Dare to Love Me (Billionaire Brits)

CHAPTER 1

Daisy

This wasn’t exactly what I pictured when I dreamt of success.

“Two minutes!” Simon, our esteemed producer, bellows through the studio.

I step onto the mock bathroom set, my heels skidding on the aggressively waxed floor.

Props have really outdone themselves this time. Towels fluffed to the density of small clouds. Artisanal soaps carved into tiny, useless swans. And the pièce de résistance: toilet paper infused with gold and stamped with inspirational quotes.

With a huff, I yank at the hem of my pleated skirt—obnoxiously plastered with the Union Jack like I’m Britain’s most patriotic stripper.

It doesn’t budge. Useless.

“Kelly,” I call out to Wardrobe. She’s glued to her phone, likely scrolling for memes that capture her deep hatred for everyone on set. “Did you boil wash this? It’s at least two inches shorter than yesterday. It’s basically a belt.”

“New stock,” she mutters, not looking up. “Simon’s orders.”

Fucking Simon. A man who operates under the belief that TV ratings are directly proportional to the amount of visible thigh.

He’s not wrong, probably, but still—fuck him.

At this length, all it would take is a sneeze and the audience gets a free peep show to what my mum insists on calling my “delicate bits.”

“Kelly,” I try again, summoning what little dignity remains. “I’m not sure this barely clothed host thing screams sophistication.”

Finally meeting my gaze, she deadpans, “It’s BritShop, not the BBC.”

She’s right. I hate that she’s right.

I catch my reflection in the nearest mirror, attempting to smooth down the rebellious curl that has abandoned my braid. It springs back, nature’s tiny reminder that I am not, in fact, in control of anything.

But this is it. My shot at escaping the graveyard shift and stepping into the golden glow of daytime TV.

Three years of 3 a.m. slots, convincing randy pensioners that a professional-grade hedge trimmer is an absolute must-have at that hour. Let’s be honest—they’re not tuning in for the gardening tips.

They’re just hoping for a cheeky glimpse of my “considerably distracting assets,” as one dedicated viewer so eloquently put it in a handwritten letter, complete with lovingly detailed diagrams. Say what you will, but that’s an old-school commitment to perversion that deserves some respect.

I’d be offended if his penmanship hadn’t been so impeccable.

Professionally, I’m known as the woman who put the sexy in pruning shears. Try sticking that on a CV and see where it gets you.

Today’s different, though. I’m trading in my graveyard-shift purgatory for the harsh, unforgiving glare of daytime television. Instead of flogging power tools to perverts, I’m promoting luxury bathroom accessories to respectable housewives.

“One minute!”

My stomach lurches. This is not how I pictured my big break.

In those romantic fantasies I conjured up on the graveyard shifts, I imagined gliding onto set with the poise of Amal Clooney at a human rights summit. Instead, I’m running on fumes and pure desperation, after been yanked out of bed three hours ago because Sharon, Queen of BritShop , called in sick.

Unprepared doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I might have scraped together an hour of sleep last night, if you count the thirty minutes I spent scowling into my pillow in silent rage.

Sixty minutes. That’s all I need to survive. No catastrophes. I can do this.

Except my eyes keep sliding to the bidet.

Yes, the fucking bidet.

There it sits, gleaming under the studio lights. Smug. Shiny. Mocking me.

I can’t look away. My eyes are drawn to it, my mind spinning with memories I really don’t need to be reliving right now. Not when I’m supposed to be embodying Amal Clooney–level poise.

Right. Breathe. Focus. You’ve got this. Be professional.

“Look alive, Daisy,” Simon barks. “Stop gawking at the thing like you’ve never bloody seen one before!”

My ever-encouraging boss, ladies and gentlemen. He swipes a sweaty hand across his gut.

“Sorry, boss. Ready!” I chirp as the camera crew shuffles into place.

The red light on Camera One blinks.

