Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 40

“Oh, Gem,” Lizzie sighs, her fingers gently brushing through my hair as I rest my head on her stomach. “I’m so sorry that bastard has done this to you. I wish I could do something to take away your pain. Or cause him pain. Like stab him in the nuts.”

Winnie curls up on my stomach, her gaze never leaving my tear-stained face. Her little paw reaches out to pat my arm, either to comfort me or to remind me it’s dinnertime.

My legs have been dangling over the armrests for so long that I’m starting to feel pins and needles, but I can’t bring myself to move.

“I feel so stupid for crying.” I sniffle, my voice thick with snot and self-loathing. “I mean, why am I even surprised? Out of everyone I know, if someone asked, ‘Hey Gemma, who do you think is most likely to have an affair with his rival’s wife at a sex club?’ I’d say Liam in a heartbeat. I’ve always known who he is.”

And here I am, crying over him like a fool. Pathetic doesn’t even scratch the surface. My biggest mistake was thinking that even though he’s ruthless enough to do those things, he wouldn’t hurt me.

“You’re not stupid for crying,” Lizzie soothes, rubbing my hair more vigorously, as if to try to comb away my heartbreak. “You’re human. It’s not pathetic to care about someone. Even if that someone turns out to be a lying scumbag who doesn’t deserve a single one of your tears.”

She’s been an absolute saint, listening to me rant and rave for the past two hours, letting me use her as a human pillow. It’s late, and we both should be in bed, but the thought of facing tomorrow, of walking into that office and seeing his face, makes me want to burrow deep into the couch and never come out. I don’t know how I’m going to do it.

I close my eyes, my chest tight and aching, and try not to think about what Liam is doing right now. In his kinky sex club. With Alastair’s wife. The mental image makes me want to vomit and cry simultaneously.

“Gemma,” Lizzie says in a small voice, her hand stilling in my hair. “Just be careful at work, okay? Because . . . do you think this whole TLS deal thing is really . . . about Vicky?”

My heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t Alastair the one that he’s got this crazy rivalry with? And they’ve all been to school together, known each other forever, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. A knot of dread starts to form in my stomach.

“What if it’s been about the wife all along? What if that’s the explanation for everything?” Lizzie’s words come out in a rush. “I don’t want to hurt you, but what if it was always about Vicky?”

I look up at her, sickening horror dawning as she articulates something I didn’t consider. That’s why he had to beat Alastair. That’s why he had to punish him. It was because Alastair took what Liam wanted, and it was all about her.

I see this often working in HR. It takes an outsider to connect the dots.

And if Lizzie can see it . . .

“He is the king of compartmentalization,” I say with a humorless laugh that borders on a sob. “If anyone can do it, it’s him. He could probably fuck me while loving her and not even blink.”

“I don’t think he loves anyone but himself.” Lizzie sighs. “It’s such a shame. I thought after what he did with Winnie, maybe there was a decent side to him.” She pauses. “When are you going to confront him?”

I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself, but it just makes Winnie tap me sharply with her toebeans, as if to tell me to stop rocking her makeshift bed.

“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice small and pathetic. “We’re supposed to go paddleboarding in Whitstable this weekend. I have my new wetsuit. Bloody hilarious.” I let out another bitter snort laugh. It’s either laugh or cry at this point, and I’ve already ruined Lizzie’s shirt with my tears.

I feel Lizzie stiffen under me, her hands pausing mid-stroke. “Please tell me you’re not going?”

“Of course not!” I exclaim, offended she’d even think that. Winnie, startled by my outburst, jumps and gives me a reproachful look. “I’m not a complete masochist. I mean, I’m close, but I haven’t quite reached that level of self-destruction. Yet.”

I sigh, feeling the weight of hurt and betrayal pressing down on me like a physical thing. Or maybe that’s just Winnie getting fatter. She shifts on my stomach, kneading her paws into me. “But I have to be strategic about this, like those two snakes. I can’t just go off on him, ranting and raving like a lunatic. Not until I’ve calmed down and figured out my next move. How does one confront the human equivalent of a brick wall? ‘Excuse me, Liam, I was wondering if you could pencil me in between your sex club visits and screwing over your business rivals for a quick chat about how you’ve destroyed me emotionally?’ Maybe we could discuss it over some spotted dick?’”

Above me, Lizzie’s face contorts into a grimace. “You’re right. You need to play this smart, try to hit him where it hurts.”

“It doesn’t hurt him anywhere,” I mumble. “He doesn’t give a shit. He’s probably at that club right now, sipping scotch and banging his heart out.”

Winnie meows and headbutts my chin. Maybe she feels some loyalty to her savior who called in the cat brigade.

“I don’t get it. I honestly thought he liked you,” Lizzie says, her voice tinged with confusion and anger on my behalf. “Like really liked you.”

