Page 275 of Hate Mates

It’s nothing a good layer of make-up won’t cover. I got off lightly this time.

“Stupid. So stupid,” I reprimand my reflection.

It wasn’t worth the trouble, not even the frisson of arousal from exchanging insults with Mickey, I think to myself, as I take a wipe and gently clean off my make-up.

I’ll be twenty-one in a week and next month I’ll graduate with a degree in journalism, and my life will be over if Daddy gets his way. He humoured me allowing me to go to university to study journalism and have a semblance of a normal life for a girl my age. I shiver at the thought of which one of his acquaintances sons he’s planning to marry me off to. All for his benefit, of course. Just like he’ll find a way to use my degree to his advantage.

Feeling empty, I trudge to my dresser and grab an over-sized T-shirt and throw it over my head, pushing heavy arms through the sleeves, then dragging it down my body. I aimlessly wander to my bed and climb in, tugging the covers up, hiding beneath them as if it will make me invisible and save me from my fate.

But that’s an impossible dream because there’s no escaping fate for the daughter of property mogul Franklin Hart.

Chapter Three

MICKEY

Reclined in my chair, with my foot resting atop the other knee, I flip my pen top to bottom repeatedly on the table as Don yaps on about expenditure and over-heads for the new site.

“Do you have anything new, Don, or are you just rehashing last week’s figures?” I ask, dropping my head back in my chair and praying for some divine intervention that will save me from this sleep-inducing meeting.

“Mr Rawlins, we have to consider?—”

“No, we really don’t,” I say, raising my head and pinning Don under a harsh glare. “Until we sign on the dotted line, all of this is just speculative bullshit. And it’s giving me a headache.” Dropping my foot to the floor and tucking the pen back in the breast pocket of my suit jacket, I push my chair out and stand. “Get me that fucking signature, Don. Then you can toss all the figures you want at me.” I gather up the file for the Whitechapel site and leave without another word.

Jesus! My father is a fucking saint for spending years listening to this crap day in and day out. And here I was thinking taking over from my father was a gift. It’s more like a fuckingcurse. Between the meetings and politics and red tape, I’ll never live long enough to reap the benefits.

When I pass Prudence, she’s on the phone, but she holds up a finger for me to wait a minute. I tuck the file I’m holding under my arm and slide my hands into my suit trousers as I look out the panoramic windows that line the hall to mine and my father’s offices. From here, London looks like a war zone with people rushing around and cars, buses and bikes fighting for space on congested roads. If the window was open, the city sounds would drown out the muffled voices of the people in here. Horns tooting, engines revving and people shouting just to be heard above the din.

But I love this city.

It’s been my home, my playground, since the day I was born. And one day, I’m going to own a piece of it.

“Mickey, sorry about that,” Prudence says behind me, and I turn to face her. “Your father had to leave and asked me to give you this.” She rifles around on her desk a moment before pulling a folder free. “He said you’d know what it was about.”

I step forward and take the folder from her. “Thank you. Did he say where he was going?”

“He has a meeting across town, then he’s heading home for the rest of the day.”

I flip open the folder, reading enough to understand what this is before snapping it shut. “Thanks, Prudence,” I say with a nod, then I stroll to my office, my thoughts on where my father has gone. He never mentioned anything about a meeting today. And we don’t have any business across town. That’s Hart’s territory.

Tossing the folder on my desk, I put the Whitechapel file back in the filing cabinet before sitting at my desk, tapping my fingers against my lips. I know my father’s businesses aren’t alllegit, and I know he’s aligned with some serious players but not the Hart family.

My father and Franklin Hart grew up together, were best friends, business partners with grandiose plans to own the best parts of London one day. That all turned to shit when I was small. My father has never divulged the nitty-gritty details to me, but what I know—all I need to know—is that Franklin Hart screwed my father over. It was around the same time my uncle stopped coming around, and I later found out he died because of whatever happened between Franklin and my father.

Grief births the worst type of rift between families and friends. Not that I’ve suffered much grief in my short life, but I’ve seen my share.

I flip the folder Prudence gave me open again and carefully scan the details. This is the first time my father has trusted me with something of this magnitude. I have no fucking intention of messing it up. It’s why my father invested in the best education money can buy and the reason I made damn sure I finished top of the class in school and university.

My father has his eyes on one of London’s largest hotels which, he has on good authority, is about to go into administration. It seems its current owner doesn’t understand the simple concept of making a profit to stay afloat. Instead of maximising his profits and investing it back into the business, he’s content to snort it up his nose while screwing working girls.

The Simmonds empire is about to crumble and only a year after Simmonds Jnr took over. If I ever needed an example of what not to do in business, Clayton Simmonds is it. And I will gladly demonstrate how to raise a sinking ship.

I spend an hour going over the details in preparation for a takeover bid, making sure it’s airtight and irresistible to a money-hungry idiot like Clayton. Once I’m certain my bid is in the bag, I pack up and head home.

My driver is waiting for me outside, and as I slip into the back seat, my phone buzzes with a message.

“Where to Mr Rawlins?”

“Home, James,” I say with a smirk, and my driver chuckles and shakes his head as he starts the car.

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