One Weekend in London

1. Rhys

Loneliness intrudes like an unwelcome guest.

It clings to me like a thick overcoat, weighing heavily on my shoulders as I sit in the lounge of The Opulence Hotel, the crown jewel of my London real estate acquisitions, swirling a glass of aged whisky.

The room buzzes with the city’s high society, all cut from the same expensive cloth: tailored suits, polished shoes, and conversations dripping with hidden agendas.

I grew up far from this gilded world, in Tower Hamlets where luxury was a roof that didn’t leak and a working heater come winter. My fortune may have changed; I haven’t. Private suites and velvet ropes? I abhor them. On the rare occasion I drink in public, I prefer being among people.

Understanding people’s strengths and weaknesses is how I’ve turned struggling businesses into million-pound enterprises. Crunching numbers? That’s the easy part. The real challenge is deciphering human emotions.

In the cutthroat world of business, getting a proper read on your opponents isn’t just useful—it’s essential. It’s my sharp insight into human nature and all its quirks that turns potential into prosperity.

And as they say, practice makes perfect.

Glass taps against the table when a blond waitress sets down two fresh glasses of alcohol—one for myself, the other for the insufferable bloke opposite me.

Unlike some of her more discreet counterparts, her agenda is transparent. She leans forward, offering a rather conspicuous view of her tits, making it clear what she’s angling for.

But she’s barking up the wrong tree.

Casual hookups and one-night stands aren’t part of my repertoire. They’re simply not in my playbook. My time is valuable; if I’m going to invest it, it won’t be with some passing fancy from a hotel bar.

It’ll be with the woman I intend to give my last name.

My late mother taught me to respect women. Not to use and toss them in the rubbish like yesterday’s copy of The Times, as many guys in affluent positions are known to do.

What I’m searching for is something concrete. Enduring. It’s not about superficial allure; it’s about an instant connection that will hit me in the gut and seize my soul, never letting go.

When I find the woman who’s meant to be mine, I suspect there’ll be no mistaking it. Without trying, she’ll knock me sideways. Instantly. Not just with her appearance, but also with her compassionate heart and resilient spirit, her kind nature matched with a backbone of steel.

Her walking into my life will be a game-changer.

My future love won’t just eventually bear my name. She’ll have my unwavering loyalty and protection, in addition to my endless adoration and obsession. Things my utter tosser of a father never offered my beautiful mother.

To him, she was nothing more than his used-up ex. An undeserving tart he made the mistake of getting pregnant. While he bathed in gold and jet-setted around the globe on a private plane, we lived under his constant threats and in poverty, sheltered by council housing.

But in the end, he paid for his sins.

An excruciating demise at the karmic hands of bone cancer was only the beginning. Watching helplessly from his deathbed as I dismantled his empire with the help of his vengeful ex-business partner and a slew of jilted investors was the end.

He died the day after my hostile takeover of his company was complete. It was a moment I’d worked my whole life for. As long as I breathe, I’ll never regret it. I only wish my mother had lived to see it.

If she had...

The waitress clears her throat, pulling me from thoughts of the past. She still stands by the table, her right hand resting on her skirt-clad hip, an expectant look on her face.

Uninterested in everything except the drink she just delivered, I dismiss her with a cold flick of my hand. Mark, a former SAS operator and my long-time head of security, looks on from where he stands near the wall, gauging whether his intervention is needed.

It isn’t.

Tossing her hair back over her shoulder, the waitress retreats with a huff, evidently displeased. Tough shite. Across from me, Grant Prescott, my American business partner and the closest thing I have to a genuine mate, laughs.

“Women,” he declares, shaking his head, fresh off a messy, rather public split from an heiress he fully intended to marry, “are nothing but damn trouble.”

I chuckle, still swirling the amber liquid in my hand. “I’ll take your word for it.”

I’ve seen enough high-society games to know better than to wade into the shark-infested dating fray of London’s upper crust. I’ll never be an entitled princess’s golden goose. Business is knotty enough. Decidedly less convoluted is how I prefer my personal life.

I covet a soulmate, not a trophy.

I’m mid-sip, my drink’s ice clattering against the glass, when an inexplicable pull, almost a sixth sense, diverts my attention, calling it to the lounge’s entrance.

It’s now, as if fate has decided to call me on my thoughts and toss me a much-desired bone, that she walks in.

My whole world stops.

A striking contrast to the usual patrons, her curvy form is a silhouette against the dim light as she enters slowly, reminding me of an angel emerging from the darkness.

Clad in an understated light-blue dress that doesn’t even meet the bar’s strict dress code, her glossy, dark hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves, adding to her ethereal look.

