JUDE
Six-thirty in the morning. London still wearing its night face - streets slick and black, that perpetual drizzle making everything gleam like it's been laminated. I loved this hour. Empty roads, no traffic, just me and 1,020 horsepower of silent acceleration.
No commuters yet with their Pret coffees and their little podcasts about serial killers or "mindfulness" or whatever helps them pretend their lives have meaning. No Ubers clogging up the roads with their terrified drivers from countries that don't overdo roundabouts, like here. Just darkness and the satisfaction of a Tesla Plaid doing zero to sixty in under two seconds.
Yes, I drove a Tesla. Yes, I knew what that signaled - tech bro, Elon fanboy, the kind of man who says "disruption" unironically. But unlike the midlife-crisis Porsche drivers or the Range Rover fascists who thought size equaled importance, I actually cared about what worked. About efficiency. About the fact that instant torque and regenerative braking weren't just marketing copy, they were better engineering.
Also it was fast as fuck and I liked watching petrol cars disappear in my rearview mirror, as I thought of… Bells.
About yesterday's prep session. About how she'd looked in that grey pencil skirt- the expensive one, not the Zara peasantry she used to wear before she'd acquired her benefactor. The one that hits just below the knee, shows off those lean calves when she shifts her weight from foot to foot. That little tell of hers when she's nervous—a tell I'd observed, logged. Professional. Fuckable. The coordinates where those axes intersect.
I wanted to shove it up around her waist and bend her over my desk. Make her recite the Yamamoto ROI projections while I thrusted from behind - a feedback loop of humiliation and pleasure. Turn her head just enough to watch that mouth of hers. The one that lies so prettily to her fiancé, try to form the words "accretive to shareholder value" while I optimised for the exact angle, the exact pressure, the exact rhythm that would make her lose coherence.
Focus.
The prep. She'd been good. Not brilliant, but satisfactory. I pushed anyway because I could always pressure people, see the angles they'd miss, the assumptions they hadn't stress-tested. So I made her stumble. Made her feel incompetent.
On purpose.
I told myself it was mentorship. That pressure makes diamonds. That I was doing her a favour, really - exposing her to the kind of rigor she'd never experienced before because I'd been protecting her. Been encouraging. Making her feel special.
Which she was. Sometimes. When she stopped trying so hard to be proper. When she went for the jugular pressing clients into compliance. Her series of questions, so elegant, so reasonable, they never understood they were being led and managed into sign-ins.
Yesterday I pushed her to get there again, I told myself. But if I were to be honest with myself, I was pushing to cut. To harm. To watch that little crease form between her eyebrows when she couldn't answer my follow-up questions, when her voice went tight and I could tell she was trying not to cry.
Punishment.
For picking that boring, privileged wanker over me. A man who could offer her nothing but money he didn't earn and status he inherited and that sweet narcotic ease of dating someone who'll never challenge her, never push her, never demand she be anything more than the version of herself that fits nicely into his parents' dinner party conversation.
He has no idea who she actually is. Her magnitude, that sharp, vicious intelligence that comes out when she's backed into a corner. Her real potential - the potential she could access if she'd just been… with me.
I bet she zones out when they are at it. Probably polite. Probably "loving." The kind of man who asks "is this okay?" during sex, desperate for approval. And she just lies there. Thinks about work. Grocery lists. Probably makes encouraging noises to move things along. Then Teddy makes eye contact, says her name like a profound "Amen" at the end of a sermon.
I knew she didn't want this.
Because she was born to take, to fight. I could tell by the way she'd looked at me yesterday - eyes hungry and longing. The way she stood there radiating discomfort but wouldn't leave, wouldn't back down, just kept trying to impress me even as I made it impossible.
I bet she was wet. I hoped she was, because she'd given me a semi just standing there, mouth stumbling through my questions.
That little pulse jumping at her throat.
The way she'd pressed her thighs together when I leaned over her ear, said "make me want it."
Christ, I'm a mess.
No. I'm compromised. There's a difference.
