Page 14 of Love to Loathe Him

Alastair fucking Charles Harrington. The pretentious prick actually introduces himself with his full name like he’s royalty. He’s missing the “fucking” part, but it damn well belongs there.

“Alastair.” I adjust my cuffs with a sharp, aggressive yank, needing to do something with my hands. “If you’ll excuse me,” I grit out to the blond.

She looks affronted but hides it behind a sultry smile and struts off. I turn my full attention to Harrington, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

“I rather thought I might run into you here,” he says, that smarmy smile of his making me want to knock every last one of his teeth down his throat. “What with TLS sponsoring this soirée. And you being such aphilanthropist.”

The sneer in his posh drawl makes my fists clench. “Ashbury Thornton donates generously to numerous worthy causes each year,” I state tightly.

“Well, it’s splendid to run into you. I’ve been meaning to reach out. We really must get together for a drink soon,” he pushes, that infuriating smirk growing. “Seeing as we’re about to be such close . . . neighbors, and all that.”

“Think I’ll take a hard pass.”

“Come now, Liam.” He chuckles, the smug bastard. “We’ll be right next door before you know it.”

“London’s a big fucking city, Alastair. I’m sure we can survive without forced social interaction.”

“Oh, I don’t just mean London. I’ve just signed the papers on the top floors of Tower 79. Seemed a prime location for the new Vertex Capital headquarters.”

My grip tightens on my glass. That underhanded, weaselly shit. He’s leased the top floors of the building right beside mine. The fucker’s literally positioning himself to look down on me.

“Such a smashing view from up there, I simply couldn’t resist.” That smug look intensifies. “I’ll be sure to give a friendly wave,” he adds with a wink.

Something primal snaps inside me at his words. I want to rip his throat out with my bare hands, to show this blue-blooded prick what I think of his show of disrespect.

But I never lose control.

I force myself to exhale slowly, lips curving into a sharp smile devoid of warmth. “Let’s hope you secure enough work to afford the rent up there. Overheads can be a bitch when you’re overcompensating.”

He chuckles. “That shan’t be an issue. We’ve been landing some rather major deals as of late. It appears the London market was in dire need of fresh blood. Oh, and no hard feelings about the Huxley acquisition last month, by the way. Just a spot of healthy competition, you understand. All part of the game.”

I go still, my grip on the glass turning my knuckles white.

“Must be quite the accomplishment,” I snap, voice laced with unadulterated disdain, “for a nepotistic little cunt like you to go crying to Daddy every time the game gets too tough.” My lip curls in a sneer of pure disgust. “How damn convenient to have a Lord for a father—greasing all the right palms with old money so his average son can stay nice and safe from any real competition.”

Alastair’s eyes light up, clearly delighted with getting a rise out of me. “Ah, there he is, the Liam I know so well, desperately trying to obscure his gutter roots with bespoke suits and an inflated ego.”

“I’m plenty secure in my self-made success,” I drawl, refusing to let this trust fund baby get under my skin. “So by all means, keep mocking my humble origins if it helps soothe your crippling insecurities over being a perpetual disappointment to Daddy.”

Alastair and I, we might’ve shared the same boarding school, but that’s where the similarities end. While he was born with a silver spoon so far up his ass he shits sterling, I was shipped off to boarding school for very different reasons by a rich stepdad who couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Reasons I should probably be in therapy for—but that’s what the Berkeley Athenæumis for.

I catch sight of Alastair’s breathtaking wife Victoria, but the moment she spots us together, she wisely changes direction, beelining for some pearl-clutching socialite instead.

I toss her a wave, and she returns it with a smile.

“Vicky’s a vision, as always. I should pay my respects,” I say, my smile all teeth.

Alastair goes rigid, like someone shoved a polo mallet up his already uptight upper-class ass. “She’sVictoriato you, and she’s got no interest in trading words with you.”

Still a sore spot after all these years. Guess some wounds cut deep for him too.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Alastair sneers, giving me a condescending slap on the back. “I’ll be sure to wave hello from my new office next week,neighbor.”

I toss back the remnants of my scotch and swipe another from a passing waiter, barely restraining the impulse to launch the heavy crystal at the back of Alastair’s head.

I need air before I do something that’ll make tomorrow’s newspapers. I head for the balcony, shouldering past a flock of giggling socialites.

The crisp night breeze is a welcome change from the suffocating air inside—exactly what I need right now. I grip the railing and stare at the sea of taillights crawling through Kensington.