Not Mine to Love (Billionaire Brits #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

Shimmering with transformation

Georgie

“You’re not sweating,” purrs the smug voice in my earbuds. “Your body is simply shimmering with transformation.”

I shove the buds deeper in my ears, trying to drown out the part of my brain that’s screaming: You’re going to die, Georgie.

“Butterflies in your stomach?” she coos. “That’s your inner power awakening.”

I grip the stair railing with clammy hands. This stretch of stairs between floors fourteen and fifteen of McLaren Hotels HQ has become my hiding spot.

“Breathe in success, breathe out fear,” Meditation Lady insists. “You are a strong, confident woman. You are safe. Nothing can hurt you.”

Lies. Bald-faced, criminal-level lies.

I am not safe. Public speaking can absolutely hurt you. Emotionally. Psychologically. Quite possibly physically. I haven’t had a proper poo in five days. Every time some perky coworker trills, “All set for your big presentation?” my colon whispers a violent no and tightens. I’m beyond prunes.

There’s a small but entirely plausible chance that ten minutes from now, standing in front of everyone on slide two, I’ll just collapse from stress-induced constipation and die.

So no, Meditation Lady with your soothing voice, I am not “safe.” I’m a bloated mess of a woman who spent way too much on a work dress that’s now soaked in fear sweat.

“Come on, you can do this,” I whisper, adjusting my glasses with shaky fingers that clearly disagree.

Statistically, people don’t usually die giving presentations. They might faint, have a weep in the toilets afterward, develop a stress rash, or, in extreme cases, shart themselves in front of their department.

But death is rare. Though if anyone’s going to be the tragic outlier, it’s me.

I should be excited. This is my chance to be recognized for my work, not drowned out by someone with a louder voice and an even louder tie.

For months, I’ve watched my ideas get talked over or repackaged by Craig five minutes later like he’d just thought of them. Each time I promise myself: Next time you’ll speak up, Georgie.

But next time never comes.

But now—finally—after months of obsessive work, the prototype works.

I drag in a shaky breath and squeeze my eyes shut. “You deserve this. You deserve to be heard.”

Because I do.

While normal Londoners were out having sex or at least making human eye contact, I was hunched over my laptop at 1 a.m., hair cemented with dry shampoo, whispering “please work” at code while a pizza slice turned to stone next to my monitor.

But honestly? I embarrassingly, geekily love my work.

There’s nothing like that rush when the code finally runs without spitting out a wall of angry red error messages. Code doesn’t care if my voice wobbles or if I accidentally wave at people who are gesturing at someone behind me.

But put me in front of living, blinking humans with judgmental eyebrows and my throat just closes. It’s all those eyes watching, clocking every stammer, every time I push my glasses up nervously.

I shift from foot to foot, trying to shake the anxiety loose. One breath, in through the nose. Two, out through the mouth. Three—

A sneaky burp claws its way up my chest and bursts out of me.

My hand flies to my mouth.

Fucking hell. I’ve got the nervous burps.

For crying out loud, you’d think my entire future depended on this presentation the way I’m carrying on. It’s just a room full of Craig’s middle-management cronies, who probably won’t even glance up from their phones. The worst I should be worried about is someone snoring during my big reveal.

Yet ever since Craig handed it to me with that vaguely threatening smile, it’s taken over my life.

I’m not aspiring to pull a Katy Perry and strut on stage with fireworks shooting from my bra, but maybe I could be more like Roy, my best mate at work, who can be ambushed with a surprise presentation without even blinking.

I, however, am Georgie. The woman who sweats through her shirt before saying “good morning.” Last week, I bumped into a mannequin at Zara, apologized, and then stood there—stood there—waiting for it to forgive me.

Actually held eye contact with its soulless plastic stare before realizing I was an idiot. The shop assistant saw everything.

I’ve rehearsed this bloody thing everywhere: bathroom mirror, shower, even in the fogged-up microwave door while last night’s pasta shriveled into mush.

I made Great-Aunt Riri sit through it, though she kept interrupting to recommend hot yoga for my nerves and ask if I was “getting enough fiber.”

Then came the voice recordings.

Oh yes. I recorded myself then analyzed every syllable as if I were conducting a forensic linguistics investigation.

“Too fast.”

“Too mumbly. Speak up, for Christ’s sake.”

“Why are you breathing like you’ve just hidden a body under the floorboards?”

I even wrote jokes—little one-liners sprinkled in so I’d sound breezy.

