Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Prologue

There are two types of people in this world: those who control, and those who get bent over and controlled. It’s as clear-cut as that. Black and white, no shades of gray.

I learned this lesson early, and I learned it the hard way. If you want to make it to the top, you’ve got to have a handle on everyone and every damn thing around you. No exceptions, no half-measures.

Which is why I control every aspect of my life with ruthless precision.

My schedule is optimized for maximum efficiency and productivity. No wasted time. My diet is precisely calculated to keep me at peak performance, body and mind firing on all cylinders. My investments are diversified and aggressively managed to make sure the money keeps flowing, no matter what the market’s doing.

My relationships are no exception. Employees, business partners, competitors—they’re all carefully controlled. Sometimes with incentives, sometimes with intimidation, sometimes just good old-fashioned charm. The method matters less than the result.

And my sex life? I approach it as I do my business transactions. Every encounter, every tryst—all meticulously orchestrated for maximum satisfaction and minimum complications.

I fuck who I want, when I want, how I want. No attachments, no drama.

Which is what brings me to the Berkeley Athenæum tonight. It’s a discreet establishment, just another unmarked door on a Mayfair street. You’d walk right by if you didn’t know what you were looking for.

My Aston growls to a stop at the curb.

“James,” I say to my driver, “be back in two hours.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies with a crisp nod. James is a solid bloke, reliable as they come.

I step out of the car, straightening my suit jacket. The bouncer’s gaze meets mine. One nod, and he steps aside.

Inside, it’s like descending into some eighteenth-century aristocrat’s wet dream. Dark mahogany, marble, chandeliers—the whole nine yards of ostentatious British opulence on shameless display. Oil paintings of stern-faced lords and their mistresses glare down from the walls, eager to put me in my place.

But no one puts me in my fucking place. Not anymore.

The joint reeks of old money and even older entitlement. The kind of stuffy establishment where you half expect to find Sherlock Holmes by the fire, puffing contemplatively on his pipe.

But make no mistake. Behind the Shakespeare busts and haughty facade, this is where London’s power players come to indulge their filthiest desires. All it takes is the right connections, a fat bank account, and an itch that needs scratching.

And I’ve got all three in spades, hearts, and fucking diamonds.

“Good evening, Mr. H.”

My alias. As far as names go, I’ve been called worse.

The hostess slinks over, her clinging blue dress managing to toe the line between classy and filthy. Her smile’s all business, but those eyes tell a different story. A story about every dirty little secret of every rich bastard in this place. Me included.

“Margo,” I acknowledge her.

Her nails rake across my chest, dipping under my collar in a gesture that’s as brazen as it is deliberate. With agonizing slowness, she eases my jacket off my shoulders.

“For you, sir.” A velvet mask materializes in my palm, placed there by fingers that linger just a fraction too long to be purely professional.

“Thank you.” I don the mask, feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline.

Margo tilts her head in subtle invitation before disappearing through the heavy curtain at the end of the hall. A curtain that, by all rights, should lead to a library.

As I approach, the bouncers flanking the curtain snap to attention. “Evening, sir,” they chorus.

I acknowledge them with a nod as I push through the heavy fabric, stepping into a world of expensive liquor, imported cigars, and the unmistakable, heady musk of sex so thick you could choke on it.

Welcome to the playground of London’s rich and fucking shameless. Where the city’s most powerful players—men and women—shed their carefully polished public facades and unleash their basest urges.

Captains of industry, political elite, A-list celebs—they’re all here, indulging in every conceivable vice, secure in the knowledge that what happens in the Berkeley Athenæum stays there.

And I’m no exception.

A waitress materializes at my side, her “uniform” barely more substantial than dental floss. “Your usual, Mr. H?” she purrs, presenting a tray of premium spirits.

“Thank you.”

I grab a glass of Macallan 25, the good stuff. The rich, amber liquid catches the light as I swirl it around. I let that first sip sit on my tongue for a beat, savoring the way the smoky, complex flavors unfold before I swallow it down. The familiar warmth spreads through my chest, but it does little to dull the sharp edge of . . . need.

I catch the eye of a Cabinet minister, a statuesque blond bouncing on his lap as he shamelessly palms her tits. The moment he realizes it’s me, he practically shoves the poor girl to the floor in his haste to compose himself, motioning for me to join him with an ingratiating smile.

I shake my head curtly, jaw clenching in agitation. If the idiot thinks he can conduct business here, he’s sorely mistaken.

On the other side of the room, a waitress in nothing but a scrap of lace and a coy smile offers up a silver tray piled high with nose candy to a pair of supposedly upstanding human rights barristers. They hoover that shit up greedily, too busy indulging to even notice the half-naked goddess serving them.

Our masks are purely for show here—a flimsy nod to anonymity in a place where everyone knows exactly who you are. But as long as we keep paying our obscene membership fees, our dirty little secrets stay nice and buried.

The waitress sidles up to me, her hand brushing my shoulder as she leans in close. “The Alexandra suite is ready for you, sir. Whenever you’re ready.”

I knock back the rest of my scotch and set the tumbler down, my eyes sweeping the room. Assessing.

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you when you’re climbing the ranks of London’s corporate elite, clawing your way onto the Sunday Times Rich List like a fucking animal—once you finally reach the top 0.1 percent, people stop seeing you as a man. All they see is power.

Raw, untouchable, don’t-even-think-about-fucking-with-me power.

It’s a high at first. Every “yes sir” feeds the beast inside you. But eventually, it feels . . . empty. There’s no fight, no real challenge. Nothing to make your blood sing with the thrill of the hunt.

You work so damn hard to be the best, to be the top dog in every boardroom, the biggest deal at every high-stakes power lunch. You spend years building this impenetrable fortress of success, only to realize you’re the only bastard inside.

But sometimes, even the most powerful man in the room needs to be brought to his knees by a woman who knows how to wield her own power. A woman who isn’t afraid to tell him he’s full of shit and make him fucking love it.

The irony? No woman can give me that if she knows who I am. My name, my reputation, my bank account—it’s all a barrier.

I need a woman who can match me blow for blow. Who stands her ground when I push. Who puts me in my place when I need it. Who sees my success as a challenge, not a deterrent.

That’s why I find myself here, at the Athenæum. It’s the one place where I can leave all the baggage of the empire I’ve built at the door and just be a man for a while. A man with needs and desires that are never quite . . . fulfilled.

Only here, in the hazy anonymity of this place, can I let my guard down and surrender control for a few blissful moments.

And hell, do I need to relinquish control.

I let my gaze drift over the room, taking in the sea of gyrating bodies and the sound of drunken laughter.

Then, suddenly, I’m the one caught off-balance. Blindsided by a face I never expected to see in a place like this.

Fuck me. Is that . . . ?

Well, well, well. This is unexpected. They might be hiding behind a mask, but I’d recognize those distinct features anywhere.

They’re playing a dangerous game being here.

This night just got a whole lot more interesting.