Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 3

I shove open the door to my cozy Putney flat, and Miss Winchester-Scott prances over, sniffing the air to see if I’ve brought home anything more interesting than my boring self.

I could be living in a castle in the picturesque English countryside for what I paid for this two-bedroom garden-level flat, but that’s London for you.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this place. It’s got all those charming Victorian features—the original fireplace, the fancy cornicing. It’s part of a bigger house that’s been split into three flats. And Putney’s a pretty swanky suburb, so I can’t complain. If I really stretch up on my tippy toes while standing on my bed, I can just catch a glimpse of the Thames. And my neighbor’s knickers flapping in the breeze.

“How’s it going, gorgeous?” I coo, bending down to give her a scratch under that plush, round chin of hers. “Did you have a fun day?”

Miss Winchester-Scott, aka Winnie, my gorgeous blueish-gray British Shorthair companion, rewards me with a look of pure disdain—the same look my bitchy French teacher of the same name used to give me.

Known as the “teddy bear” breed, I picked her because they’re supposed to have easygoing personalities. But the longer Winnie lives with me, the more high-maintenance she seems to get. I have so many questions that she just refuses to answer.

Does she like having me around?

Does she counter-surf in the kitchen when I’m at work?

Would she prefer it if I just moved out?

She’s always hanging out with the neighbor’s cat, Tabby. They saunter in and out of each other’s cat flaps like they own the whole street.

I kick off my heels, ripping off my posh pantsuit right there in the hallway, down to my underwear. I’m safe to perform this burlesque act since Lizzie, my best mate and housemate, is out for the evening. As much as I love a good office power outfit, I don’t wear them a second longer than I have to.

At work, I’m a prim and proper thirty-three-year-old professional lady. Pantsuits on point, hair done nice. But the second I enter my flat, it’s like I time-travel back to my twenties, lounging in sweats, shoveling dry Coco Pops into my gob. I’m leading a straight-up double life here.

I throw on a ratty old T-shirt and some cotton shorts and pad into the kitchen to check Winnie’s food bowl. “Why didn’t you eat? Did you catch a mouse or something in the garden?”

Please, no. I’m still in therapy from the last “gift” she left in the tub—a half-eaten mouse carcass staring up at me.

Winne just purrs, doing a slutty circle around my legs, rubbing against me in blatant manipulation. Probably trying to butter me up so I’ll forget about her jabs.

I swap out her untouched kibble for a fresh batch of her favorite ridiculously expensive organic blend, trying to tempt her. She gives it a disdainful sniff, then sashays away, tail flicking like I tried to poison her with bargain bin food.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. “First thing tomorrow, we’re going to the vet. McLaren can cope without me for an hour; I’m not letting you suffer for his profit margins.”

Winnie pins me with an unimpressed stare from those piercing golden eyes, clearly underwhelmed by my brave stand against corporate tyranny on her behalf.

“Cheers for asking about my day, too,” I grumble, slipping over to the window to light my daily cigarette—my sad, shameful little vice. Yes, I know smoking kills. But so does working for McLaren.

I light up, taking a long, satisfying drag, only to be met with Winnie’s judgy stare. I sigh, stubbing out the cigarette after a few measly puffs. “You happy now?” I ask, flicking the butt into the ashtray with a defeated flourish. In a vain attempt to mask the lingering scent of my shameful indulgence, I strike a match and light one of my overpriced artisanal candles.

While it flickers, I fish out my Jawzercise Pro and chomp down on it. Some Instagram smart-ass swore this device would give me a jaw that could cut glass, just like Henry Cavill’s. I’m meant to use it for ten minutes a day to “activate the muscles.” So far, all it’s done is make my face ache. At least it should make me better at blowjobs, if the opportunity ever arises again.

Exhausted, I collapse onto my sofa, and Winnie hops up beside me, curling into a fat ball of fluff against my thigh.

“All right for some,” I grumble around the jaw exerciser. “Just lounging around all day, licking your own butthole without a care in the world. Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as a cat.”

She shoots me a look that’s the feline equivalent of Go to hell.

“Don’t give me that attitude,” I retort, tossing the jaw exerciser aside. “You’re living the cushy life of a kept woman, and you damn well know it. No job, no stress, just naps and the occasional disemboweled rodent as a treat. You don’t even need a dating app to replace love, you can just stroll outside and pick any stray tom in the neighborhood. Not that I’d ever let you sully yourself like that, of course.”

Exhaling deeply, I close my eyes for a moment on the couch, letting its warmth lull me into a near-comatose state, even though I’ve got work to finish.

I’m insanely envious of these mythical creatures who can switch off work-mode at five o’clock and leave their job at the office. Don’t get me wrong, I do love my job . . . most of the time. I’m used to running on fumes, working under the constant pressure. I get a kick out of being busy and needed. There’s nothing like the rush of people coming to me with their problems.

