The Billionaire's Filthy Forgiveness

2: I Hate You and I Hate That I Don’t Want You to Stop

~ Lilian ~

I’m standing in the middle of the executive conference room on the 47th floor. Everyone’s staring. Two guys from finance who look like they already hate me. And Edwin. He’s slouched at the head of the long black table like he owns the oxygen in here. Which he kind of does.

I clear my throat. “Okay. So. The subsidiary - your subsidiary, the one that used to be my dad’s company - is bleeding money. Bad. Like, thirty-seven percent down year-over-year, and the last three quarters have been straight trash. But it doesn’t have to stay that way.”

Someone snorts. Edwin doesn’t move. Just watches me with those cold gray eyes that make my stomach twist in two directions at once - anger and something lower, hotter, that I refuse to name right now.

I click to the first slide. Numbers. Graphs. Stuff I spent three all-nighters building. “We stop the bleeding in four steps. One - cut the dumb overhead. There are six regional offices doing the same job. Merge them into three. Saves almost two million a year. Two - fix the supply chain. You’re paying twenty-two percent over market because someone’s getting kickbacks. I have vendor quotes that prove it. Three - bring back the old brand promise. People still remember Shealy quality. Lean into that instead of pretending you’re some shiny tech-hybrid nobody asked for. Four - actually treat the workers like humans. Pay bonuses tied to output again. Morale is in the toilet. Fix it and productivity jumps fifteen percent minimum. I ran the math.”

I pause. Wait for questions. Silence. Then Edwin finally speaks, voice low and slow like he’s explaining something to a toddler.

“That’s adorable.”

My jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”

He leans forward, elbows on the table. “You think waving a PowerPoint and saying ‘be nice to people’ is going to fix six years of structural rot? Sweetheart, this isn’t a feel-good TED Talk. This is business. We bought a dying asset cheap. If it dies completely, we write it off and move on. Simple.”

Heat climbs up my neck. “You’re literally sitting on a goldmine you refuse to dig because it’s easier to let it rot than admit someone else had a better system before you showed up and gutted it.”

A few people shift in their seats. One woman - Katie from strategy - actually nods a tiny bit before catching herself and looking down.

Edwin’s mouth curves. Not a smile. More like he’s tasting how much he’s going to enjoy crushing me. “Optimism is a luxury, Lilian. One your father clearly couldn’t afford.”

Low blow. My vision narrows. “Don’t talk about my father like you knew him.”

“I didn’t need to. His balance sheets did the talking.”

I slam the clicker down. It cracks against the glass table. “You spread rumors about faulty products. You undercut every major bid. You scared off our best clients. That’s not business. That’s sabotage.”

The room goes graveyard quiet.

Edwin doesn’t blink. “Prove it.”

“I will.”

He stands. Slowly. Towering. “You have six weeks. Turn that dumpster fire around or I shut it down for good. And you...” he points one long finger at me “...go back to whatever idealistic hole you crawled out of.”

I hold his stare. “Deal.”

He walks out first. Everyone else scrambles after him like scared puppies. I stay behind, chest heaving, gathering my laptop. My hands are shaking so bad.

By eight p.m. I’m still in the building. Everyone else is gone. I’m in his office - technically not allowed after hours, but the door was unlocked and I’m past caring. I need the physical files on the subsidiary, not just the digital ones they let consultants see. I’m flipping through folders when the lights flick on.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, spinning around.

Edwin stands in the doorway, suit jacket gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie already loosened. He looks tired and pissed and unfairly hot.

“You’re still here,” he says. Flat.

“Obviously.”

He steps inside. Door clicks shut behind him. “You’re trespassing.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re digging.”

I lift my chin. “Maybe I am.”

He moves close to me.

“You think you can come in here, throw around, and I’ll just… what? Hand you the keys?” His voice drops. “You hate me.”

“You hate me more.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You have no idea.”

“Then why am I still employed?”

“Because you’re good at your job.” He says it like it hurts him to admit. “And because watching you try to fix something I already broke is… interesting.”

“You’re sick,” I say. Sharp.

“Maybe.” He reaches out, brushes a strand of hair off my cheek. His fingers linger. “But so are you. Standing here. In my office. After dark. After I just humiliated you in front of twenty people.”

My breath catches. “You didn’t humiliate me.”

“Didn’t I?”

I slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me unless you’re going to mean it.”

His eyes flash. Next second he’s got me backed against his desk, hips pinning mine, one hand wrapped around my throat - not choking, just holding. Firm. Possessive.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

My pulse hammers under his palm. “f**k you.”

“You already did that. Twice.” His mouth is an inch from mine. “Want a third?”

I should push him away. Instead my hands fist his shirt and yank him closer.

“Yes.”

He kisses me like he’s punishing both of us. Tongue. Anger. He growls, spins me around, bends me over the desk. Papers scatter. My skirt rides up. His belt clinks open.

“You’re so f*****g annoying,” he mutters against my ear as he shoves my panties to the side.

“Then stop f*****g me.”

“Make me.”

He thrusts in hard. Just thick, brutal heat filling me so fast. I cry out - half pain, half please-don’t-stop.

He doesn’t stop.

Each slam of his hips shoves the air out of my lungs. My palms slide on polished wood. His hand fists my hair, pulls my head back so he can growl right against my ear.

“You think you can save it? Save them? Save your dad’s ghost?” Thrust. “You can’t.” Thrust. “It’s mine now.” Thrust. “You’re mine now.”

“Shut up,” I gasp. “Just - f**k and make me come.”

He f***s me. Too much. Too good. My legs shake.

“You’re dripping all over my desk,” he says. “Such a filthy little optimist.”

I’m beyond words. Just moans. Whimpers. My whole body coils tight. He feels it - speeds up - grunts my name like a curse.

I shatter first. Hard. Loud. Back arching, thighs trembling, p***y clamping down on him like it never wants to let go. He buries deep, pulsing inside me with a low, broken groan.

Then reality crashes back.

He pulls out. Steps away. I hear his zipper. I push myself upright on shaky arms, yank my skirt down, wipe between my legs with trembling fingers. Wet. Sticky. His.

He’s already doing up his belt like nothing happened.

“That was a mistake,” he says. Same cold voice he used last time.

“Yeah. Keep telling yourself that,” I say.

He doesn’t look at me. “Get out.”

I grab my bag, furious at myself for caving again.

His cheap hands, that f*****g d**k - it hijacks my brain like it’s the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.

Never again.

I storm out.

I hate him.

I’m going to destroy him.

…Or maybe he’s already destroying me.

Fuck. That d**k.

I still want it. Bad.

Doesn’t matter.

I’m not done.

Revenge first.

Then maybe one more taste.