I skim through my background check, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and discomfort. My whole life is laid out in stark, clinical facts. It’s like reading a biography of myself written by someone who finds me incredibly dull.
Bloody hell, this file is more precise than my own memory. It dives into family details, past relationships, mortgages, addresses—everything. Big Brother is watching, and he’s got a spreadsheet.
I guess I’m lucky there are no skeletons in mine. The file covers it all, down to the fact that I live with Lizzie, own my flat, and have a decent credit score. It even knows I went to school near Bath, where I grew up. Honestly, it remembers things I’ve long forgotten
Their AI has analyzed our data and assigned us risk profiles. As I scroll through them, it feels like I’m reading the cast list of some dystopian film where everyone’s reduced to a threat level.
Low Risk:Won’t even steal a stapler—that’s me. I’m a safe bet. You’ll never catch me using the office printer for personal stuff. Nice to know AI agrees; at least I’m excelling at being boringly law-abiding.
Medium Risk:Might fake receipts—half the traders, I bet.
High Risk:Potential Corporate Saboteur and requires anger management—oh look, it’s Ollie.
My hand hovers over Liam’s file, and my heart starts thumping. I know he’s not the mole, obviously, so this feels wrong. I don’t want to violate his privacy, and not just because I’m his employee but because we are, to put in bluntly, fucking.
Still, he was happy to subject everyone else to this check. Shouldn’t he get a taste of his own medicine?
I sound like I’m trying to convince myself.
I swallow hard, my finger still suspended over the mouse. It’s fine, right? He’s a public figure. Surely there’s nothing in here that hasn’t already been splashed across tabloids or buried in some journalist’s exposé. What could I find that I don’t already know?
I know his bank account is stacked with about a dozen zeros. I know he came from a relatively impoverished background but was rescued by his wealthy stepfather when he was still young. He went to a top-tier school, just like every other billionaire in this industry. It’s all old news.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I click open the file.
Holy shit. I almost choke on my coffee. His net worth is . . . wow. I could work until I’m nothing but bones and still not make what he does in a month.
I skim over the familiar details. Born in Yorkshire. One brother, Patrick, a property developer. Father dead. Stepfather: owns an insurance company. Nothing surprising so far. But then, a detail catches my eye. One tiny fact that makes my heart squeeze in my chest.
His mum worked for TLS. For ten years, before they laid her off. Why didn’t he mention this? This takeover . . . it’s personal for him, isn’t it?
The file says his mum married his stepdad when Liam was five, and by six, he was shipped off to boarding school. Six years old. Just a little boy, sent away from home. The file even goes into detail about how he stayed there over summers.
I click out of it, feeling a weight settle in my chest. Liam said he didn’t enjoy school, but he lived there. All year round. While his mum started a new life with his stepdad. That’s what it looks like on paper.
Maybe ruthlessness isn’t something you’re born with; maybe it’s something that’s shaped in you, piece by piece, by all the crap life throws your way. A kid, barely old enough to tie his own shoes, shipped off to boarding school and forced to grow up way too fast. Is it any wonder he turned out to be so . . . Liam?
Maybe that’s what happens when you’re taught from a young age that the only person you can rely on is yourself. How you become the Liam McLaren, the man who can buy and sell companies without batting an eye.
Suddenly, so much about Liam makes sense.
CHAPTER 34
Gemma
“Wearing a full-length bibcovering my breasts isn’t exactly the epitome of sex appeal.” I giggle.
We’ve spent the last hour in this adorable seafood restaurant in Hamble, a quaint spot just up the coast from where we embarked on our regatta adventure. I wipe my hands on my napkin for the umpteenth time. The lobster grease on my bib makes me look like I’ve just gone a few rounds with a bottle of cooking oil. “I’m never ordering lobster again. All this work, and for what? A measly bit of fish from the leg? No thanks, I’ll stick to fish and chips from now on.”
“Lobster’s not technically fish. It’smeatfrom the leg.”
“Okay, mister smarty pants,” I huff. I dab at my bib with a napkin, which does precisely fuck-all to improve the situation.
I watch as he cuts into his steak, which he ordered with veggies and no sauce. “That must be an entire cow you’ve got there. And who eats steak without any sauce? That’s just wrong.”
He shrugs, popping a piece of plain, dry beef into his mouth. “I like to control what I put in my body. Not a fan of processed shit.”
No kidding. The man’s a machine when it comes to his diet. One glass of wine, max. Never more. Although he does seem to have a bit of a thing for whisky.