The exact shade of her eyes eludes me, but her skin is tan against the paleness of her clothing, a natural golden hue that speaks of sunlight, not artificial tanners.

Stunning beyond words, she looks as if she belongs on a beach in the Mediterranean—not spending an evening in the center of London’s grey heart.

Try as I might, I can’t tear my eyes away.

Whisky forgotten, my hand remains frozen, my gaze welded to her as she heads to the bar, seemingly oblivious to the attention she’s drawing. Realizing other blokes are drinking her in, my insides coil, tightened by a sense of something unpleasant I can’t quite place.

Look the hell away, all of you.

Ever the distraction, Grant snaps his fingers before my face, an action that would usually irritate me. It barely registers now. My focus is entirely, irrevocably, captured by the mystery woman now perched atop a barstool, even as my counterpart speaks, his words unheard by me.

The sense it makes is for nought.

Most notably when everything surrounding me—the noise, the people—fades into the background as I watch her interact with the bartender. She’s all smiles, but I’m immediately on edge. Her body language is guarded, her discomfort clear in the tension that lines her shoulders.

As if sensing she’s a doe lost amid a den of starved wolves, she’s instinctively wary. It makes my chest burn, fierce protectiveness rising within me.

The glass I hold almost gives way, nearly shattering beneath my grip when my hand tightens. In the boardroom, I’m known for being ruthless. Cutthroat. Outside of it, I’m an enigmatic shadow by choice. But on nights such as this, loneliness purges me from self-isolation.

The silence is sometimes too much.

But there’s something about the woman across the room. An authenticity in her demeanor that’s rare in the world of pretense I inhabit. I imagine being at her side invites much-desired peace, the type of stillness that’s comforting.

Not haunting.

I’m utterly spellbound.

“Kensington, you all right, man?” Grant’s voice cuts through my thoughts, his slow Southern drawl more pronounced than usual.

I blink, internally shaking myself, and pull my gaze from her. Setting my glass down harder than intended, I force a casual tone. “Fine. Just a momentary distraction.”

Every word is a lie.

Incapable of stopping it, my stare returns to her, the beauty whose name I don’t yet know but I vow to soon learn.

Grant follows my line of sight, a low whistle leaving his lips. “Seems like more than just a momentary distraction to me. She’s a pretty one, yeah?”

My hand fists, knuckles paling.

I snap my eyes to him. “Look away.”

His eyes need to leave her. Now.

My jaw clenches, my back teeth grinding against one another. It’s been a decade, maybe longer since I’ve thrown a punch. Yet I now teeter on the precipice, close to doing so.

Calm down.

Inhaling, I force my shoulders to relax. It’s a vexing sensation—this sharp protectiveness combined with inescapable curiosity.

The corner of Grant’s mouth lifts. “I call bullshit. To me...”

Before I can deny the truth Grant is close to speaking, a scumbag I recognize, with his greying, slicked-back hair, Italian suit, and sleezy grin, slides onto the bar stool beside the siren who’s ensnared me.

It all happens in an instant.

Blood pressure spiking, a twitch begins in my right eye when he leans in, whispering something that makes her stiffen. I can see the walls she’s erecting, her warm smile becoming forced, eyes scanning for an escape.

Her discomfort is a visceral gut punch.

Sodding hell. There’s no way...

I’m on my feet before reason can catch up.

With my security in tow, I cross the room, my strides purposeful as a primal instinct guides me. I give little thought to the patrons watching, to the mobiles undoubtedly aimed my way, recording what may be front-page tabloid fodder come morning.

Reaching her is all that matters.

My vision tunnels, focusing solely on my newfound fascination as I circle the oval-shaped bar and come to a stop at her back, my furious heart pounding in time with my heaving breaths. Her perfume is hypnotizing. She smells of exotic jasmine and sweet citrus.

Of pure sunshine and creamy honey.

For a moment, I question if the waitress spiked my drink with a substance potent enough to drive a man to the brink of madness. Because when the future stiff dares to place his palm on her thigh, a murderous haze shrouds my mind, crashing over me.

An ocean of red is all I see.

“Remove your bloody hand from her leg, Thomas.” I step closer, my chest nearly touching her back as I ready myself to rip his spine out via his throat. “Before I remove it from your fucking arm.”

That’s when it happens.

She turns her head and looks over her shoulder. Our gazes meet, her wide, cerulean eyes locking with my narrowed, hazel ones. It’s at this second, with my well-harnessed restraint even closer to slipping, something inside me clicks, and irrefutable recognition dawns.

Hello, love. I’ve been waiting for you.