Page 138 of Love to Loathe Him

I swallow hard, remembering Liam’s words from what feels like a lifetime ago.I need to find a way to keep you and Whitmore sweet, somehow.

At the time, it seemed genuine. Now? Now it feels calculated. Strategic. Even sinister.

My mind races, doubt seeping into every memory, every interaction. Was what he said about the charity just another lie to keep me from causing a fuss? Was italla lie?

I feel sick. I can’t trust anything he’s said or done now. Everything is tainted, viewed through a lens of suspicion and hurt. He needed me to help him look favorable in front of Sir Whitmore, didn’t he? That’s all I was—a pawn in his game.

Even what he did with Winnie . . . Was that just so I’d get back to work and concentrate on the deal?

I can’t handle anything else creeping out of the woodwork.

I feel so exposed.

I head up to the office, my stomach lurching with every stop, every ding of the lift as it gets closer to our floor.To him.

I could quit. Ishouldquit. I’ve been planning to since the diary incident. I would like a little more savings, but I just don’t know if I have the strength to work alongside him anymore.

I slink into my office, closing the door behind me—a cleardo not disturbsignal to my coworkers. Unless you’re here to tell me the building’s crumbling or that Liam McLaren is on fire, kindly fuck off.

Of course today would be the HR clinic. The day when I’m supposed to sit here and listen to other people’s problems, to offer sage advice and a sympathetic ear. What a joke. Worst timing ever. I can only hope listening to other people’s issues will distract me from my own.

“Focus,” I mutter. “Just work. That’s all that matters.”

I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Keep repeating that, and maybe it’ll become true.

I busy myself with emails and mundane tasks. But I can’t help it. I need to check something that’s been niggling at me. Something I think I remember seeing, a tiny detail that’s been haunting me since my conversation with Alastair.

My heart starts pounding in my chest as I navigate to Liam’s calendar. There it is—a recurring appointment, once a month onThursday evenings. No description, no explanation, just a single letter:A.

Athenæum. It has to be.

He wasn’t supposed to be there last night. Maybe it was an impromptu visit, a spur-of-the-moment decision to indulge. God, I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of him with her.

Which is just so stupidly naive of me. I should never have let my guard down, never have allowed myself to become this emotionally invested in the first place.

Everything about this man is a fucking lie.

Why do Liam and Vicky even meet at the Athenæum, anyway? Why don’t they just fuck in the comfort of his home? Maybe they do—maybe they’re all over his penthouse, christening every surface with their sweat and their moans and their utter betrayal.

Maybe the Athenæum is an extra kinky bonus, a place where they can do depraved shit. Maybe they get off on the thrill of being caught.

Stop it. You’re just torturing yourself now.

But apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment. Why not just stab myself in the eye with a pencil? It’d probably hurt less than this.

I wonder what Alastair’s going to do. He sure as hell won’t let Liam get away with this. He’ll probably use it to tank the TLS deal. And part of me, the bitter, vengeful part, hopes he does.

I search Vicky online. She went to Harvard, though it’s difficult to decipher what she does now. But the photos of her with Alastair are impeccable. She’s leagues above me. I blink back tears.

For the next few hours, I manage to avoid McLaren by keeping a revolving door of coworkers in my office, a never-ending parade of petty grievances and office drama. I plaster on bright, sympathetic smiles, nodding in all the right places depending on the issueat hand. No one seems to notice my inner turmoil. After all, who asks HR if they’re okay?

Which is fine by me. The last thing I want is anyone paying too much attention.

But when McLaren summons me to his office in the afternoon, I can no longer put off the inevitable.

I knock on his door, steeling myself against the onslaught of his presence. His scent. Those deep brown eyes.

You can do this.