But lately, there’s a scale, and it’s tipped—I’m drowning under everything being dumped on my plate. McLaren has put more pressure on us than ever before. It’s a lot, even for him, and that’s saying something.

And as much as I enjoy the actual work, I could do without the asshole boss constantly breathing down my neck. I’m sick of jumping to attention every time he barks an order.

One day I’ll be self-employed. Set up my own HR consultancy company and then work for a whole range of different clients on my terms. I’ll be my own boss, and I’ll never have to deal with another McLaren again.

It’s not even so much about the money for me, although it’s ridiculous to say that doesn’t matter. I’ve got bills to pay and a pantsuit addiction to support. But it’s about more than just the money. It’s about the freedom. The freedom to work on my own terms, to set my own hours.

One day.

I fire up my laptop, the screen flickering to life. My eyes feel like they’ve been sandpapered, but I have to finish this project. I dive into the document. Okay, Gemma. You’ve got this.

What should’ve taken thirty minutes tops drags on for two excruciating hours because my brain is a useless pile of mush.

And I still haven’t done the homework my therapist keeps nagging about. Dr. Singh—courtesy of our oh-so-generous employee “we care about your mental health” program—insists on journaling as a form of emotional exorcism. He’s tasked me with writing down all the things that piss me off during the day, just to get it out of my head. Then, I’m supposed to scribble out what would supposedly make me feel better.

So for the past week, I’ve been diligently scribbling away each night before bed, spilling my guts onto the page. A letter to myself. Except instead of an actual diary, I need to be efficient and have a lot to say so mine is digital.

The idea is that putting it all down helps me process the day’s stresses in a healthier way. And I have to admit, there’s something cathartic about it. It’s like a secret rebellion, a chance to let all the snarky, NSFW thoughts that are constantly bouncing around in my head run wild and free. And surprise, surprise, most of those thoughts revolve around a certain tall, dark, and ruthless CEO.

“Don’t give me that look, Winnie,” I grumble as I pull up my “diary” saved in my private folder. “We’ve all got our questionable coping strategies. Yours just happens to involve rubbing yourself on the carpet while exposing your kitty cooch to everyone in the room.”

Dear Diary, I type, cringing at how lame I sound.

Most people don’t have to purge all the reasons their boss pisses them off. And they certainly don’t rack up new reasons to do so every fucking day. There’s something seriously wrong with this picture.

You know what would make me feel better?

Wrapping McLaren’s stupid tie around his thick, muscular neck and squeezing until that infuriatingly smug mouth of his is begging me for mercy.

Where do I even begin?

Let’s talk about his batshit demands. The man expects miracles to be pulled out of thin air on the daily. And heaven help you if you fall even a centimeter short of his impossible expectations.

My team and I have been busting our asses for months on this new recruitment campaign, all while desperately trying to babysit the pack of rabid hyenas McLaren calls employees.

I pop the jaw exerciser back into my mouth. Now, it’s less a tool for achieving a chiseled jawline and more a glorified adult pacifier.

Don’t even get me started on that all-staff meeting McLaren made me reschedule at the last minute. Does he have any idea how much work goes into planning one of those things? Of course not.

He’s too busy being a tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick to care about the logistics. Never mind the fact that I’ve been planning this thing for three months. Never mind that I’ve got the fanciest, most pretentious canapés known to man being flown in from some farm in the Isle of Wight (at Ollie’s request), and a guest speaker flying for one day only from Germany.

No, he just waltzes in like he’s the King of England and decides, on a whim, that the meeting needs to be moved. And today he swans off to his fancy event, probably guzzling champagne from the navel of some silicone-enhanced model, while I sit in with my judgmental cat, trying to piece together the shattered remains of this logistical nightmare.

I swear to God, he does this shit just to see if he can make me cry.

Well, joke’s on him, because I’m made of sterner stuff. I’m like one of those inflatable punching-bag clowns—the ones with the weighted bottoms that no matter how many times you knock me down, I’ll just bounce right back up, a professional smile plastered on my face.

But oh, what I wouldn’t give to see the look on his stupidly handsome face if I just let loose and told him exactly where he could stick his last-minute changes and his complete disregard for my time and my sanity.

Maybe I’m being a touch overdramatic, but it feels good to let it all out. I’m really hitting my stride tonight, tapping into some dark corner of my brain. My McLaren rant continues for another two paragraphs, my fingers flying across the keyboard.

I word-vomit out everything that’s pissed me off today.

The analysts hollering like they’re at a pub watching England in the World Cup.

Dennis from accounting’s skin flaking off onto my desk.

Bridget royally screwing up on her deadline, leaving me to swoop in and save the day.

Samantha calling in “sick” with a suspiciously raspy voice when I know damn well she was throwing back tequila shots last night.