Mess is a lack of control. This is just... strategic emotional investment that's currently producing negative returns.
---
City lights strobed past. Tower Bridge now, the Thames below looking thick and chemical, and I was pushing eighty, the speedometer climbing with my heart rate.
My thoughts circled the Bells-and-Teddy drain still. Spinning. The same loop: her mouth on his, his hands on her, him inside her while she faked enthusiasm.
Does she think about me? When he's on top of her doing his adequate thrusting, does her mind drift to our late-night calls? To the cab?
Stop.
I exhaled. Turned on Radio 4. Some earnest piece about climate negotiations in Geneva. Focused on that instead of the rage subroutine running underneath everything since her engagement. The desire to punish, to possess, to hate-fuck her until she admitted what we both knew but she was too cowardly to say.
Stop, for crying out loud, stop.
---
One-thirty. Lunch with Yen just finished.
She'd arrived in London last night for the Yamamoto visit. Flew in with her uncle, probably first class. We were walking back to my office, and she'd stepped too close to pretend this was just business.
She liked me.
Like they all did. It's a formula, really. Almost insultingly easy: the suit (bespoke, Huntsman, £4k but it looks like £10k if you don't know tailoring), the watch (vintage Rolex Submariner, the 1960s one that says "I have taste, not just money"), the attention (calibrated, interested-but-not-desperate, the conversational equivalent of good lighting).
I hate this game. Hate the peacocking, so performative and obvious. Hate that it works. Hate that I'm so good at it.
And people ate it up. Every last crumb. Men respected the status markers. Women wanted the whole package. The good bone structure. The facial symmetry that photographs well. The height. The boyish grin that made people think I was approachable, fun. Eyes that suggested mischief rather than the calculated assessment happening behind them.
I looked like the guy who'd be good between the sheets and bad for your career aspirations. The hot CEO. The beddable executive.
Which was mildly insulting, but also useful. And I'd be a fool not to use an asset out of some misguided principle.
We made it back into my office. I watched it all working just then. Watched Yen's pupils dilate slightly when I smiled, watch her lean in, watch her body language open up - and feel nothing but contempt for how easy it was.
For how simple people were.
I'd made some comment about Yamamoto's Q3 financials - something I'd glimpsed in files Yen had "accidentally" left open on her laptop at lunch.
She laughed.
Theatrical. I hadn't even been funny. Then she put her palm on my arm, a gentle squeeze.
I let her. Let the touch linger. Let my attention stay focused on her face like she was the only person in the world. Then I smiled "the smile." Eyes crinkling, head tilted, suggesting intimacy.
Because Bells was watching.
I'd seen her through the glass wall, watched her clock it in my peripheral vision, watched her body language change - shoulders back, jaw tight.
It felt good.
God. I wanted her to hurt.
She walked straight in. Didn't knock. Her usual rebellion. Something I allowed because it made her feel like she had some control. I could take it back anytime. But why would I? Let her think she was winning something. Made her easier to manage.
Her knuckles were white around her tablet. Bloodless. The tendons standing out.
"Am I interrupting?"
Her voice was flat. Professional. But I heard it underneath - the crack in the foundation, the barely-controlled fury.
Perfect.
I stepped back from Yen then. Manufacturing propriety where there was none.
"Of course not, Bells." I gestured between them. "This is Yen - Yamamoto's associate. Yen, this is Bells. My senior partner."
They looked at each other. That thing women do - the full-body scan, the instant threat assessment, cataloging weaknesses and advantages in milliseconds.
Yen smiled first. "Bells! I've heard so much about you." Her eyes traveled up - taking in the height, the professional severity. "You're taller than I imagined."
"And you're" - Bells' gaze landed on me - "much younger than I expected."
Expected… of me.
I swallowed a laugh. Nearly choked on it.
She was fighting back. Finally. I savored it for one breath.
No more apologetic doe nonsense from that conversation after her engagement. No more "I'm sorry you're hurting, Jude."
She was going for the throat. Making a jab at me being predictable, being a cliche.
