Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance

Here’s a fun little tidbit: apparently, 4 percent of people are sociopaths. But here at Ashbury Thornton Equity Group, we strive for excellence—and that means exceeding our sociopath quota. Sniffing out cutthroat individuals is our bread and butter. Especially for me—I’m the head of HR, so hunting down those delightful little psychos is literally in my job description.

I spend my days surrounded by a bunch of money-hungry sharks who’d gleefully punt Grandma into oncoming traffic for a Rolex. Actually, that’s not fair—they’d hold out for a Patek Philippe watch before tossing Granny to the wolves. But still, my point stands.

Even my adorable little kitty is a stone-cold bitch.

But the biggest, baddest sociopath of them all?

That would be the owner of those smoldering brown eyes currently trying to incinerate me through the glass walls of his fancy fishbowl office.

Liam “I-make-grown-men-sob-like-babies” McLaren.

London’s most ruthless financial hotshot and the big kahuna at Ashbury Thornton Equity Group. Just whisper his name and even the toughest traders need a fresh pair of tighty-whities.

Oh, and I call him Mr. McLaren, like we’re in some ’70s office porno, because he never bothered to correct me during my interview. Never said, “Please, call me Liam.” Then, on my first day, I called him Mr. McLaren, expecting a warm “Call me Liam! Welcome aboard.” But nope, I just got the same brooding glare.

My office, conveniently situated across the chaotic finance floor on level thirty-five, offers me an unobstructed view of his devastatingly handsome face. All. Damn. Day.

Sure, having my own office with a killer view of the Thames is a sweet perk. But when you’re the company’s resident therapist and the bearer of bad news, it’s an absolute necessity.

I heave myself out of my chair, storming through the sea of shouting suits, phone glued to my ear as I verbally flay the incompetent recruiters on the other end.

McLaren’s moody gaze finds me through the glass. He’s sprawled in his leather throne, hands clasped behind his head while Ollie, his senior-level manager, perches on the edge of the desk like a well-trained lapdog.

On autopilot, I flash him my bring it on smile. Years under McLaren’s rule has hardwired this fearless smirk into my DNA—the only way to survive dealing with guys like him. Never let ’em see you sweat.

Yes, McLaren is unfairly hot—smoldering eyes, chiseled jawline, muscles you could crack nuts on. But that’s just his human suit, the bait he uses to draw in unsuspecting victims before tearing them to pieces. Mother Nature sure is a bitch, making the deadliest creatures the most irresistible—like Venus flytraps or those tiny cute frogs that could kill you with a single lick.

And this fucker is no exception.

Ladies, don’t be fooled.

Underneath that handsome exterior beats the pitch-black heart of a raging See-You-Next-Tuesday.

Watching the female new hires around him is comical. As HR, I get a front-row seat to their faces morphing from “I want to scale that godlike tree” to “holy shit, this terrifying bastard is going to fire me before I’ve had my morning poop” in a single blink.

He jerks his chin, summoning me in like I’m some misbehaving schoolgirl.

I stab the end call button on my phone and smooth my already flawless blazer on reflex. Drawing in a deep breath, I stride into McLaren’s office.

“Take a seat,” he orders, hands still locked behind his head. His shirt strains against his chest, like it’s one deep breath away from sending a rogue button flying straight into my eye. I wonder if he’s physically restraining himself from wringing my neck.

My pulse quickens, and I give myself a stern mental slap. Five years. Five freaking years, and this man still makes me feel like I’ve grabbed a live wire every time he glares at me.

“If it isn’t the lovely Gemma,” Ollie leers.

“Ollie,” I reply curtly as I take a seat.

“Did you have a pleasant holiday, sir?” I ask McLaren. I heard he went on some hardcore, balls-to-the-wall trekking expedition to the North Pole. Knowing him, his idea of a relaxing vacation probably involves wrestling polar bears and chugging his own pee for hydration.

“Yes.” And there goes the small talk, dying a quick death. “Until I returned to this unacceptable recruitment situation, that is.” That Yorkshire accent thickens, turning each word into a verbal spanking. He only slips into full Game of Thrones Ned Stark brogue when he’s nuclear levels of pissed. “So, enlighten me. Thirty new staff members were meant to be on that floor this morning. And since basic arithmetic is apparently one of my many talents, I can see that half those desks are still empty, gathering dust. What happened? Did the others get lost?”

I shift in my seat, uncrossing and recrossing my legs. “I’m fully aware of the situation, sir. My team has been working around the clock. We’ve expanded our recruitment efforts globally and are aggressively pursuing top talent.”

