Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 7

“He’s not getting a Lamborghini,” I growl, my patience hanging by a thread.

I’m sitting at the head of the boardroom table with my board of directors. It’s eight a.m., right before the all-staff meeting when we hand out bonuses for the top performers.

“The guy’s carried the whole team this quarter, Liam,” Ollie whines, his face scrunching up. “After numbers like that, he’s earned a nice toy.”

I fix him with a glare. “He also threw a chair at a window.” I raise an eyebrow, wondering if I need to draw him a picture. “I’m not sure why I have to spell that out for you.”

“But he’s the best fund manager we’ve got, by a long shot.”

“I can’t have my people acting like animals, no matter how much money they bring in. Brandon really should have considered the potential ramifications before going full rock star tantrum on my thirty-fifth-floor offices.”

“You can’t hold that against him forever.”

“Did I stutter, Ollie?”

His eyes widen as if he’s just realized he’s poking a bear.

I lean forward, both elbows on the desk, annoyed I’m still talking about this. “Here’s how this is going to go. Brandon keeps his shit together for the next six months. No more childish outbursts, no more redecorating my office with flying furniture. He does that, and the Lambo’s his. Hell, I’ll even let him pick the color, tie a pretty little bow on it myself. But if he fucks up again? If I so much as hear a whisper of him acting out? The deal’s off, and he’ll be lucky if he’s still employed, let alone driving a luxury car.”

Ollie’s throat bobs nervously, clearly realizing this isn’t a hill worth dying on today.

I let out a sigh, turning my attention back to the rest of the room. “Chris, run me through the other bonus allocations for the quarter.”

As Chris lists off names and numbers, I can’t help it—my mind drifts back to Gemma’s scathing takedown. She has a point about volatile personalities, all right.

Almost on autopilot, my fingers find their way to the folder she accidentally shared. It’s still there. Gemma’s “Burn Book” of boss roasts. Clearly, she still hasn’t realized her grievous error in sharing it.

Any rational, self-respecting CEO would have already sacked her on the spot and had security escort the foul-mouthed vixen off the premises by now.

And yet . . . there’s something delicious about watching her dig her own grave deeper. How many more biting insults and wicked little jabs will she throw out, thinking they’ll never see the light of day?

Well, well, well.

Look at that—the document’s timestamp shows it was updated again last night. Gemma’s been busy. I open the file, leaning in like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.

Dear Diary, it starts. Christ, she even writes like a schoolgirl with a grudge.

Where do I begin? Today was even more chaotic than yesterday. Lately, I feel like I can’t catch a break. I was late reviewing and signing off on the intranet changes today, and I completely spaced on approving two of my team members’ expense reports as well.

And I’m not the only one. The whole staff is fraying at the seams, snapping at each other over tiny mishaps and dropping major balls left and right as we struggle to keep up with our breakneck growth and expansion.

Here’s a little fact that our esteemed leader McLaren conveniently chooses to ignore in his infinite wisdom: whether someone is earning a modest five-figure salary or an obscene seven-figure one, if they’re stuck in a pressure-cooker environment with unrealistic demands and endless stress, they’re going to eventually crumble. Just because we’re being paid handsomely does not actually make the strain any more bearable.

But what do I know? I’m just HR.

I shift in my chair, my jaw clenching. My people are here because they want to be. If they wanted easy, they’d be somewhere else. We only pick the ones who can handle the pressure. They’re talented, driven. They thrive on the adrenaline, the high stakes, the opportunity to be part of something major. That’s just the nature of the financial beast in London.

“Liam?” Chris’s voice cuts through my haze. I blink to see the whole board staring at me. “The numbers all check out to your satisfaction, boss?”

“The financials are solid,” I say, and brush him off with a hand wave. “But let’s cut to something else—staff morale. How’s everyone holding up right now?”

I’m met with a sea of confused faces. Am I really that much of a hardass that asking about our people’s wellbeing is cause for alarm?

“Don’t all jump in at once,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Is there some lawsuit or complaint we missed?” Mike, the head of Legal, finally pipes up with a concerned frown.

“No, nothing like that.” I shake my head, stifling an irritated sigh. “I’m asking about the bigger picture here—staff morale in general. With this expansion, how is everyone holding up?”

“They’re smashing targets left and right. It’s all smooth sailing,” Ollie says.

“That’s not what I asked, Ollie. I want to know about their personal well-being, not just output numbers.”

An awkward pause stretches as they seem to fumble for a response to my surprisingly humanistic line of inquiry.

“Look,” I growl, “I want an honest assessment of the mental and emotional state of our workforce beyond just the numbers and bottom lines. Their overall well-being and stress levels as they deal with our increasing growth trajectories.”

The room falls into a tense silence.

Finally, Chris speaks up, clearing his throat like a nervous schoolboy. “Well . . . boss, obviously a lot of them are working overtime on the TLS bid. And not to put too fine a point on it, but we’re already providing onsite shrinks, masseuses, full medical screenings whenever requested. Unless there’s some other counseling or mental health resources you’d like us to explore offering, I can’t imagine what more we could reasonably provide?”