Simon groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as if my mere existence has personally afflicted him with an ulcer. “For crying out loud, are you hungover? You look like shit. Michelle! Someone blot the sweat off her before I lose the will to live.”

I purse my lips, biting back the urge to inform Simon that, no, I am not hungover, thank you very much. Just profoundly exhausted and emotionally wrung out. There’s a difference.

“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just . . . getting into character.”

Michelle, our makeup artist, appears beside me, powder puff in hand.

“Stay still,” she says, smacking my face like she’s plastering a wall.

Out comes the lipstick—bright red, naturally. She slathers it on, then shoves a tissue at me. “Dab.”

I glance at my reflection and grimace. “Can we tone it down a bit? I’m selling bathroom fixtures, not starring in a burlesque show.”

“You’re not getting on that stage because you look like a housewife,” Simon bellows from across the room. “Now hurry the fuck up!”

Rude.

Michelle steps back to assess her handiwork, giving my face a final, aggressive pat. “All right, love. Best I can do. You’re ready.”

Correction: I am not ready.

What I am is a tangled mess of anxiety, coming undone every time I glance at that ridiculous bidet.

All the emotions I thought I’d successfully buried since last night are now clawing their way back up my throat, like bad wine.

I plaster on a smile so rigid it might as well be nailed in place.

Not now. Not in front of Simon, the crew, and the live-stream audience—hovering somewhere in the low thousands—who just tuned in hoping to upgrade their bathrooms.

“I am calm. I am Zen,” I mutter under my breath, attempting a last-minute energy realignment.

Simon glares at me like I’ve just pitched a BritShop special on used toilet brushes.

“Whatever existential crisis you’re having, bloody snap out of it. The commission on these smart bathrooms is the only reason you’re still employed, so I suggest you make people believe their very survival depends on owning one.”

I nod, my braid bouncing with a level of enthusiasm I don’t feel, and throw him a thumbs-up.

Whoever called working in TV glamorous has clearly never stood on a fake bathroom set, trying to convince Karen from Kent that her toilet is one step up from a medieval chamber pot compared to this ￡2,999 marvel with mood lighting and a heated seat.

Plus shipping. The shipping is where they really fuck you.

The crew shuffles into place radiating their usual dead-inside energy. Pete, the cameraman, wears the hollow-eyed expression of a man who’s seen one too many “miracle” gadgets, each one carving a little slice off his soul.

We’ve all lost bits of ourselves between the blender demos and revolutionary mop systems. And I doubt we’re getting those pieces back anytime soon.

Simon prowls around the monitors. “Make sure we get a solid shot of the bidet settings. I want the viewers to feel like they’re right there, getting their rear ends power-washed into next week.”

He raises a hand, his scowl deepening as the sweat stain on his shirt expands into a disturbingly accurate map of the British Isles. “Live in five, four, three, two—”

The red light flashes.

I flick on my appliance-queen smile, beaming into the lens.

“Are you ready to revolutionize your bathroom experience?” I chirp. “Say goodbye to outdated, germ-ridden toilet seats and hello to the future of hygiene.”

With a flourish worthy of Houdini, I press the button on the remote, ready to wow the viewers with this porcelain marvel.

And . . . nothing.

Well, not nothing.

The toilet lid begins to lower.

Slowly.

Agonizingly.

A low, ominous gurgle rumbles from the toilet bowl—the kind of sound you’d expect from a haunted bog in a horror film.

But I’m a professional. Or at least I’m clinging to the tattered delusion that I am. So I plaster on my most dazzling everything-is-fine grin—the one I practiced in the mirror for exactly this kind of situation—and power through.

“With the AutoToiletPro, you’ll never have to lay a finger on a filthy surface again—just one little press of a button and it’s all taken care of—” I jab the remote harder, willing the damn thing to pick up the pace.

The lid freezes mid-descent. Considers its options. Then resumes its glacial journey, as if it’s trying to sabotage my career one inch at a time.