But I keep circling back to one name: McLaren.

Big red flag right there.

The man snapped at me no less than ten times today, and that was a slow day. I’m starting to think he gets some kind of sadistic sexual thrill from verbally eviscerating me.

But he will never, and I mean never, see me break.

I will stand there, smiling that professional smile, maintaining eye contact so unwavering it would make a serial killer proud, all while secretly fantasizing about slapping that sneer right off his perfect face.

That escalated quickly. I’m feeling a confusing mixture of rage-induced arousal and deep, existential horror. I think I need another cigarette. In the shower.

I have to say, my inner monologue has the emotional maturity of a hormonal teenager, which is just fantastic considering I’m a thirty-something woman with a grown-up job and a mortgage. And a cat. Can’t forget the cat.

Speaking of the little devil, Winnie meows at me, like she’s got some wisdom to impart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, scratching behind her ears. “You try working for the biggest bastard in London and see how well you cope. You’d be stress-licking yourself bald within a day.”

A noise outside—probably some pissed bloke mistaking my tulips for a urinal again—startles Winnie. She leaps onto the coffee table, her tail thrashing back and forth. I watch in slow motion as my wineglass teeters, then tips, sending the dregs of merlot cascading over my laptop keyboard.

“Winnie,” I gasp, frantically dabbing at the keys with my sleeve.

Winnie just stares at me, unrepentant, before hopping down and sauntering off to the kitchen, probably to plot her next act of feline terrorism.

I’m elbow-deep in spreadsheets and passive-aggressive emails when I hear the door click an hour later.

“Heya.” Lizzie breezes in, her arms laden with bags that look suspiciously like they’re stuffed with clothes.

“How’d the audition go?” I ask, glancing up from my screen.

“Brilliant.” She beams, vibrating with excitement as she dumps her haul on the couch beside me. “It’s this romantic period piece and I’d be playing a tragically dying maid. I really think this could be my big break.”

She says that about every audition. Even the one with the chicken suit.

I resist the urge to be the cynical friend who reminds her that she might want to start hunting for a steady day job with an actual paycheck while she’s off chasing her West End dreams. There are times when her bank account balance dips so low, I need a paper bag to hyperventilate into, just thinking about it. “That’s fantastic. I’ll keep my fingers and toes crossed for you.”

My eyes drift to the bags, a sinking feeling growing in my stomach. “Did you go on a celebratory shopping spree on Oxford Street or something?”

“What? Oh, god no!” She laughs, adjusting her messy blond ponytail perched on top of her head. “The theater was going to toss all these incredible vintage pieces, but the hot props guy let me raid their stash.”

I peek into one of the bags, wondering where on earth she’s planning to store all this stuff. Her room is tiny, which is why I charge her next to nothing for rent. “So, naturally, you took everything.”

She shrugs. “One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure, right?”

I gingerly extract a monstrosity of a dress from the pile, all flounces and ruffles. “Where exactly do you plan on wearing this Bridgerton reject?” I ask, holding it at arm’s length.

She grins. “Maybe some posh fancy dress gala? Oh! Or a Regency-themed hen do!”

“Right, because you’re just drowning in invitations to those.”

“You never know.” She waves a hand dismissively, already rifling through the rest of her haul with a gleam in her eye.

It’s times like these that I’m reminded of just how different Lizzie and I are. I’m the type who needs everything in its place. Lizzie thrives in chaos. It’s a miracle we haven’t murdered each other yet.

“What should we watch?” she asks, snatching up the TV remote. “I’m thinking something mindless and binge-worthy, with some nice eye candy.”

I exhale, my eyes already straying to the cluster of open tabs on my laptop. “As much as I’d love to rot my brain with you, I need to get some work finished.”

“Again?” Her face scrunches up. “Seriously, Gem? This is getting out of hand.”

“Yep,” I sigh, popping the P aggressively. “Just pick something, I’ll watch while I work.”

“Gemma.” She uses her stern voice. “It’s past eleven. This is ridiculous. I’m seriously worried about you.”

“It’s just a rough patch at work. It’ll pass.”

“You always say that, but it never does. It’s not a ‘patch’ if it’s a permanent state of being.”

I can’t argue with her assessment. She’s spot on. I’m lagging years behind on my must-watch, must-read, must-listen lists, forever playing catch-up with the rest of the world.

Every aspect of my life outside work feels neglected. Like replaceing a kind, moderately fit bloke to settle down with, maybe having a child before my ovaries call it a day, actually planning real holidays instead of sad, last-minute Airbnb weekends, or even just buckling down to finally get that stubborn ingrown toenail seen to at the podiatrist. At this rate, I’ll be getting my next Tinder match at my retirement party.

“Fine,” I grumble, slamming my laptop shut.