Page 3 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

BECK

T he elevator dings softly as Abel and Cade leave for the night, the heavy door of the suite swinging shut behind them with a muted thud. Braedon left with the blonde hours ago, her shrill giggles now silent. Thank fucking God.

Silence wraps around me in layers. It’s a weight I normally enjoy but tonight I’m too wired. Downstairs, the club is a low hum of music and laughter. There are deals being struck, secrets exchanged—but up here?

It’s just me and I’m restless. I briefly consider calling out for some paid pussy.

Sex usually goes a long way in easing tension.

But I feel like nothing will take off the edge tonight and like a caged animal I’ve been pacing for the last twenty minutes.

My skin is tight and I don’t like the sensation.

I leave the private suite and take the stairs up another level to the penthouse.

My real sanctuary. The walls are floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides, giving me a panoramic view of the city I’ve come to call home.

I pour another drink, don’t bother turning on the lights.

The city glows below me, enough to cast long shadows across the room.

I don’t sit. I keep on pacing. My mind works fast and I’ve got a plan in place before my tumbler is empty.

Jules Horner.

She looks like her father around the eyes.

It took me a second to place it—the way her gaze searched the room, observant and steady.

But it was there. The shape of her mouth, the set of her jaw, the curve of her cheek.

..those things she could thank her mother for.

An ex-model with legs for days and the kind of face that graced billboards.

But Harold Horner’s blood runs through her veins, and her big wide eyes belong to him.

She doesn’t know who I am.

Didn’t recognize the name Beck Gaines when I introduced myself.

Didn’t flinch when Brent said “boss” or when the guys turned quiet the second she walked in.

She stood there—no coat, no pretense, no fear—like a lamb wandering into a den of wolves.

If I didn’t hate her so goddamn much I suppose a part of me would be impressed.

Takes a lot for a woman to walk into a room full of men she doesn’t know and act with confidence. Like she belongs. Like she has control.

Nope, the lady had no idea. It’s hours later and I can’t stop thinking about her.

Pisses me off. She should know who the fuck I am.

She should feel it. The weight of what he did.

The people he hurt. The mess he left behind every time he stepped foot outside his mansion.

My mother worked herself into an early grave and I can lay that directly at his fucking feet.

But she stood there, polite expression and nothing more.

She smiled like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

She asked the right questions. Signed the application, then the NDA, with a hand that didn’t even tremble while I watched her with the kind of look that left most men shaking in their fucking boots.

I stare out the window, eyes blurred on the lights below. Harold Horner’s daughter.

Working in my club. Looking for a paycheck like she doesn’t know who paid for her designer shoes or her fucking cashmere sweater. Like her whole life wasn’t bankrolled by the piece of shit who fathered her.

I pace faster. She’s hiding something. Has to be.

She said she was new to the city. Said she needed the job. And maybe that’s true. Hell, I took everything he had. But a girl who looks like Jules shouldn’t have a problem finding a man to pay her way. That’s prime pussy right there.

Why is she working menial jobs when she could be eating dinner or fucking any of the men who belong to my club? The girl had gone to boarding school in Switzerland for fuck sake. There’s a story here. Do I care enough to find out what it is?

I pour another drink and wonder if she knew what kind of man her father was. Maybe she’s just another casualty of his sins, swept under by the same wave he thought he could outrun. I should care, but I don’t. All I can think about is how I’m going to play this.

Anyway, whatever she is or was doesn’t matter, I suppose. Not now. Not that she’s in my world. She walked into my club on her own two feet. Hell, I didn’t even know she was in the city.

But now that she’s here, things are different.

Now she’ll pay for that Horner blood, and her father will fucking keel over and die when I tell him all the ways I’ve ruined his Babygirl.

I smile at the thought, though it fades when I think of my sister.

The one he tossed aside like garbage. My hand tightens on the glass until I feel it strain.

I toss back the tequila, but it barely burns anymore.

My anger has long since scorched the rest of me clean.

I picture her again. The way she stood in the doorway of the suite. Not cocky. Not flirty. Just calm. Earnest. Those big, dark eyes taking everything in. And I picture what it’s going to look like when the truth hits her.

When she finds out the man offering her this job is the same one who destroyed her father’s empire. The same man who stripped him of everything—his money, his legacy, his reputation. But there’s time for that. The reveal won’t happen until I want it to.

She’s the last unbroken thing Harold Horner has left. I smile and down the rest of my drink. I’m going to break her, too.

Not with fists. Not with threats. That’s too easy. Too quick. I’m a bastard through and through, man enough to admit it, but I don’t hurt women that way. No, I’ll unravel her slowly.

I’ll earn her trust. Watch her settle in. Let her believe she’s found something safe, something real. And when she finally lets her guard down, when she finally breathes again?

That’s when I’ll strike. Because there are rules in my world. Rule number one: Don’t fuck with me—or I’ll fuck you up harder. Her father is about to learn how personal that rule really is.

Bone tired I glance toward my bedroom, but like most nights these days I flop on the soft Italian leather sofa and close my eyes.

The morning comes early, sunlight hitting sharp and I roll off the sofa. I wake easily, no hangover, no fog. A miracle really. I’d been running on empty the day before, though years of discipline make it impossible to sleep in, even on the nights I don’t crawl into bed until dawn.

I’m stiff but that won’t last long. I don’t bother with a shower and pull on running gear instead.

The city is already alive when I lace up my running shoes and head out.