There’s a sick kind of poetry in this moment.

I’m relating to a toilet.

We’re both struggling and full of shit.

“See how sleek and modern and efficient it is—honestly, a total game-changer—and just for today, we’ve got an exclusive deal on this cutting-edge wonder that you won’t want to miss!”

Another gurgle rumbles up from the porcelain void.

I am one more gurgle away from losing my goddamn mind.

Next up, the bidet.

I inch closer, my stomach knotting. The urge to either burst into hysterical laughter or dissolve into a puddle of tears claws at my throat, but I force it down—because this is live TV , and Simon is glaring at me like he’s already picturing how my head would look shoved into the self-flushing bowl.

“And today!” My voice cracks. I ignore it. “Today we’re also featuring the Smart Bidet Deluxe! A bidet so advanced you’ll never have to touch toilet paper again.”

The camera zooms in on the bidet, buffed to a blinding shine under the soul-scorching studio lights.

A thick, heavy lump lodges in my throat, impossible to swallow.

Oh, come the hell on.

Of all the places to have an emotional breakdown, why here? On this set? And of all the ridiculous triggers, why a fucking bidet?

I glance down at the offending fixture, babbling words I’m no longer hearing. Something about “sleek design.”

My throat tightens.

The bidet gleams, smug and pristine, and suddenly—

I’m four years old again.

A tiny, wide-eyed dreamer, still wholly devoted to the Tooth Fairy and my extremely realistic life goal of becoming a princess / astronaut / actress.

It was my first time at the Cavendish estate, the ivy-choked beast of a house that looked like it had devoured half of England and was eyeing Wales for dessert.

Mum had laid down one ironclad rule—stay away from the big house. I was supposed to stick to the staff cottage with my older cousin Billy (useless babysitter).

But I’d heard rumors. Specifically, from Sophia Cavendish, who was five and already a posh gossip, swearing on her favorite pony that there were actual fairies in the castle. And really, what self-respecting four-year-old could resist the promise of fairies?

The house was magic. Ceilings so high they could tickle the clouds. Walls covered in massive paintings of judgmental ancestors. And right in the middle of the entrance hall, a statue—completely starkers. My first glimpse of the male anatomy: cold, chiseled, and wildly misleading.

I crept up the grand staircase, every squeak of my tiny shoes exposing me as an intruder, poking my nose into rooms that seemed designed to send children scurrying back to their mummies with nightmares about taxidermy and dusty chandeliers.

Then I found the main bathroom. My fingers hovered over the gilded handle for just a heartbeat before I shoved open the door.

And there he was.

Charles “Charlie” Cavendish, in all his posh glory, being ceremoniously escorted from the toilet to the bidet by his personal maid.

And that maid? None other than my mum.

I froze, caught in four-year-old Charlie’s mildly irritated gaze as he made his leisurely, shameless transition.

And why would there be shame? For Charlie, this was just another day at Chez Cavendish, where a bum escort was a basic human right.

Looking back, I think that was the moment my tragically impressionable, fairy-hunting heart fluttered, sighed, and declared, That’s the love of my life.

Move over, Romeo and Juliet. This was the real doomed love story: the cleaning lady’s daughter and the future lord of the manor who needed a personal assistant to use a bidet.

God, I was an idiot.

I gulp hard, dragging myself back to now, to the task of convincing strangers to buy overpriced toilets.

“The Smart Bidet Deluxe,” I say, my voice miraculously steady.

All that time I wasted pining over that posh prick.

I reach out to caress the bidet’s sleek, curvaceous form with all the serene elegance of a professional product demonstrator. Instead, my hand slips, sending a bottle of “signature bidet cleansing solution” skittering across the set.

“And with just the touch of a button,” I plow on, ignoring the clatter, “you can experience the ultimate in cleansing comfort.”

The promises Charlie made. Bollocks, all of it.