I moved toward the door then, opened it. "Lovely seeing you, Yen. Those financials were illuminating."
She understood the dismissal. Smiled. "Thanks for lunch."
Winked at me on her way out. I closed the door and turned to Bells.
She was staring at me like she wanted to throw that tablet at my head and then maybe climb me like a tree. The duality. The push-pull. The hate-want.
My favorite version of her.
"So," I said. Kept my voice neutral. "What can I do for you?"
Her eyes narrowed. A little micro-expression that meant I'd hit a nerve.
"So that was Yen," she said. "Does she always laugh like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like she worries you'll stop talking if she doesn't. Like she wants to lick 'financials' off your collar"
My gaze sharpened. Unimpressed. But I felt amusement flicker - she'd clocked it, the performative quality of Yen's attention. The desperation underneath the polish.
Smart girl. Always so fucking smart.
"Have you finished your prep yet?" I asked, pivoting away from this. Not the time, nor the place. I couldn't reward this jealousy here, even though watching her unravel over another woman was making my pulse spike.
She ignored the question.
"Is Yen part of yours?"
I stayed calm. Kept my face neutral.
"You won't let this go, will you?"
"I'm just curious." Her tone was light. Casual. Lying through her teeth. "Didn't think you'd stoop to whoring yourself out for intel."
The word landed like a slap. Whoring. Curious sentiment from someone fucking a trust fund for security.
I held her gaze. Let the silence stretch. Let her feel the weight of what she'd just said. Maybe evaluate whether she'd just sunk that COO title I promised her in a single blow.
"Strong words," I said quietly. "I'm still your boss, Bells. Remember that."
"Just stating the obvious."
Another beat of silence. I watched her pupils dilate slightly, watched her trying very hard to look unaffected, professional, above this. The pulse at her throat was jumping. Fast.
But she wasn't backing down.
God, I wanted to kiss her.
Instead, I smiled.
"It's not whoring if I enjoy it."
She faltered. Just for a second. Her breath caught - I saw it, the way her chest hitched, the way her eyes flashed with something raw. Anger, hurt, jealousy, all three mixing together into something volatile and unstable.
Good. I wanted her off-balance. Wanted her to feel a fraction of what I'd been feeling since she walked into my office wearing that ostentatious engagement ring.
"Sure," she recovered. "And when she's whispering corporate secrets while you're inside her, that's just... horizontal integration?"
I laughed. Couldn't help it. Dark, incredulous, surprised out of me.
She was good at this. The wordplay, the verbal sparring. The way she could match me blow for blow when she stopped trying to be nice and just let herself be vicious.
This version of her - angry, sharp-tongued, jealous - was more intoxicating than any amount of Yen's manufactured charm. This was real. This was her dropping the professional mask and showing me the rawness underneath.
"Bells," I said, letting my voice drop lower. "Is this about ethics... or do you just wish it was you?"
I watched her face as the question landed. Watched her process it. Her throat worked as she swallowed. I could see her building the response, assembling her armor piece by piece.
When she spoke, her voice was steel wrapped in silk.
"Oh, Jude. You're not that charming." She met my smirk with a hard, controlled stare. Body language locked down. "If I wanted you, I could have you."
She might as well have slapped me. I stood there stunned into silence.
Because she was right. She could. I'd be hers if she chose me that night at the awards. If she'd chose me any day after since, took that ring of, said she wanted this.
And she knew it.
The power dynamic had just inverted and I hated it.
I grabbed my coat.
"I need to leave now," I said. Kept my voice flat. "Client site meeting. Whatever you came here for - make it an email."
I walked toward the door. She moved at the same time, "headed for lunch."
Both of us stepping toward the exit. We reached it simultaneously. Too close. Her perfume in my nostrils, clean and expensive that Teddy probably bought her.
I opened the door. Held it. The gentleman.
She walked through without looking at me. I stopped for a moment and pulled out a fag. Lit it up. Watched her go. Watched that grey skirt, those calves, the set of her shoulders that said I won that round.
She had, for now.