Page 1 of Love to Loathe Him

PROLOGUE

Liam

There are two typesof 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.