I added pauses for imaginary laughter because obviously middle-management Dan is going to throw his head back and howl, “Georgie, you comedic genius! Give us another one about hotel management!” when he’s never noticed I exist before now.

I scroll to the voice note where I almost sound like a functioning human and hit play.

I can do this. I just need to channel Tech Goddess Georgie, not burp-in-the-stairwell Georgie.

My phone buzzes.

Riri:

Knock them dead, darling! I’m so proud of you!

Even with the butterflies battering my stomach, I smile.

Three years of living with Great-Aunt Riri, and she’s officially my favorite human.

When everything fell apart—when I dropped out of university, when I was convinced I’d never feel happy or normal or even…

okay again—I showed up at her door. She didn’t ask questions.

Just opened her arms and made space for me.

I want to make her proud. To prove that the girl who arrived on her doorstep wasn’t the final version of me.

The conference room feels too bright—like those interrogation lights in crime dramas, meant to expose every nervous twitch.

A few people trickle in, but to me, it might as well be Wembley bloody Stadium sold out.

I fumble with the USB connector. My fingers are so sweaty it takes three attempts before the screen flickers on with a triumphant dong that sounds vaguely mocking.

Roy appears at my side. “You’ve got this,” he murmurs.

I shoot him a wild-eyed look. “What if I just email everyone the slides? Much more efficient. Saves us all the trauma.”

“And miss your big moment? No chance.” He nudges my shoulder. “Come on, this is cutting-edge shit. You’re basically the Stephen Hawking of hotel management systems.”

“He wasn’t exactly known for his public speaking either,” I mutter. Great. Now I’m disrespecting dead geniuses just to cope with my own pathetic anxiety. New low.

“Georgie, you know this system better than anyone else. You built the thing.”

“Uh-huh.” It’s all I can manage.

He studies me for a beat, then grins. “Right, not sure if this helps or makes it worse, but you look stunning in that dress. Really makes your eyes pop.”

I choke out a laugh. “Thanks. I just need my mouth to cooperate.”

More bodies filter in: the UX lead, who can’t start a sentence without “From a user perspective…” The project manager who says “bandwidth” more than any human should.

Even through the fog of panic, I catch Bandwidth Guy giving me the least subtle once-over.

Riri chose this dress. Emerald green, tailored, the kind that’s meant to “match my eyes” and “command the room,” apparently. She practically wrestled me into it this morning, hollering, “Show those tech boys what’s what!” while yanking the zipper so hard I nearly lost a nipple.

She even talked me into heels. I never have my legs out at work, and by “legs,” I mean the modest stretch between knee and ankle. Let’s not get wild.

Most of the men here probably didn’t even realize I had legs.

I guess I looked nice this morning. Now, standing here in the spotlight, I just feel… exposed.

I pretend to check my notes while reminding myself that breathing is essential for not dying.

The door bangs open. Craig storms in. He slaps a few of his buddies on the back, his carefully cultivated alliance of yes-men who laugh at his jokes and never question his authority.

“Morning, folks!” he booms, loud enough that the people in the next room probably feel acknowledged.

Roy squeezes my arm then abandons me for a chair, leaving me alone at the front.

Craig plants his hands on his hips, chest puffed. “I know everyone’s buzzing to see what IRIS can do. The team and I have been working our butts off!”

I physically cringe.

“IRIS is everything I’ve been pushing for. Innovation, efficiency, future-proofing, yeah?” He pats his chest like he’s just won an Oscar. “What my department has achieved here puts McLaren Hotels ahead of the curve. And I couldn’t be prouder of what we’ve built.”

What we’ve built.

As if he wasn’t sipping mojitos at a “leadership retreat” in Marbella while I was crying into my hoodie because the database wouldn’t stop spewing null values.

I know this project could be a game-changer for the hotel. This is my chance to show I’m not just the tech gremlin they occasionally wheel out to reset the router.

I just need to get the words out. In English. Not in whatever high-pitched nonsense escaped during my last attempt at public speaking, when the IT intern offered me his inhaler and asked if I needed to sit down.

“I’ll hand it over to Georgina for this,” Craig says with that patronizing smile. “She’ll walk you through the system. I’ll step in if needed, of course.”

Translation: Stay in your lane or I’ll humiliate you.

He never lets me talk to humans, but even he knows he can’t blag this crowd. One technical question and he’s toast.

I death-grip my phone. The remote app is open, thumb hovering, ready to flip slides without fumbling at the laptop.