Please Dont Withdraw!

3

And I’m not entirely sure.

Because here’s the thing: in the five years I’ve been slaving away at Ashbury Thornton, I’ve never busted my ass harder than I have in the last six months. And considering a “light” day around here still means ten-plus hours glued to my desk, that’s saying something.

We work hard and ruthless here at Ashbury Thornton. We’re the guys that circle dying companies, swoop in for the kill, and then “restructure” them. And by “restructure,” I mean we s***h half the staff, sell off all the assets, and squeeze every drop of profit out of it. It’s about as feel-good as it sounds.

But lately, it’s like McLaren’s got a rocket shoved up his muscular ass. I’m half convinced the man discovered he’s got six months to live, the way he’s been acting like a possessed madman. This level of frenzy is unprecedented, even for him.

I keep a lid on my growing frustration with a well-practiced poker face. “Believe me, we’re going after the talent we need. Our selection process is extremely thorough, designed to identify and attract top talent. However, wooing these exceptional candidates takes time.”

I’ve learned the hard way not to show even a flicker of weakness in front of him—not after he verbally annihilated the old Head of Marketing so thoroughly, the guy had to take a mental health sabbatical. Last I heard, he was off finding himself in the Himalayas, trying to piece together whatever fragments of his sanity McLaren left behind.

“Do you have any idea how much each of those empty seats is costing me?” Liam’s hand wraps around his pen like he’s trying to release his wrath on it. I’m half expecting ink to start gushing out.

“It’s not as black and white as that, sir.”

“It’s any color I say it is,” he growls. “I’m a numbers man. And right now, the numbers are painting a bleak picture. You’ve hemorrhaged through the budget, yet half those seats are still empty, mocking me. So lay it out for me. How do we course-correct this dire situation?”

“The caliber of talent we’re after is incredibly rare—the top one percent of an already elite group. Moreover, managing the . . . volatile personalities already on staff takes up significant resources,” I say, keeping my tone diplomatic yet pointed.

Ollie has the audacity to roll his eyes at me, like I’m gossiping about Sarah’s new boob job rather than addressing a critical issue.

I flash him my iciest smile. “Case in point—Brandon tried to hurl his chair through a window yesterday.”

Ollie laughs, the t**t. “Well, the window’s still intact, isn’t it? The guy just needed to let off some steam. We’ll get him a stress ball or something.” He smirks. “Brandon brought in fifty mil for the firm last year. If he wants to redecorate the office, I say let him.”

I resist the urge to introduce my palm to my forehead. Repeatedly. “I doubt our insurance provider feels the same. I really think we should consider withholding part of Brandon’s bonus until he shows he can behave.” I sound like a preschool teacher, which isn’t far off, except my students wear Armani and snort their allowance.

“Gemma, stick to recruitment, kiddo,” Ollie says, his tone dripping with infuriating condescension.

“Employee conduct is absolutely HR’s domain,” I snap. The cheek.

I feel a glimmer of relief when McLaren shoots his i***t manager a scathing look. “Last I checked, we’re running a private equity firm, not a goddamn circus.”

Ollie’s face sours, clearly not thrilled about being reprimanded in front of the lowly HR manager. “Of course, boss.”

“Anything else?” McLaren lifts a brow at him. A brow I know all too well, one that silently conveys f**k off, now.

“No, boss.” Ollie slinks out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him.

As much as I’m not an Ollie fan, I can’t ignore the way my pulse kicks into overdrive the moment it’s just me and McLaren.

Alone.

The temperature in the room seems to heat ten degrees.

McLaren rubs his jaw, eyeing me. Seriously, the man’s bone structure is so ridiculously chiseled, I’m surprised he doesn’t slice his pillows in his sleep. “Okay. I’ll handle the Brandon situation myself. I’ll make sure he thinks twice before pulling another moronic stunt like that.”

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been asked to turn a blind eye to the appalling behavior of Ashbury Thornton’s “top talent.” Ollie not only tolerates it, he practically hands out gold stars. McLaren just takes them aside for a “chat.” It’s one of the things I hate most about this job—it completely undermines HR’s authority.

“With all due respect, sir, it’s not just Brandon,” I press on. “The work environment here is getting out of hand. Even by Ashbury Thornton’s . . . relaxed standards. When a grown man throws furniture and no one blinks, we’ve got a problem.”

He exhales sharply through his perfectly sculpted Roman nose. God spent extra time on that nose.

As with every meeting, I can’t shake the feeling that his next words could be “pack your s**t, you’re fired.” Maybe he’ll even go full Alan Sugar and point that long finger at me, like we’re on a twisted version of The Apprentice.

“All right. Compile a list of our most critical cultural issues, and I’ll step in and lay down the law. But you’d better have a bulletproof recruitment acceleration plan ready to present by the end of tomorrow. Whether it’s more money, more manpower, or sacrificing a man to the gods—I don’t care. Just make it happen.”

I nod, my face a perfect mask of professionalism. “Understood.”

“Good.” His sensual mouth twists into a displeased razor s***h. “One more thing. Push the all-staff meeting back to Friday. Something’s come up.”

I grit my teeth. He says it like he’s asking me to move a potted plant, not reorganize the schedule of hundreds of overworked, overpaid, and over- caffeinated finance maniacs.

Apparently my acting skills need some work, because McLaren’s eyebrow does that infuriating arch. “Problem, Gemma?”

“Not at all,” I reply coolly. “Consider it handled. I’ll send out updated calendar invites within the hour.”

Every night, I push myself to the brink trying to keep up with this job’s never-ending demands. And every morning, a fresh disaster awaits with my first slurp of coffee.

Yesterday morning, it was peeling a bawling intern off the bathroom floor, her mascara running down her face in black tears as she questioned every life choice that led her to Ashbury Thornton.

Then in the afternoon, I had to call security to pry a junior analyst off his desk after he face-planted, riding the fumes of a three-day coke bender in a tragic attempt to meet an impossible deadline.

And now, thanks to McLaren’s latest sadistic whim, I have to overhaul a massive meeting in twenty-four hours.

But I’ll get it done. I always do. Even if it kills me, which is a real possibility at this point.

“That’ll be all,” he dismisses me, already turning back to his screen.

Probably looking at his own devastatingly handsome reflection.

I plaster on a smile as I stand, like the good little soldier I am. Because that’s what you do when you’re playing with the big boys. You suck it up, squeeze into your power pantsuit, and find a way to make it happen.

“Have a productive day, sir,” I say sweetly.

You ungrateful, sadistic, heartless bastard, I mentally add, because some days cursing him out in the safety of my own head is the only thing that stops me firing my chair through the window.