Page 4 of Love to Loathe Him

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 somechallengeswith 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 aroundhere 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 isextremelythorough, 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 conveysFuck off, now.