“They all warned me.”

Wait. Did I just say that out loud?

I jab at the control panel. The bidet, clearly taking issue with my attitude, retaliates with a jet of water so aggressive it nearly takes out Camera Two.

Oops, maybe that was a touch too much gusto.

Simon’s voice crackles in my earpiece with barely contained rage: “Daisy, if you don’t pull yourself together right now, I swear to god, I’ll shove you headfirst into that thing and hold you under till the bubbles stop.”

I drag in a wobbly breath, blinking like mad to keep the tears from spilling over and ruining what’s left of Michelle’s slapdash makeup job.

Come on, Daisy, get it together.

“The Smart Bidet comes with a heated seat—pure luxury—and our groundbreaking PowerJet technology, where you can pick your water pressure from ‘gentle summer mist’ all the way up to, er, ‘industrial pressure washer.’”

I trip over my words for half a second, but I cover it with a wild, over-the-top hand gesture, like I’m presenting the invention of the bloody century.

“Welcome to the future, where your bottom gets the five-star treatment it deserves. A royal flush, if you will. Say goodbye to scratchy toilet paper and hello to the gentle caress of warm, soothing water.”

Gentle. Like the way Charlie used to brush his fingers across my cheek, maddeningly tender, like he meant every feather-light touch. All those glittering promises, and I lapped them up like a love-starved fool.

Lies. Every damn one of them.

How could he toss me aside like I was nothing?

Oh, right—because to him, to his family, I was nothing. Just the cleaning lady’s daughter. A fleeting distraction. A novelty to be indulged, then discarded when the shine wore off.

“If you order now, you’ll receive a free bottle of our signature bidet cleansing solution, infused with soothing aloe vera and a hint of lavender!”

That absolute prick.

Rage bubbles up inside me—hot, wild, unstoppable. Before I can even think to stop myself, my fist collides with the bidet’s control panel like it’s Charlie’s chin.

The bidet roars to life, as if I’ve summoned an ancient toilet demon from the depths of plumbing hell. It unleashes a blast of water so aggressive it sprays across the studio set, soaking the backdrop, the floor, and—oh, yeah—me.

Fuck me.

The crew collectively sucks in a horrified breath.

And the damn thing just keeps going, gushing water like it’s channeling every ounce of fury I’ve ever shoved down, a scorned woman’s wrath in plumbing form.

I stand there, dripping, my mouth open like a gormless idiot catching raindrops in a storm.

Except it’s not rain.

It’s bidet water.

This is, without question, a new personal low.

All right, you can turn this around.

“As you can see,” I say, “our PowerJet technology offers a variety of powerful settings.”

Somewhere deep inside me, the last remaining shred of my dignity lets out a long, exhausted groan, packs up its tiny emotional suitcase, leaves a politely worded note on the bidet that reads You’re on your own, mate , and slips quietly out the back door.

“The Smart Bidet Deluxe,” I rasp, clawing at the words like they’re slipping through my wet fingers, “is . . .” I falter, begging my brain to string a sentence together, when Simon’s voice detonates in my earpiece, so loud I jerk like I’ve been tasered: “Cut to the kitchen set, now—Daisy, you’ve fucked this beyond repair!”

Water trickles off my chin as I stare dead into Camera One.

For one lavender-scented moment, the world seems to go still.

And something inside me snaps.

Fuck Charlie Cavendish.

Fuck his pretentious family. Fuck his meticulously curated life, his picture-perfect society fiancée, with her flawless teeth, her perfectly tousled hair, and their nauseating engagement photos that look like they were ripped straight out of Town & Country .

And while we’re at it?

Fuck this overpriced, temperamental, lavender-scented bidet from hell.

Somewhere in the chaos, I realize my earpiece has gone silent. Either Simon ripped it out in a fit of sweaty rage, or he’s collapsed behind the control panel.

Either way, the silence is deafening.