Audacity (Seraph)

After Gabriel has fed me excellent coffee and I’ve borrowed his en suite bathroom to fix my hair and makeup and change my thong, he takes me for a tour.

This family office has two primary functions, as I understand it: managing the substantial and mainly urban land-based estate underpinning the Sullivans’ astonishing wealth, and managing the family’s other investments across all asset classes like any other private investment firm.

The business, therefore, is divided down the middle, the staff split between estate management and wealth management functions.

‘Is there a philanthropic arm?’ I ask Gabriel as we turn out of our little enclave and down the art-adorned corridor onto the main floor, so generic it could be any bank or consultancy firm. Heads turn as we approach. Also generic is the buzz of energy—or perhaps nerves—that always arises when the CEO shows his face on the floor.

‘Those efforts still operate under the umbrellas of their divisions. There’s an urgent need to extract them and establish a formal foundation, but it’s been on the back burner as I try to get to grips with everything. I’m hoping we can breathe some new life into it. We’re having a meeting about it next week, in fact.’

It makes sense. I know he’s been overwhelmed. I nod. ‘Of course.’

He stops by one of the first cubicles, where a fair-haired man a couple of years older than me is sitting, and slaps the back of his chair heartily.

‘And this is George. My PA, my saviour.’

The PA-EA relationship can be a little fraught sometimes if boundaries aren’t clearly drawn. It will help, of course, that my desk is next to Gabriel’s office and George’s is out here, although I’m sure that positioning has more to do with my being here to covertly fuck the boss than anything else.

George gets to his feet, and we shake. ‘Thank Christ you’ve arrived. I’ve been counting down the days.’

‘I hired George as soon as I came on board,’ Gabriel tells me. ‘He wiped the floor with poor Gladys. But he’s right. We’ve all been counting down the days.’

He smiles at me, his smile laced with the memory of us shoving our sex organs into each other’s mouths just now. I catch a glimpse of George’s stricken expression and instantly understand two things. He has a definite thing for Gabriel, and Gabriel, God bless him, is utterly oblivious. George can hopefully be an ally for me, as long as he can control whatever jealousy might arise over my presence. Meanwhile, he’s managed to school his features and is now looking me over appreciatively.

‘That dress is fabulous. Etro, perchance?’

I shoot him a genuine smile. ‘Bingo.’

‘God, that’s impressive,’ Gabriel says, scanning my dress in bewilderment. ‘I’ve never heard of them. Um—can I assume you two will sit down for coffee at some point and hash out your working relationship? I think it makes sense.’

‘Definitely,’ I say. That’s a priority. I may also have to take George under my wing and ensure he doesn’t work himself to the bone for his delicious, oblivious boss. His demeanour has eager puppy written all over it, and something tells me service is his love language.

Coffee agreed, we move on. This floor is the estate management floor, and I’m encouraged to see a pretty equal balance of men and women. I assume Gabriel inherited the majority of employees from his father’s tenure here. There are some definite characters.

The Finance Director, Old Jim, strikes me as a probable crony of Sullivan Senior. His real name is James Flanagan, he’s a Dubliner, and he’s sixty if he’s a day. He has the bulbous nose and reddened face of a seasoned whiskey drinker, but I bet he’s sharp as a tack. I could do without the lascivious look he gives me, though. Revolting.

Gabriel’s Chief of Staff, Eleanor Whitmore, is Flanagan’s opposite—old money and probably Oxbridge educated like me—but I doubt she’ll give me an easier ride. She tells me she’s worked for the Sullivans for twenty-five years, and it sounds like a warning not to tread on her turf.

God, I love it when people think they can manage me. I’ll eat this woman for breakfast if I have to, even if she tastes like she looks—tough as old boots.

‘I very much look forward to working together, Eleanor,’ I tell her with a steely poise that reflects every ounce of my breeding.

‘Ah!’ Gabriel says with what sounds like genuine enthusiasm as a younger woman approaches. ‘This is Torty—Victoria Spencer-Wells, the estate’s Head of Stakeholder Relations. Torty, meet Athena.’

Torty may as well have a flashing neon sign above her head that says The Wannabe Future Mrs Gabriel Sullivan. We eye each other up.

She’s pretty enough, in that insipid, blonde, slightly inbred way so typical of the English upper classes. I went to school with a million versions of her. She’s probably around thirty, but she’s dressed like she’s ready for a life of Range Rovers and shotguns and Labradors in a little cashmere sweater and a tweed pencil skirt. In my book, tweed is not okay unless it’s Chanel or Balmain and extremely sparkly.

Torty’s tweed is none of the above.

By far the most interesting thing about her is the naked panic in her expression as she shakes my hand, like I’m a threat she didn’t see coming and one against which she has to fashion an immediate neutralisation plan.

‘Welcome to Rath Mor,’ she murmurs, shaking my hand a little too firmly. Subtext: Back off, bitch. I have dibs on him, even though I know I’ll never, ever get him.