That’s not helping.

“I just . . .” I trail off, my voice cracking. “I thought he’d have more respect for me, you know? As someone he’s worked with for years, someone who’s busted her ass for him day in and day out. I thought I meant something to him, even if it wasn’t love. Silly me.”

The tears come again, hot and bitter. How could I have let myself fall for a monster?

“You know what the worst part is?” I say. “For a moment there, I really thought . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence. It’s too pathetic.

Lizzie’s big soft eyes peer down at me. She bites her lip, distraught on my behalf. “Oh, Gem.”

I’m a creature of habit. So when I see that Jimmy’s cart is closed, I’m instantly on edge. Shutters are down and it’s all locked up. Did Jimmy forget to tell me he was going on vacation? That’s not like him at all.

I’m just standing there, staring at the deserted cart, when my eyes catch on a sign taped to the front.

This coffee cart is closed until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Until further notice? Is Jimmy okay? A wave of unease washes over me, tightening my chest. Just last week, Jimmy was all excited about trying a new coffee blend, something better than their usual brew.

“Hey, I’ll take you to Starbucks,” says a voice, cutting through my thoughts. I turn to see Ollie standing beside me, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Seriously, stop obsessing over these carts. Our bonuses are riding on this deal, you know.”

He glances at the sign and then back at me with that same smirk. “It’s already started. See? Not sustainable.”

“What’s started?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know the answer.

“The rampdown. But if we drag it out, it’s going to make everything worse. You need to let it go.”

He walks off without a backward glance, having said his piece.

I swallow hard, remembering Liam’s words from what feels like a lifetime ago. I need to find a way to keep you and Whitmore sweet, somehow.

At the time, it seemed genuine. Now? Now it feels calculated. Strategic. Even sinister.

My mind races, doubt seeping into every memory, every interaction. Was what he said about the charity just another lie to keep me from causing a fuss? Was it all a lie?

I feel sick. I can’t trust anything he’s said or done now. Everything is tainted, viewed through a lens of suspicion and hurt. He needed me to help him look favorable in front of Sir Whitmore, didn’t he? That’s all I was—a pawn in his game.

Even what he did with Winnie . . . Was that just so I’d get back to work and concentrate on the deal?

I can’t handle anything else creeping out of the woodwork.

I feel so exposed.

I head up to the office, my stomach lurching with every stop, every ding of the lift as it gets closer to our floor. To him.

I could quit. I should quit. I’ve been planning to since the diary incident. I would like a little more savings, but I just don’t know if I have the strength to work alongside him anymore.

I slink into my office, closing the door behind me—a clear do not disturb signal to my coworkers. Unless you’re here to tell me the building’s crumbling or that Liam McLaren is on fire, kindly fuck off.

Of course today would be the HR clinic. The day when I’m supposed to sit here and listen to other people’s problems, to offer sage advice and a sympathetic ear. What a joke. Worst timing ever. I can only hope listening to other people’s issues will distract me from my own.

“Focus,” I mutter. “Just work. That’s all that matters.”

I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Keep repeating that, and maybe it’ll become true.

I busy myself with emails and mundane tasks. But I can’t help it. I need to check something that’s been niggling at me. Something I think I remember seeing, a tiny detail that’s been haunting me since my conversation with Alastair.

My heart starts pounding in my chest as I navigate to Liam’s calendar. There it is—a recurring appointment, once a month on Thursday evenings. No description, no explanation, just a single letter: A.

Athenæum. It has to be.

He wasn’t supposed to be there last night. Maybe it was an impromptu visit, a spur-of-the-moment decision to indulge. God, I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of him with her.

Which is just so stupidly naive of me. I should never have let my guard down, never have allowed myself to become this emotionally invested in the first place.

Everything about this man is a fucking lie.

Why do Liam and Vicky even meet at the Athenæum, anyway? Why don’t they just fuck in the comfort of his home? Maybe they do—maybe they’re all over his penthouse, christening every surface with their sweat and their moans and their utter betrayal.

Maybe the Athenæum is an extra kinky bonus, a place where they can do depraved shit. Maybe they get off on the thrill of being caught.

Stop it. You’re just torturing yourself now.

But apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment. Why not just stab myself in the eye with a pencil? It’d probably hurt less than this.

I wonder what Alastair’s going to do. He sure as hell won’t let Liam get away with this. He’ll probably use it to tank the TLS deal. And part of me, the bitter, vengeful part, hopes he does.

I search Vicky online. She went to Harvard, though it’s difficult to decipher what she does now. But the photos of her with Alastair are impeccable. She’s leagues above me. I blink back tears.