Basically, one restraining order away from hiding in their bushes.

“Then poach harder,” he snarls, revealing a mouthful of teeth belonging in a toothpaste ad. “I needed warm bodies filling those seats last week. So unless you’ve somehow cracked the code on time travel, you’re already failing spectacularly.”

I bite back the urge to suggest he dial down his raging hard-on for expansion. There simply aren’t enough soulless financial mercenaries to meet his astronomical demands. But something tells me that excuse won’t fly.

Instead, I flash him a smile that’s equal parts bravado and bullshit. “We’ll have the roles filled soon, I’m certain of it.”

Even if I have to fill the desks with cardboard cutouts of Jordan Belfort.

He leans forward, elbows on the desk, and I get a whiff of his cologne. “Unacceptable. Those seats should already be filled. You’re the highest-paid HR lead in London for a damn good reason. Now prove you’re worth the salary.”

He’s in a right pissy mood. Must not have woken up with a supermodel in his bed this morning.

But as much as I hate to admit it, the man has a point. In any other company, I’d be lucky to see half of what I’m pulling in at Ashbury Thornton. But the trade-off is my sanity and any semblance of a life outside these walls.

He’s not finished. “I signed off on every budget increase you requested. So, I repeat, enlighten me—why in the bloody hell am I staring at a half-empty trading floor?”

Okay, it’s more like three-quarters full, but I’m not about to split hairs when he’s in a mood like this.

“Come on, Gemma, get your shit together,” Ollie chimes in, oh-so-helpfully. “Kinda hard to deliver without the full manpower.”

I narrow my eyes on him. While McLaren rules with a silent, menacing authority, Ollie is a walking, talking time bomb waiting to explode—cracking obnoxious jokes one minute, putting his fist through the vending machine the next if some poor intern dares to look at him wrong. Just your typical manager here.

“There have been some challenges with the acceptance rate,” I say carefully. “It appears some candidates have reservations about the firm’s . . . workplace culture.”

“The culture?” McLaren says it like it’s a foreign word he’s never heard before. “We offer the most competitive compensation package in the city. They should be clawing each other’s eyes out for a shot here.” His tone is deceptively even, but the undercurrent of threat is clear as day. “Sounds like you’re not going after the right kind of talent.”

On the surface, I’m the picture of professionalism—a living, breathing LinkedIn profile. But underneath this perfectly pressed blazer and meticulously applied lipstick, I’m about two seconds away from lunging across the desk and wrapping my hands around his thick neck and . . .

And I’m not entirely sure.

Because here’s the thing: in the five years I’ve been slaving away at Ashbury Thornton, I’ve never busted my ass harder than I have in the last six months. And considering a “light” day around here still means ten-plus hours glued to my desk, that’s saying something.

We work hard and ruthless here at Ashbury Thornton. We’re the guys that circle dying companies, swoop in for the kill, and then “restructure” them. And by “restructure,” I mean we slash half the staff, sell off all the assets, and squeeze every drop of profit out of it. It’s about as feel-good as it sounds.

But lately, it’s like McLaren’s got a rocket shoved up his muscular ass. I’m half convinced the man discovered he’s got six months to live, the way he’s been acting like a possessed madman. This level of frenzy is unprecedented, even for him.

I keep a lid on my growing frustration with a well-practiced poker face. “Believe me, we’re going after the talent we need. Our selection process is extremely thorough, designed to identify and attract top talent. However, wooing these exceptional candidates takes time.”

I’ve learned the hard way not to show even a flicker of weakness in front of him—not after he verbally annihilated the old Head of Marketing so thoroughly, the guy had to take a mental health sabbatical. Last I heard, he was off finding himself in the Himalayas, trying to piece together whatever fragments of his sanity McLaren left behind.

“Do you have any idea how much each of those empty seats is costing me?” Liam’s hand wraps around his pen like he’s trying to release his wrath on it. I’m half expecting ink to start gushing out.

“It’s not as black and white as that, sir.”

“It’s any color I say it is,” he growls. “I’m a numbers man. And right now, the numbers are painting a bleak picture. You’ve hemorrhaged through the budget, yet half those seats are still empty, mocking me. So lay it out for me. How do we course-correct this dire situation?”

“The caliber of talent we’re after is incredibly rare—the top one percent of an already elite group. Moreover, managing the . . . volatile personalities already on staff takes up significant resources,” I say, keeping my tone diplomatic yet pointed.

Ollie has the audacity to roll his eyes at me, like I’m gossiping about Sarah’s new boob job rather than addressing a critical issue.

