Page 35 of Owned By a Billionaire

“I’m always that around you. Even the other night, despite being confronted.” We began to move off, but I paused. “Will you ever tell me why?”

“Oh, Cary, please allow me some secrets.”

A silent sigh, more resignation than frustration, exited my mouth. I couldn’t deny her that, given my own history.

Thefollowingday,Iwas in London doing some shopping—an activity that had become a habit since Caroline, while kissing me passionately one night, slipped a credit card into my hand.

As that card sat on my palm, I looked down at it, rather speechless, for I knew what it meant: I was about to become a kept man.

“Caroline, I’m not here because of your money.”

At first, maybe. But that had quickly faded once my feelings for this beautiful, complicated woman deepened.

By that stage, she knew me well, because she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it, standing before me in a silk slip with her full breasts spilling out. I became tongue-tied as blood rushed from my brain, and all I could do was take her and her money.

It didn’t take long before I got into the habit of visiting my favorite antiquarian bookshop or the charming Italian tailor close by who understood my body like a fine sculptor might.

Clutching a first edition of Brave New World, I hailed a taxi and tucked the book away in my leather satchel.

Ten minutes later, we arrived at my destination: the seedy part of town.

The driver gave me an odd look. In my bespoke sports jacket and expensive leather shoes, I probably looked out of place.

“Is this right, mate?” he asked. “It’s a little dangerous around here.”

I gave him a fifty. “Keep the change.”

He soon dropped the paternal role, his face lighting up. I’d made it my mission to support the underpaid, because I hadn’t forgotten from where I came.

Tramping along the uneven, shadowy cobbled lane was like time-traveling. It had probably been a haunt of Conan Doyle and Jack the Ripper. Not much had changed in its long history, for, hidden in dark corners, pimps and dealers rubbed their hands in the cold.

I entered a dim, musty pub I imagined had seen its share of humanity in all shades of darkness. And as I stood at the bar to order, I read a stained placard boasting that Dickens had drunk there, which somewhat sweetened my visit. If this hovel was good enough for the celebrated writer, then it was fine for me. Before I met Caroline and her exclusive clubs with their astounding mosaics and frescoed ceilings, I was more at home in a pub that served society’s fallen rather than the bleached elite.

After I ordered a pint, a blonde wearing dark glasses and a leopard-skin coat sat on a stool next to me and ordered a gin.

I nodded a greeting.

Her red-painted lips curled slightly in return.

“Quiet night?” I asked.

“For you or me?”

“I’m just here for a drink and the atmosphere.” I looked around. The place was dotted with lonely, wordless souls. Even the music had a warped sense of not belonging, like it had been turned on in the fifties and left to run.

She clicked her fingers for another hit of gin, and after she downed her shot in one gulp, she gestured for me to follow. As we walked along that grim setting, streetwalkers of all shapes, sizes, and genders stepped out of the shadows.

The night had just arrived, and cars crawled along as nocturnal creatures put on their show.

We arrived at a crumbling hotel that probably had enough DNA spread around to keep several forensic teams busy. While the façade of the establishment might have made developers salivate over the prospect of repurposed apartments, the interior bore the sad neglect of a cheap eighties’ makeover.

I followed the woman down the hallway, and despite the elevator, she walked up the stairs. Her heels echoed loudly on the floorboards as we arrived on the second floor.

She opened a door, and we entered a room that smelt of decay and perfume.

“So, this is your place?” I asked.

“Sometimes.” A neon light from across the road flashed in the room, making it easy to navigate.

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