He’s not wrong—we do offer all those things. But that nagging voice in the back of my mind—Gemma’s scathing commentary last night—won’t pipe down.

I fold my hands over the pile of documents before me and shake my head. “I’ll discuss it further with HR. What’s next on the agenda?”

We move on, but I can’t focus for shit. My eyes drift back to that damn diary on my screen. I know I should be paying attention to the meeting, but I can’t help myself. I need to see what else got under her skin last night.

So while the rest of the table jabbers on about the agenda, I let my gaze drift back to the screen, ready for another dose of Gemma’s unfiltered rage.

And McLaren was being . . . fucking weird today. One minute he’s tearing me a new one for the grievous sin of being late one time in my life. Then he’s complaining about my recruitment strategy but doesn’t tell me what his issue is. But by the end of this delightful rollercoaster ride, he’s giving me whiplash by saying “it’s fine, go ahead and execute it.” Maybe he was hungover after his big party last night. Or is this his way of gaslighting me into the looney bin?

A low chuckle escapes me before I can stop it, causing the conference room to go silent.

Sophie, my CFO, clears her throat. “Liam, do you need to handle something? We can pick this up later if you’ve got more pressing matters.”

“No, no. Continue.”

As they resume their discussion, I turn my attention back to Gemma’s diary.

And that’s not even the most disturbing part of my day. Oh no, that delightful honor goes to my . . . solo love session this evening.

I shift in my seat, caught off guard. Fucking hell. I sure as shit wasn’t expecting her little diary entry to take this kind of turn.

I was so damn close. I could feel that earth-shattering O building. I can’t believe I did it over McLaren’s company picture. It’s the damn vests he wears. What is it about a man in a vest?

God, what is wrong with me? The man is a soulless, manipulative asshole who seems to derive perverse pleasure from tormenting me and everyone else under his thumb. And yet apparently even just an innocuous corporate headshot has the power to reduce me into a quivering, moaning mess.

I release a heavy breath, my eyes glued to the screen.

So she gave herself a steamy hate-wank over yours truly last night, huh? I can picture it—Gemma Jones, sprawled out in her Putney flat, furiously rubbing one out while she fantasizes about verbally eviscerating me.

I shift in my chair again, trying to find a more comfortable position as my cock starts to swell, straining against the confines of my trousers.

I was imagining marching into his office, shoving him up against that pretentious mahogany desk of his, and showing him exactly what I think of his bullshit power plays. I pushed him back, ripped open his trousers, grabbed him by the dick and rode him until he was begging me to let him come. Then I refused to let him. Because one thing’s for sure, I was in control. He can bend in front of me and say, please, Ma’am.

Jesus, Gemma. You can’t just throw something like that out into the universe and expect a man to keep his composure.

Because fuck me, the visuals she’s painted here . . . they’re the stuff of every wet dream I’ve never let myself have. At least not consciously.

I can’t be thinking like this.

But god do I want to. Want to haul her into my office by that red ponytail, bend her over my desk, and show her exactly what happens to naughty girls who don’t know how to keep their fantasies to themselves.

This is crossing so many lines, even in the privacy of my own head.

Every eye in the room snaps to me, and I realize I must’ve made a noise.

“Carry on,” I gruffly mutter, trying to look like I wasn’t just mentally jerking off to the idea of my HR manager masturbating.

This is a problem. A big, hard problem.

They exchange glances but continue their discussion. I lean back, attempting to exude an air of nonchalance even though I’m growing harder by the second. My grip tightens around my pen like it’s the only thing holding me back from exploding right here at the damn table.

Gemma Jones, you are full of surprises, aren’t you?

But then Miss Winchester-Scott huffed until I let her into the living room. As much as I told her I needed some me time, she wouldn’t let up. I had to waddle to the door, mid-pleasuring, and let her in.

Not only did she witness my disheveled, panting state, the cheeky mare just plopped herself down like it was a bloody show! Didn’t avert her eyes, didn’t excuse herself, nothing. She just sat there lapping it all up like the degenerate she is.

Holy shit. I do a double take, rereading that last bit just to make sure my eyes aren’t playing some sick, twisted joke on me.

Who the hell is Miss Winchester-Scott? Her cleaner? Her raunchy roommate? I’m learning all sorts of new and intriguing things about Gemma today. I feel like I’ve stumbled into a weird remake of Debbie Does Dallas.

And if that wasn’t enough, she cockblocked me with the most toxic gas attack and I couldn’t finish.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. Is this some weird kinky shit Gemma’s into? Some metaphor I’m not getting?

“Couldn’t agree more, boss,” someone chimes in from across the table, assuming my interjection was in response to whatever the hell else we’re supposed to be discussing.

I nod absently, not even bothering to look up. My mind’s too busy trying to process what I just read. If anyone else was this distracted in a meeting, I’d be tearing them a new one.

I don’t know what to think or do about this. But one thing’s for sure—it can’t go on. I need to put a stop to this before it has a chance to escalate.