Page 39 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Black fuckingtie.

And oh my sweet mother of God does he look beautiful. Divine. He looks like a film star accepting an Oscar. He also looks genuinely happy. Proud. Two expressions I haven’t seen much evidence of on that ridiculous face of his since I’ve known him.

The next image has him standing, arms folded and face unsmiling in a deep blue shirt, in front of a bank of what look like massive servers.

There are more.

Aide in a recording booth, headphones on, a BBC mic in front of him.

Aide standing on a podium.

Aide surrounded by smiling youths, all wearing Prince’s Trust t-shirts.

Aide with a beautiful blonde.

Aide withanotherbeautiful blonde.

I scroll down to the Wikipedia entry Google is showing right beneath the photos.

Aidan Cuthbert Duffy, OBE,(Cuthbert? What the hell? And OB fucking E?)is a British entrepreneur, software engineer and philanthropist. He is founder of data security firm Totum and youth charity Fresh Start and is an Ambassador of The Prince’s Trust. He was awarded his OBE by Queen Elizabeth II in 2022. His net worth is estimated as four-point-two billion pounds. He was born in Notting Hill, London on February 6th, 1990.

I slump against the wall. There’s a myriad of emotions hitting me right now, and I understand precisely none of them. I’d expect myself to feel smugness, triumph, even, at my proximity to bedding, if not bagging, a real live billionaire who, for once, isn’t a total wanker.

Instead, I feel…weird.

Disappointment rolls through my belly, curdling that revolting white ‘house wine’ that didn’t even sport a grape type. I’ve had a very clear vision in my mind of who Aide is, and that is a handsome, hunky, Henry Cavill-esque builder whose filthy mouth will be equalled, I’m sure, only by his filthy bedside manner.

And it appears the guy who’s been sucking my boobs and buying me bras and whispering dirty things to me is not that. Not at all.

He’s someone altogether different. Someone who’s been having a laugh at my expense.

Forget disappointed. I feel betrayed, and really fucking cross.

My dating history over the past two years has been a long string of rich pricks. Sure, there’ve been highs. Portofino, Paris, New York, Cannes. Candlelit dinners and galas and yachts and diamonds.

And yep, there’s been some great sex amid the average sex—mainly because I know what I like, and I’m not afraid to ask for it, and I’m even less afraid to provide a running commentary if someone needs a manual.

But I’ve been colouring strictly within the lines. I’ve dated and fucked exclusively in my social circle of elite Londoners and Europeans and Americans. I’ve been snooty and predictable and clichéd.

Aide issupposedto be the antidote to all that. He’s supposed to be the guy I succumb to just because he’s hot and insanely masculine and capable of that fuck-me, swoon-worthy throw-down I crave so badly.

He’s supposed to be the all-man man. The female fantasy. He’s supposed to be everything the female gaze wants… and he is.

But he also isn’t.

He’s an insanely wealthy, jaw-droppingly successful guy who’s also a public figure and probably has a blue tick on Instagram.

I had a fun, steamy, sweaty little dalliance planned, where I’d live out some kind of porno fantasy that’s a mix ofLady Chatterleyand Pulp’sCommon People. And with a couple of words out of Judy’s mouth, that’s just—poof—evaporated.

Into thin air.

Gone.

Obviously, he’s still hot. Like, otherworldly hot. But he’s been playing me, and I swear to God nobody plays Carlotta Montefiore-Charlton.

I’m so angry now that adrenalin’s flooded my system and I’m shaking. I’m furious with him, and I’m furious with myself for being so dim. So obtuse.

How the fuck did I miss this?