34. Layla
LAYLA
“ W ell, Ms. Carmichael, I believe we've achieved the desired effect.”
Serena steps back like an artist admiring her masterpiece. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The midnight blue dress hugs every curve before flowing to the floor like liquid starlight. My hair cascades over one shoulder in waves Serena somehow coaxed from my usual chaos.
“I look like someone who belongs at these things,” I breathe.
“You look like someone who could buy and sell these things.” Serena grins wickedly. “Which, considering your maybe-ex's net worth, might not be far off.”
I smooth my hands over the silk, still marveling at how perfectly it fits. “This had to be custom made.”
“Obviously. Which means Daddy Dearest is lying through his teeth about arranging this invitation.” She crosses her arms, satisfied with her detective work.
“No way Robert Carmichael has Willa James's personal dress designer on speed dial. And no way either of them know your measurements the way Mr. Custom Wardrobe does.”
“You’re right. This has Bennett’s fingerprints all over it.”
“And you're OK with that?” Serena fastens a delicate silver bracelet around my wrist. “Him orchestrating this whole thing?”
I meet my reflection's eyes, searching for an answer I don't have. “I don't know. Part of me wants to slap him. Part of me wants to...”
“Jump his perfectly tailored bones?” Serena supplies helpfully.
“Something like that.” I smooth my hands over the dress one last time. “It's complicated. I'm still furious about Phase Two, but...”
“But you miss him,” she finishes softly.
I nod, unable to deny it. “I do. I miss him more than I've ever missed anyone. It's like someone carved out a piece of me.”
“Love makes us stupid,” Serena says, squeezing my shoulder. “Even when it's with someone who's basically a walking red flag factory.”
My phone pings with a notification. “Car's downstairs.”
“Ready to make corporate Chicago's most eligible bachelor cry into his champagne?”
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “As ready as I'll ever be.”
The driver holds the door as we slide into a sleek black Bentley. The leather seats are butter-soft against my bare shoulders, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon waits in an ice bucket.
“Definitely not your father's doing,” Serena whispers, running her hand over the pristine upholstery. “Unless Robert Carmichael secretly won the lottery while we weren't looking.”
“He's pulling out all the stops,” I murmur, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach.
Part of me wants to be annoyed at Bennett's presumption, at the way he's orchestrating this reunion.
But another part of me—the part that's missed him like oxygen—is thrilled by the effort.
The care. The attention to every detail.
“So what's your game plan?” Serena asks, popping the champagne with practiced ease. “Icy dignity? Passionate confrontation? Pretend he doesn't exist while flirting with every eligible bachelor in Chicago?”
I accept the flute she offers, watching bubbles rise to the surface. “I don't know. I honestly don't know what I'll do when I see him.”
“That's the spirit. Keep him guessing.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Though if you decide to skip straight to angry makeup sex in a coat closet, at least text me so I can get a ride home.”
“I'm not having sex with Bennett in a coat closet,” I insist, though the mental image sends a shiver down my spine.
“Mmhmm.” Serena smirks over her champagne. “That's what they all say before they end up with their dress hiked up against a wall of fur coats.”
The Bentley glides through Chicago's evening traffic, the city lights blurring into streams of gold and silver outside the tinted windows.
The champagne warms my blood, easing the knot of tension between my shoulders.
By the time we arrive at the Grand Chicago Hotel, I feel almost calm. Almost ready .
“Holy mother of luxury,” Serena breathes as we step out at the entrance.
The Grand Chicago Hotel is transformed, its limestone facade bathed in elegant blue lighting. A red carpet stretches from the curb to the massive doors, flanked by photographers and event staff. Above the entrance, a projection of the James Foundation logo shimmers against the night sky.
“Ms. Carmichael,” a staffer with an earpiece greets us, consulting a tablet. “Welcome to the James Foundation Gala. Ms. James has requested you join the reception in the Azure Room before the main event.”
I glance at Serena, whose eyes widen slightly. “The Azure Room? That's where the real power players gather before these things. Someone's rolling out the red carpet for you, girl.”