For the next few hours, I manage to avoid McLaren by keeping a revolving door of coworkers in my office, a never-ending parade of petty grievances and office drama. I plaster on bright, sympathetic smiles, nodding in all the right places depending on the issue at hand. No one seems to notice my inner turmoil. After all, who asks HR if they’re okay?

Which is fine by me. The last thing I want is anyone paying too much attention.

But when McLaren summons me to his office in the afternoon, I can no longer put off the inevitable.

I knock on his door, steeling myself against the onslaught of his presence. His scent. Those deep brown eyes.

You can do this.

He looks up with that small smile that until just yesterday made me weak in the knees, and my breath catches in my throat. Now it just makes me want to burst into tears.

I can’t do this.

I stride into his office, but instant dread washes over me. I can’t bear to look at his face.

I really can’t do this.

“Hey,” he says in a soft drawl, his eyes tracking me as I make my way to his desk. I wish he would stop looking at me like that.

“Hi.”

At my clipped tone, a frown etches lines into his perfect, lying face. “Everything okay?”

I grasp at my flimsy excuse. “Allergies. It’s so annoying. It gets me bad every year.”

Yeah, that’s it. I’m allergic to lying, cheating bastards.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?”

Yeah, you can explain why you were at the Athenaeum last night. You can tell me why you have a standing appointment there every month. You can admit that you’re a lying, cheating scumbag who’s been playing me for a fool and fucking your business rival’s wife. And while you’re at it, you can tell me why Jimmy’s coffee cart is suddenly closed when you said you were sorting out a deal for them. You lying shit.

But I don’t say any of that. I can’t. Not yet. It’s all still too fresh, the wound too deep and jagged to start poking at. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of dealing with HR nightmares and listening to people blurt out wildly inappropriate stuff, it’s that you never let your heart lead in the workplace. You keep your emotions in check and your head on straight, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much you want to scream and cry and throw staplers. Men like McLaren see blubbering women as an annoyance, an inconvenience.

So I force a tight smile, swallowing hard around the lump in my throat. “I’m fine, really. How are you? Do anything exciting last night?”

Liam leans back in his chair, exuding that infuriating casual confidence. “Not much. Had a PT session.” His eyes lock onto mine, his voice softening. “I gotta admit—I missed you.”

And there it is. The final nail in the coffin. My proof that he’s been deceiving me.

A PT session? Sure, buddy, if that’s what you want to call it. I hope you limbered up before your “workout,” wouldn’t want you pulling anything important.

My heart clenches painfully. How dare he look at me like that, all secret smiles and shared intimacy?

“How was dinner with Alastair?” he asks. “You’ve been very quiet about it. I was expecting a late-night lowdown.”

“It was fine.”

“Just fine?” His eyebrow arches, clearly not buying it.

I shrug, the movement stiff and unnatural. “Didn’t really get much out of him. Except that he loves sailing too and he’s part of a club near my flat. You two have so much in common.”

“Like hell we do,” he scoffs, his face twisting with disdain.

Huh, exact same reaction as Alastair. You’re practically twins in assholery.

He stands, striding around his desk to perch on the edge, closer to me. Too close. I swallow hard, hating the proximity, hating the way my body still reacts to him.

“Did he say something to upset you?” His voice is rougher now, laced with a gruff concern.

“No,” I say, probably too forcefully. His hand reaches out, as if to take mine, but I pointedly look out at the open plan area where everyone can see us, and he drops it back down to his side. “I’m just tired after last night and the allergies and . . . stuff.”

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “Where did you go?”

This is it. The moment of truth.

“Guess!” I shrill.

He folds his arms over his chest. “You want me to guess out of all the restaurants in London? Gemma, I don’t have time for that.”

“Oh, but I think you’ll be able to. We’ve been there before. Silk Table,” I exclaim, my voice brittle. “What a coincidence.”

Sure enough, something shifts in him, a flicker of recognition.

Yeah, that was close to your little rendezvous, wasn’t it? Should’ve waved, you two-timing bastard.

I force a breezy tone. “I really like that area. I must check out some of the pubs and other places around there sometime.”

I watch his face carefully, searching for any flicker of guilt, any hint of remorse or shame. Come on, you lying bastard. Tell me how you just happened to be across the street last night.

But Liam’s face remains impassive. He’s clearly too adept at this game.

“We’ll check it out more sometime. I know a few good pubs in that area,” he says.

“Sure,” I choke out.

I struggle to keep my expression neutral as he launches into work talk. My responses are robotic. Inside, I’m screaming, raging, wanting to claw his eyes out.

How long can I keep up this charade? I was too distraught last night to formulate a plan.

But I know one thing for sure—I can’t let him see how much he’s hurt me. I can’t give him that satisfaction.

Liam’s not an idiot, though. I can see the confusion flickering in his eyes, the slight furrow in his brow. He knows something is off, that much is clear. Hopefully, he’ll buy the allergy excuse. Or maybe he’ll just chalk it up to “that time of the month.” Typical bloody man.