I flash him my iciest smile. “Case in point—Brandon tried to hurl his chair through a window yesterday.”

Ollie laughs, the twat. “Well, the window’s still intact, isn’t it? The guy just needed to let off some steam. We’ll get him a stress ball or something.” He smirks. “Brandon brought in fifty mil for the firm last year. If he wants to redecorate the office, I say let him.”

I resist the urge to introduce my palm to my forehead. Repeatedly. “I doubt our insurance provider feels the same. I really think we should consider withholding part of Brandon’s bonus until he shows he can behave.” I sound like a preschool teacher, which isn’t far off, except my students wear Armani and snort their allowance.

“Gemma, stick to recruitment, kiddo,” Ollie says, his tone dripping with infuriating condescension.

“Employee conduct is absolutely HR’s domain,” I snap. The cheek.

I feel a glimmer of relief when McLaren shoots his idiot manager a scathing look. “Last I checked, we’re running a private equity firm, not a goddamn circus.”

Ollie’s face sours, clearly not thrilled about being reprimanded in front of the lowly HR manager. “Of course, boss.”

“Anything else?” McLaren lifts a brow at him. A brow I know all too well, one that silently conveys Fuck off, now.

“No, boss.” Ollie slinks out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him.

As much as I’m not an Ollie fan, I can’t ignore the way my pulse kicks into overdrive the moment it’s just me and McLaren.

Alone.

The temperature in the room seems to heat ten degrees.

McLaren rubs his jaw, eyeing me. Seriously, the man’s bone structure is so ridiculously chiseled, I’m surprised he doesn’t slice his pillows in his sleep. “Okay. I’ll handle the Brandon situation myself. I’ll make sure he thinks twice before pulling another moronic stunt like that.”

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been asked to turn a blind eye to the appalling behavior of Ashbury Thornton’s “top talent.” Ollie not only tolerates it, he practically hands out gold stars. McLaren just takes them aside for a “chat.” It’s one of the things I hate most about this job—it completely undermines HR’s authority.

“With all due respect, sir, it’s not just Brandon,” I press on. “The work environment here is getting out of hand. Even by Ashbury Thornton’s . . . relaxed standards. When a grown man throws furniture and no one blinks, we’ve got a problem.”

He exhales sharply through his perfectly sculpted Roman nose. God spent extra time on that nose.

As with every meeting, I can’t shake the feeling that his next words could be “pack your shit, you’re fired.” Maybe he’ll even go full Alan Sugar and point that long finger at me, like we’re on a twisted version of The Apprentice.

“All right. Compile a list of our most critical cultural issues, and I’ll step in and lay down the law. But you’d better have a bulletproof recruitment acceleration plan ready to present by the end of tomorrow. Whether it’s more money, more manpower, or sacrificing a man to the gods—I don’t care. Just make it happen.”

I nod, my face a perfect mask of professionalism. “Understood.”

“Good.” His sensual mouth twists into a displeased razor slash. “One more thing. Push the all-staff meeting back to Friday. Something’s come up.”

I grit my teeth. He says it like he’s asking me to move a potted plant, not reorganize the schedule of hundreds of overworked, overpaid, and over-caffeinated finance maniacs.

Apparently my acting skills need some work, because McLaren’s eyebrow does that infuriating arch. “Problem, Gemma?”

“Not at all,” I reply coolly. “Consider it handled. I’ll send out updated calendar invites within the hour.”

Every night, I push myself to the brink trying to keep up with this job’s never-ending demands. And every morning, a fresh disaster awaits with my first slurp of coffee.

Yesterday morning, it was peeling a bawling intern off the bathroom floor, her mascara running down her face in black tears as she questioned every life choice that led her to Ashbury Thornton.

Then in the afternoon, I had to call security to pry a junior analyst off his desk after he face-planted, riding the fumes of a three-day coke bender in a tragic attempt to meet an impossible deadline.

And now, thanks to McLaren’s latest sadistic whim, I have to overhaul a massive meeting in twenty-four hours.

But I’ll get it done. I always do. Even if it kills me, which is a real possibility at this point.

“That’ll be all,” he dismisses me, already turning back to his screen. Probably looking at his own devastatingly handsome reflection.

I plaster on a smile as I stand, like the good little soldier I am. Because that’s what you do when you’re playing with the big boys. You suck it up, squeeze into your power pantsuit, and find a way to make it happen.

“Have a productive day, sir,” I say sweetly.

You ungrateful, sadistic, heartless bastard, I mentally add, because some days cursing him out in the safety of my own head is the only thing that stops me firing my chair through the window.