We follow our guide through the hotel's grand foyer, past towering floral arrangements and clusters of Chicago's elite in evening wear.
I feel eyes tracking our progress—curious glances that linger a beat too long on my face, my dress, my companion.
The weight of their scrutiny makes me straighten my spine, channel something of Bennett's confidence as we approach ornate double doors guarded by staff in black suits.
“Ms. Carmichael and guest,” our guide announces.
The Azure Room lives up to its name with walls washed in soft blue light that makes everything kind of glow.
Only about thirty people occupy the space, each one exuding a particular kind of power that comes with extreme wealth or influence.
I recognize faces from magazine covers and news segments—CEOs, politicians, old money families whose names grace buildings across the city.
And there, near the windows overlooking the Chicago skyline, stands Willa James herself.
Willa James, wife of tech billionaire Landon James. He built a billion-dollar empire in the 90s that made him a legend in tech circles, but ever since he met and married his wife, it seems philanthropy has become the passion for them both.
“Ms. Carmichael!” Willa says with a smile that lights up her entire face. “I'm so pleased you could join us.” She extends her hand, and I'm struck by the warmth in her eyes. Not the cold calculation I expected from someone in her position, but genuine welcome.
“Mrs. James, thank you for the invitation.” I shake her hand, trying not to appear as intimidated as I feel. “And for the dress. It's stunning.”
“Please, call me Willa. And you must be Serena Morgan?” She turns to my friend with the same genuine warmth. “I've heard wonderful things about your marketing work at Luminous.”
“Thank you,” Serena says, momentarily stunned into politeness. “I'm honored to be included.”
“Nonsense. Any friend of Layla's is welcome here.” Willa loops her arm through mine with surprising familiarity.
“Now, there are several people who are very eager to meet you.
The work you're doing with neural interfaces has generated quite a buzz. In fact, my husband has been discussing it with some associates for most of the afternoon.”
My heart stutters. “Your husband? Landon James is interested in NeuraTech?”
“Fascinated, actually. He's been holed up with Bennett Mercer and Caleb Kingsley, exploring possibilities.” She leans in conspiratorially. “Something about revolutionary applications in cognitive therapy, I believe.”
Bennett. The name hits me like an electric shock, confirming what I already suspected. This isn't just about networking—it's about something much bigger.
“I wasn't aware Mr. Mercer was involved with the James Foundation,” I say carefully, scanning the room.
“Oh, Bennett's been a donor for years,” Willa says with a casual wave of her hand. “He’s around here somewhere with the boys, talking shop as usual.” Her eyes meet mine with a knowing look that makes me wonder just how much she understands about my situation with Bennett.
“Men and their business. They forget there's more to life sometimes, don't they?”
“They certainly do,” I agree, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart.
As if summoned by our conversation, the crowd near the bar shifts, and there he is.
Bennett.
The sight of him hits me with physical force.
He's in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that accentuates his broad shoulders, his dark hair styled with that effortless sophistication that probably took minutes to achieve.
His presence commands attention, as always, but there's something different about him tonight.
A tension in his posture as he nods at something Landon James is saying, but his gaze keeps scanning the room.
When his eyes find mine, the world stops.
For a moment, we just stare at each other across the crowded space, everything else fading to background noise. He looks... different. Thinner, maybe. There are shadows under his eyes, and a tightness around his mouth that speaks of sleepless nights.
He's suffering too.
The realization makes something in my chest clench painfully.
“Oh, there he is,” Willa says, stepping away from us. “Bennett!” She crosses the room toward him. “We've found your missing guest.”
I can't breathe. Bennett's eyes never leave mine as Willa approaches him, her hand touching his arm in friendly greeting. I feel Serena's fingers dig into my wrist, a silent show of support as Bennett excuses himself from Landon and makes his way toward us.
“Breathe,” she whispers. “Remember you're a goddess in this dress.”