“Well done, Gemma,” he says. “That idea to have the new starters report to some of the other managers before Ollie seems to have gone over really well with the team. We were just discussing it in the board meeting. It was a good idea.” He smirks, adding, “You know I don’t like admitting I’m wrong, but . . . not bad.”

He grins, expecting me to respond in kind, to banter back. But I’m pretty sure my attempt at a smile looks more like I’ve just sucked on a lemon.

“Great,” I say smoothly. “In other news, we discovered who’s been leaking information to Alastair. IT finally came through this morning, and the evidence is stacked against the person. If you want to go through it yourself, be my guest.”

He frowns. “I trust your judgment. Who is it?”

“Brandon.”

Liam’s eyes flash with surprise, quickly darkening. He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, the muscles beneath his tailored shirt tensing. I bet Alastair’s wife loved getting an up-close view of those muscles last night as he fucked her.

“Are you joking?” he growls.

“Nope,” I reply, popping the P so aggressively that a bit of spit flies out, landing on his desk. Oops. I have to let some of this anger out, or I’m going to explode. “The highest paid analyst in your company is the guy backstabbing you.”

Ironic, isn’t it?

Liam runs a hand through his hair, and it’s obvious he’s both shocked and furious.

And Brandon is just plain stupid because when this gets out Liam will make sure he never works in another firm in London. Alastair won’t take him on either, even though Brandon has likely been handsomely compensated for his treachery. No, Alastair won’t want someone like that actually working for him, someone who’s proven himself to be a disloyal snake.

But the thing is, it likely doesn’t matter to Brandon. He’s probably got enough money squirreled away to swan off to the Cayman Islands or some other equally exotic tax haven and go into early retirement at the ripe old age of thirty-one.

“What the fuck is the bastard getting out of it?” Liam snarls. His Northern accent comes out strong, roughening his words. The accent that for five years made me weak in the knees, though I’d sooner die than admit it. The one that deepens when he’s particularly passionate or angry. Right now, it’s both. I’ll never be able to watch Game of Thrones the same way again.

“Some people are just too greedy,” I say through clenched teeth. “They’re never satisfied with what they’ve got, always wanting more.”

I wonder if he can hear the bitterness lacing my words. Probably not. He’s too busy plotting Brandon’s gruesome demise to notice the daggers I’m glaring at him.

His hands clench the edge of the desk. “Bring me everything you’ve got on this. Every. Last. Detail.” Each word is articulated with fury-laced precision. “I want to know what Brandon had for breakfast the day he decided to fuck me over. It’s safe to say he’s going to regret this.”

Liam’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see the ruthless, powerful man I’ve been working alongside all these years—billionaire banker Liam in all his glory.

“Of course, sir,” I snap, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

His eyebrow arches, a flicker of dark amusement lighting up his eyes, momentarily dimming the rage. “Sir?”

“Liam,” I correct, my smile so wide and manic I must look like the Joker on a bad acid trip. “It just shows, doesn’t it? Money doesn’t buy you loyalty. It just means you’re surrounded by unscrupulous people.”

He studies me. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I don’t know. Let me think. Oh, right. You’ve been fucking your business rival’s wife behind my back. But other than that, no, everything’s peachy.

I should have called in sick. My fist clenches at my side, my nails digging into my palm as I fight to keep my shit together. There’s no way I can let loose in the office, and I don’t trust myself to stay calm if I open my mouth. I’m afraid if I try, all that will come out is a string of expletives. Or worse, a sob that might never end.

But there is one thing I need to know, because this isn’t just about me.

“I’m just tired, didn’t get my coffee fix this morning,” I say. “It’s so weird. Jimmy’s coffee cart is shut down. He never said anything about going away, and he usually gets cover. It’s never shut.”

For the second time, something crosses his face. I used to think Liam wore an unreadable mask. Now I realize I can read him like a book when he’s lying. Perhaps he never used to lie to me, when I was just HR. But now he does.

“Ah yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to choose his words carefully.

“Do you know something about it?” I prod.

His expression hardens, like he doesn’t want me prying any further. “They’re just doing a few uplifts to some of the carts,” he says dismissively.

Lies. It’s clear on his face, in the stiffness of his shoulders.

“Emergency uplifts? Jimmy would have said. He was talking like he wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“Right.”

“So, shall I see you tonight?” he asks, the change of subject so transparent it’s almost insulting.

“Maybe. I’ll let you know later, okay?”

He scrutinizes me for a moment, and I silently pray he leaves it at that.

“Sure,” he says finally.

I force another smile. “I better get going.”

With that, I stride toward the door, managing to make it out of his office and back to mine without bursting into tears. But it’s a close call.