Captains of industry, political elite, A-list celebs—they’re all here, indulging in every conceivable vice, secure in the knowledge that what happens in the Berkeley Athenæum stays there.
And I’m noexception.
A waitress materializes at my side, her “uniform” barely more substantial than dental floss. “Your usual, Mr. H?” she purrs, presenting a tray of premium spirits.
“Thank you.”
I grab a glass of Macallan 25, the good stuff. The rich, amber liquid catches the light as I swirl it around. I let that first sip sit on my tongue for a beat, savoring the way the smoky, complex flavors unfold before I swallow it down. The familiar warmth spreads through my chest, but it does little to dull the sharp edge of . . . need.
I catch the eye of a Cabinet minister, a statuesque blond bouncing on his lap as he shamelessly palms her tits. The moment he realizes it’s me, he practically shoves the poor girl to the floor in his haste to compose himself, motioning for me to join him with an ingratiating smile.
I shake my head curtly, jaw clenching in agitation. If the idiot thinks he can conduct business here, he’s sorely mistaken.
On the other side of the room, a waitress in nothing but a scrap of lace and a coy smile offers up a silver tray piled high with nose candy to a pair of supposedly upstanding human rights barristers. They hoover that shit up greedily, too busy indulging to even notice the half-naked goddess serving them.
Our masks are purely for show here—a flimsy nod to anonymity in a place where everyone knows exactly who you are. But as long as we keep paying our obscene membership fees, our dirty little secrets stay nice and buried.
The waitress sidles up to me, her hand brushing my shoulder as she leans in close. “The Alexandra suite is ready for you, sir. Whenever you’re ready.”
I knock back the rest of my scotch and set the tumbler down, my eyes sweepingthe room. Assessing.
Here’s the thing they don’t tell you when you’re climbing the ranks of London’s corporate elite, clawing your way onto theSunday TimesRich List like a fucking animal—once you finally reach the top 0.1 percent, people stop seeing you as a man. All they see is power.
Raw, untouchable, don’t-even-think-about-fucking-with-me power.
It’s a high at first. Every “yes sir” feeds the beast inside you. But eventually, it feels . . . empty. There’s no fight, no real challenge. Nothing to make your blood sing with the thrill of the hunt.
You work so damn hard to be the best, to be the top dog in every boardroom, the biggest deal at every high-stakes power lunch. You spend years building this impenetrable fortress of success, only to realize you’re the only bastard inside.
But sometimes, even the most powerful man in the room needs to be brought to his knees by a woman who knows how to wield her own power. A woman who isn’t afraid to tell him he’s full of shit and make him fucking love it.
The irony? No woman can give me that if she knows who I am. My name, my reputation, my bank account—it’s all a barrier.
I need a woman who can match me blow for blow. Who stands her ground when I push. Who puts me in my place when I need it. Who sees my success as a challenge, not a deterrent.
That’s why I find myself here, at the Athenæum. It’s the one place where I can leave all the baggage of the empire I’ve built at the door and just be a man for a while. A man with needs and desires that are never quite . . . fulfilled.
Only here, in the hazy anonymity of this place, can I let my guard down and surrender control for a few blissful moments.
And hell, do I need to relinquishcontrol.
I let my gaze drift over the room, taking in the sea of gyrating bodies and the sound of drunken laughter.
Then, suddenly, I’m the one caught off-balance. Blindsided by a face I never expected to see in a place like this.
Fuck me. Is that . . . ?
Well, well, well. This is unexpected. They might be hiding behind a mask, but I’d recognize those distinct features anywhere.
They’re playing a dangerous game being here.
This night just got a whole lot more interesting.
CHAPTER 1
Gemma
Here’s a fun littletidbit: apparently, 4 percent of people are sociopaths. But here at Ashbury Thornton Equity Group, we strive for excellence—and that means exceeding our sociopath quota. Sniffing out cutthroat individuals is our bread and butter. Especially for me—I’m the head of HR, so hunting down those delightful little psychos is literally in my job description.