The room seems to part for him—or maybe that's just how he moves through the world, like everything should naturally yield to his presence. All the while, I'm frozen in place, unable to retreat, unwilling to advance.
“Layla,” he says when he reaches me. “You came.”
“I received an invitation,” I reply, aiming for cool detachment despite the flutter in my chest. “Hard to refuse when it comes with a dress like this.”
His gaze travels slowly down my body, appreciative but restrained.
“You look...” He stops, swallows hard enough that I can see his throat work. “Devastating.”
“The dress was a bit much, don't you think?” I say, finding my footing in mild confrontation. “Custom couture delivered to my office?”
“Nothing is too much when it comes to you,” he replies without hesitation, and the raw honesty in his voice steals my practiced indignation.
Serena clears her throat beside me. “I'll just... go find… Oh! Is that Caleb?”
“Ms. Carmichael,” Caleb interrupts smoothly, though his eyes are fixed on Serena with obvious interest. “Ms. Morgan. Pleasure to see you again.”
“Counselor.” Serena's voice drips with mock formality. “Still representing sharks and other predatory species?”
“Only the ones with excellent taste in legal counsel.” He adjusts his bow tie with exaggerated pride. “And you're still...?”
“Unimpressed by expensive suits and bigger egos?”
“Still can't stand me, then.”
“Not even a little.”
“Perfect.” Then he holds out his elbow to her. “Can I interest you in a dance? I can hear the band starting up in the main ballroom.”
“Oh, fuck yes. Please get me a safe distance away from this fire.”
Serena catches my eye and mouths, “Call me if you need me,” before letting Caleb lead her toward the ballroom, leaving Bennett and me in the kind of silence that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.
“You look tired,” I say, because it's safer than saying what I really want to.
“I haven't been sleeping well.” His eyes never leave mine. “The penthouse feels... empty.”
The simple admission makes my chest ache. I've missed him too, missed his warmth beside me, the sound of his breathing in the dark.
“Bennett— ”
“Layla, I need to?—”
We both stop, and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Ladies first.”
I take a steadying breath. “Why am I here, Bennett? Really?”
“Because I need you to hear me out.” His jaw tightens. “And I knew you wouldn't take my calls.” He gestures toward a quiet corner away from the crowd. “Five minutes. That's all I'm asking.”
I should refuse. Should maintain my distance until I've figured out what I want. But the intensity in his eyes has me unsure of anything.
“You went to a lot of trouble to get me here just to talk, Bennett,” I say, nodding toward the dress, the exclusive invitation.
He steps closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I believe conversation is encouraged at these events.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Then let’s not talk.” His voice drops to that low register that always undoes me. “Dance with me instead.”
The invitation hangs between us like a reckless promise. Dancing means touching, and touching Bennett might unravel me completely.
“Dancing won't solve anything,” I say, even as my body sways slightly toward him.
“Neither will standing here avoiding the conversation we need to have.” His eyes never leave mine, that intense blue gaze that always sees too much. “One dance, Layla. Then you can walk away if that's what you still want.”
I shouldn't. Every logical part of me screams to maintain distance, to protect myself from this man who dismantled my world. But logic has never been my strong suit when it comes to Bennett Mercer.
“One dance,” I agree, my voice barely audible over the soft music filtering in from the ballroom.
Relief flashes across his face, so raw and genuine. He offers his hand, and when I place mine in his, the familiar warmth of his skin sends electricity racing up my arm.
The ballroom is a vision of crystal chandeliers and midnight blue drapery, matching the theme of my dress so perfectly it can't be coincidence.
Bennett leads me through the crowd with that easy confidence, his hand at the small of my back both protective and possessive.
When we reach the dance floor, he turns to face me, one hand taking mine while the other settles at my waist.
“Just one dance,” I say, more to convince myself than him.
Bennett's thumb brushes across my knuckles. “One dance,” he agrees.
But as the string quartet begins a slow waltz and he pulls me into his arms, we both know it won't be just one of anything.
Not with us.
Never with us.