Threee

Bentley

I step out from under the shower, grab a towel, and dry myself off before wrapping it low around my waist. Then I step out of the bathroom into my room—just as my new PA, who also happens to be my brother’s fiancée, steps out of my closet with my outfit dangling from her hand.

She freezes. Her eyes widen. Then she gawks at my half-naked state like a creep.

“Do you want me to get you a camera so you can take a picture, frame it, and hang it in your room?” I quirk an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts quickly, walking over to the bed to drop the suit.

“Emm… would you like me to make you coffee? Or tea? Or toast for breakfast? Or would you want me to—”

My sigh cuts her off.

I already don’t like her. Truth is, I had decided that long before meeting her, and meeting her only validated it.

She’s all the things I hate—chatty, clumsy, loud, and full of pointless questions.

“Coffee is self-destructive, and breakfast is for people without goals.”

She stares at me like I’ve just said something unholy.

“Rhia is putting you through for a reason. I don’t like chatty people, and I don’t like too many questions. I’d appreciate it if you practice being silent around me and direct all your questions to Rhia.”

She nods quietly, clearly offended, but I don’t care.

Rhiannon endured a lot before we got to the point where we could even minimally get along. She’s my previous PA, simply the best. She’s worked with me for three and a half years, and letting her go is… brutal. But she’s getting married and moving to London.

For the next few weeks, she’ll still be around to train Dirty Diana before she leaves. I dread the day she stops coming in. If Hillary already makes me want to strangle her, I don’t want to imagine it getting worse.

She heads for the door—forgetting my shoes.

“What about shoes?” I call out.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” she rambles back into the closet, grabs my shoes, then searches cluelessly for socks until she finally finds them. After that, she leaves.

Where the hell did Jake find her?

Honestly, I was surprised Jake even called me, let alone asked nicely for a favor. Our bond as brothers has been strained for years. The biggest reason? I’m worth a hundred times more than he is.

The second reason? Our father’s constant comparisons growing up. I was the prodigy who founded a business at twelve and became a billionaire last year without a cent of family money. Jake has lived in my shadow.

That’s the truth.

I don’t know how it feels for him. I can only imagine.

I finish drying off and get dressed, silently praying Hillary doesn’t barge back in and see something she could never handle.

She doesn’t.

She waits until I’m nearly ready before coming in. I assume—it better be—to knot my tie. I don’t want to nag every damn day.

She walks in, fully dressed and put together, heels clicking on the floor as she approaches. Without speaking, she grabs my tie, slings it across my neck, and knots it.

Good.

A familiar scent hits me.

Lemony.

Finally, something I like about her. Or maybe it’s just my house rubbing its cleanliness off on her.

Once she’s done, we take the elevator to the underground garage where my driver waits. She walks ahead of me, her magenta dress clinging tightly to her skin.

I’d begrudgingly admit she’s beautiful. She has the kind of body men like Jake would die over. But beauty gets drowned by traits I despise—and she has most of them.

I get into the car, and she has the audacity to slide into the backseat with me.

“Why are you sitting back here? Are you my wife? Sit in the front,” I snap.

She sighs, like she’s the one dealing with the irritation.

“I can’t sit in the front, sir. I have a traumatic memory from an accident some years ago.” She avoids my eyes.

“Then find your own way to the office. I don’t care,” I hiss.

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t plead. She just gets out, shuts the door, and heads back to the elevator.

Good. She can hail a cab. What she’s not going to do is sit back here like she owns the damn car.

“And make sure you arrive the exact same time I do,” I call out. She breaks into a run.

So she’d rather risk being late and fired than sit in the passenger seat?

Whatever.

My driver pulls away, and I find myself checking the mirror to see if Hillary’s cab is trailing us. She does arrive, just in time. Must’ve begged the driver to break the speed limit.

She jumps out of the car, running toward me, almost tripping and twisting her ankle. I don’t care. I walk into the lobby and spot my friend and business partner, Charlie.

“Hey, Char.” I dab him up and we hug.

“Good to see you,” he grins.

I glance at Hillary and motion for her to go upstairs.

“I’ll meet you up there.”

She leaves, limping slightly from her near fall. Charlie catches my eyes, his lips curving into a smug smirk.

“What?” I ask.

“Rhiannon’s leaving and you got yourself a new plaything, huh?” he chuckles.

“Ew. Gross. No. She’s Jake’s fiancée.” I shut that down fast.

He stifles a laugh.

“Ohhh, my bad,” he says quickly, then lowers his voice. “But she’s hot.”

I grimace. “Stop. She’s Jake’s.”

Charlie lifts a brow, like he’s measuring my hypocrisy.

“C’mon, Ben. I know you. You’d fuck any woman you find aesthetically clean and appealing. Jake already hates you—don’t make him plot your assassination.” He laughs, but nothing about his words is funny.

Why the hell would I ever find my brother’s fiancée appealing, let alone cross that line?

I may be a notorious playboy but I would never.