see Bennett’s name on the list.
“Duh,” she replies. “After work. Just tell me what time. Also, I'm bringing backup accessories. ”
“I just got confirmation that Bennett will be there.” My chest feels tight.
“OK. Then we're going full femme fatale. Men like him don't pine well. It'll be delicious.”
“I'm not going to torture him, Serena.”
“Who said anything about torture? I'm talking about justice. Natural consequences. The universe doing its thing.”
“The universe sent me a couture dress?”
“The universe wants you to look spectacular while making him suffer. Don't fight cosmic forces, Layla.”
Despite everything, I laugh. It feels rusty but real. “Lunch at one? Bloom & Brew?”
“I'll be the one plotting your epic entrance.”
After we hang up, I hold the dress up to the light. Tomorrow night, I'll walk into that ballroom knowing Bennett will be there. Breathing the same air. Probably in one of those perfectly tailored tuxedos that make my mouth go dry.
I came back to work determined to be professional. To focus on salvaging what I can for my team. But here I am, running my fingers over silk that costs more than I can fathom, already imagining his face when he sees me in it.
So much for professional distance.
My email pings. For a second, my heart races thinking it might be him. But it's just IT asking about server access. The disappointment tastes bitter.
He hasn’t contacted me since he said he’d wait. No texts. No calls.
After days of relentless pursuit, the silence feels too pointed to be peaceful .
Maybe the gala is our reckoning—the place where what’s between us either ends, or ignites.
I fold the dress back into its box like a soldier packing armor.
Tomorrow, I’ll see him again.
And everything I’ve been holding back will either shatter… or hold.