‘Thank you so much,’ I coo with my most beatific smile. I’ve already had his huge cock in two of my holes, and he fucking loves it. Move aside, love, while you still have some self respect.

One floor down, on the investment side, things get more interesting. A cursory glance tells me that the team here is MBA-heavy and that most of these people could be working for bulge-bracket banks or consultancy firms if they wanted to.

It’s hard to describe how I know, exactly, except to say that there’s a palpable hunger among the staff here. I’ve been in enough sleepy old-school investment firms—mainly on visits with my various bosses—to identify the mix of smugness and apathy that comes with working for a second- or third-tier firm. You know, long lunches and piss-taking and clocking off early.

I don’t get that vibe from these guys at all. I bet they work sixty-hour weeks and are, for the most part, ruthless as hell. I allow myself a contented sigh, because these could be my people. I thrive in environments like this, and it makes me miss Bain.

Gabriel talks me through the layout with accompanying gestures. This floor is arranged by asset class: fixed income, equities, currencies, commodities, money markets, alternative investments. The layout is more open-plan here, with desks laid out in long rows. I spot dealer boards full of buttons so the dealers here can call their brokers to put on trades. Befriending these guys could be beneficial for my investment portfolio.

Gabriel claps his hands and asks for everyone’s attention for a moment.

‘Good morning,’ he says. His voice is clear and loud, his stance relaxed. I suppose years of saying Mass will strip you of any self-consciousness. ‘I hope you all had a cracking weekend. I’d like to introduce you all to my new executive assistant, Athena Davenport. I’m extremely excited to have her on board. She’ll be sitting right outside my office upstairs, so please feel free to pop up anytime and make her feel welcome. Thank you.’

The employees themselves are eyeing me and Gabriel with acute interest. I can positively feel the hostility radiating from some of the women in particular, and I have to hide my smile. If we think this is anything more than a jungle and we’ve remotely evolved past being primates, situations like this are here to remind us otherwise.

I know how I look.

I know the message that sends to men and women alike.

It’s exactly the message I want it to send.

And, if some of these women can’t deal with it, if they incorrectly assume that Gabriel is fair game, that’s not even the slightest bit my problem.

Sure enough, the primates begin to rise from their seats and shuffle this way, ostensibly to say hello and really to check me out. The guys are first, coming in strong with handshakes and what they think are charming smiles. Some of them are decent looking, some not, some are actually pretty sexy. But how any of them could think they stand a chance when I’m standing next to the greatest prize in the entire building is baffling.

Interestingly, Gabriel seems less oblivious in these circumstances. He edges closer to me, his hand going discreetly to the small of my back as I smile and shake and say hello. When one particularly tall, particularly hot Dutch guy introduces himself as Dirk and smiles at me like I’m his next meal, Gabriel’s fingers trail oh-so covertly south, pressing lightly into the cleft of my bottom.

The message: Remember you’re mine.

Mmm. He’s learning. I reward his delicious little show of possession by throwing a dazzling smile his way before giving Dirk short shrift. Not going to happen, pal. Not in any lifetime. I’m sure he has a Porsche or a Ferrari. I’m sure he wows his women with top restaurants and fine wines. But the poor guy has no way of knowing just how far short he falls of my average fuck. I don’t dip my toes outside of the C-suite.

‘That woman Torty wants your babies,’ I tell Gabriel as we stroll back to the lift.

He laughs easily. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. No she doesn’t.’

‘She does. She hates me already with a passion she didn’t know she had in her until just now.’

He stops and turns with a frown. ‘I’m sure that’s not the case, but if anyone gives you any hassle, I want to hear about it. I would never, ever stand for that in my workplace.’

Oh, sweet, sweet man. ‘I promise you, anyone who underestimates me does it precisely once. You have nothing to worry about. But it’s adorable quite how many future Mrs Sullivans there are wandering around down there. Perhaps you can get George to research countries where polygamy is legal if you don’t want to break too many hearts.’

His face softens. ‘I know you can handle yourself. And I could say the same for you.’ He holds out a hand, gesturing for me to enter the waiting lift. ‘I had to swat them away like flies. Fucking Dirk Jansen.’

I smile as I back up against the wall of the lift, arching my back and enjoying the ravenous way his eyes roam over my body. ‘They can look, but you’re the only man who gets to lay a hand on me. I really liked it when you reminded me of that back there. How does it feel to know that you can touch me whenever you want, wherever you want?’

He takes the bait, stepping forward as the doors close and sliding his hands around my waist. He dips his face, seeking out my neck and inhaling hard. I have my scent custom-blended, and it seems he approves.

When he speaks, his voice is muffled and, I think, a little bashful.

‘It makes me feel like a fucking king.’

This is it.

This is the way to intoxicate him.

That this beautiful male specimen has spent the past God knows how many years in a willing state of poverty and celibacy, of eschewing worldliness in favour of being spiritually replete, is staggering to me.

Because he is a fucking king.

And I’m going to waltz in here day after day, looking my absolute best, and show him, with every weapon in my arsenal, that I am here for one reason and one reason only.

To serve this king of mine.