The streets near Central Park are crisp with early morning air, the sky pale and clear.

A perfect day for a run. I take the time to stretch properly, then move fast and fall into a steady pace, my thoughts quiet for the first time in weeks.

Out here, I’m not the man who built an empire on revenge.

I’m not the man plotting to dismantle Harold Horner’s last living legacy.

I’m just another face in the city, another runner pounding the pavement, lungs burning in rhythm with my stride.

The Foo Fighters kick in filling my ear pods with hard chugging rock and I fly down the trails.

After a few miles, I cut off the path and head toward my usual breakfast spot—a small corner diner tucked between a bookstore and a florist shop. Old-school neon sign, windows always fogged from the heat inside. I found it the first time I came to New York City and it’s been a favorite ever since.

The bell over the door jingles when I step in. The smell of coffee and bacon hits instantly, along with a blast of heat that hits me in the face. My stomach rumbles.

“Morning, Beck!” Ellie, the owner’s daughter, calls from behind the counter.

She’s twenty-something, all smiles, and always sneaks me extra toast because she says I look like I could use it.

It’s all bullshit. I hit up the gym steady, but she flirts and I humor her because I know if I ever made a move she’d run the other way as fast as she could.

Also her mother would kick my ass.

“Morning,” I reply, pulling off my cap and raking a hand through my hair.

“Usual?” she asks, already reaching for a mug.

“Yeah. And make the coffee strong.”

I slide into my usual booth by the window. People here know me—business owners, the older couples who linger over pancakes, even the beat cops who stop in for breakfast before their shifts. They nod or wave, and I return it with the easy familiarity I’ve cultivated over the years.

This is the other side of the coin. The part of me people trust. Respect. Maybe even like. And it’s not fake, exactly. I do like this part of my life. The simplicity. The ritual. But it’s also a mask, one I wear so seamlessly that no one ever looks past it.

Ellie sets down my coffee, along with a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast. “You’ve got that look,” she says, tilting her head.

“What look?” I take a sip of coffee, savoring the bitterness.

“The one you get when you’re thinking about something… or someone.”

I wink. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.”

“It better be me,” she says with a grin and wanders off, satisfied with the non-answer.

I eat in silence, watching the morning unfold outside the window.

The city is moving, alive, bustling. And somewhere out there, Jules is waking up, probably thinking she just landed a job that might change her luck.

She has no idea that her luck has already run out.

Do I feel bad about that? Fuck no. I’m stoked that one last opportunity to fuck over Harold Horner appeared like magic.

I relax after breakfast, coffee refilled, the diner settling into that quiet lull between the morning rush and the late crowd.

The hum of conversation softens to the clink of dishes and the low scratch of a radio playing some old Motown tune.

It’s like the past lingers here, not wanting to leave and I like that.

My world moves so fast that sometimes it’s nice to just fucking chill.

I unfold the paper Ellie dropped off— The Times , the actual print version.

There’s something about the weight of it, the feel of the pages between my fingers, that I like.

The news doesn’t matter much. It’s all noise—politics, stock updates, the same recycled shit.

Still, I skim the business section, note a few companies circling the drain, and mentally add them to my list of opportunities.

Another sip of coffee, another page turned, and a beautiful Saturday morning has endless possibilities. I have work waiting for me at home, but for some reason I want more for the day. I consider options when movement outside catches my eye.

From my seat by the window, I see a woman wrangling four dogs down the sidewalk—two golden retrievers, a shepherd mix, and a little French bulldog trotting along like it owns the block.

She’s focused, maneuvering leashes with practiced ease, her long dark hair swinging as she navigates around pedestrians.

She’s graceful, even in something as simple as walking dogs. Effortless.

I watch absently, not paying much attention—until she’s right outside the diner. The sun hits softly, and my hand stills on the page.

Her.

Jules Fucking Horner.

Of all the people in the city, she’s right here. On this street. Outside my breakfast spot, like the universe is handing me another reminder. It’s unbelievable really. And if I was the kind of man to believe in signs, I’d be all over this one.

She doesn’t see me through the glass. She’s too busy kneeling to fix one of the retriever’s harnesses, murmuring something soft to the animal.

She scratches behind the dog’s ear and the animal closes his eyes, clearly in heaven.

I watch as the folks walking past take a moment for another look.

I don’t blame them. She’s fucking gorgeous.

And despite her looks there’s no pretense. No trace of the world she came from.

For a second, I almost wonder if she really is as clueless as she seems. But then I remember who she is. I remember everything I tore apart to make Harold Horner feel even a fraction of what my mother felt. Of what she went through in order to put food on our table. I remember it all clear as day.

Jules straightens, brushing hair from her face as the dogs tug her forward.

She’s close enough now that I can see the faintest pink in her cheeks from the cold, the way she glances up at the buildings like she’s still getting used to the city skyline.

She passes by without a glance, never knowing I’m watching.

My fingers tighten around the edge of the paper, crumpling it slightly, before I put it down. I set the paper aside, lean back in my seat, and watch her disappear down the block with the dogs trailing behind.

The universe keeps putting her in front of me and for a man who doesn’t believe in coincidences I’m fine with that.

I’ll take that hint all day long. I’m supposed to fly to Japan Monday morning but decide to delegate for the first time ever.

Figure Josh Davidson, a young up and comer in my company needs to prove himself.

I’ve got other things to look after.

Her first shift can’t come soon enough.