In love with a billionaire

London, spring 1923. The sky above the British capital hung heavy, laden with gray-black clouds that seemed ready to burst since dawn. Sebastian Hooper , 32, a textile magnate and heir to a fortune built on the looms of northern England, sat in the back of his silver Rolls-Royce Ghost , a gleaming 1921 model painted a deep black. The impeccably polished windows reflected the Victorian buildings of Mayfair whizzing by, their blond stone facades gleaming in the dull light. Sebastian , dressed in a tailored charcoal gray three-piece suit, was idly leafing through a sheaf of documents—balance sheets from his Manchester factories. His fingers, adorned with a gold signet ring engraved with the family crest, drummed on the leather of the bench seat. He was preoccupied, but not by the impending rain. A meeting with American investors was scheduled for the next day, and he absolutely had to conclude a deal to expand his exports across the Atlantic. "Harold, faster," he snapped, without looking up from his numbers. Up front, Harold Grayson , his driver of five years, a stocky man in his forties with a face lined by years of toil, adjusted his woolen cap and pressed the accelerator. "Yes, Mr. Hooper ," he replied, his Cockney accent contrasting with his employer's refined tone. The Rolls-Royce roared softly, its tires biting into the wet cobblestones of Piccadilly. Harold glanced in the rearview mirror, noting the furrow across Sebastian 's forehead . "You seem tense, sir. Are those Americans giving you a hard time?" Sebastian raised his head, his piercing blue eyes briefly meeting Harold's in the mirror. "They want guarantees I can't give them without increasing production. And increasing production means more workers, more machines, more of everything. Always more." He ran a hand through his neatly combed-back brown hair, a stray strand falling over his forehead. "If I lose this contract, my mother will make me pay dearly." Harold chuckled softly, a raspy sound that made the steering wheel vibrate in his gloved hands. "Lady Margaret, eh? Still has your tie, doesn't she?" Sebastian smiled bitterly but didn't reply. His mother, Lady Margaret Hooper , a domineering widow and fierce guardian of the family honor, had an overwhelming influence on his life, even at 32. She saw him not as a son, but as an extension of the Hooper empire , a pawn to be manipulated to maintain their rank among London's elite. A low rumble echoed in the distance, and Harold frowned as he scanned the sky through the windshield. "It's going to be a heavy rainstorm, sir. We'd better get back before the streets become a wading pool." Sebastian shrugged, diving back into his numbers. "As long as we get to the hotel by eight o'clock, do what you want." The hotel in question, the Ritz, was where he was supposed to meet an associate for a strategic dinner. But no sooner had he said the words than a violent gust of wind shook the car, followed by a flash of lightning that tore across the sky like a blade. The rain came then, a brutal deluge that turned the streets into muddy torrents in seconds. "Good heavens!" Harold swore, struggling to maintain control as water splashed against the windows. Sebastian looked up in annoyance. "What's going on?" he asked, though the answer was obvious. The Rolls-Royce was still moving forward, but more slowly, the wipers struggling to clear the windshield. Harold gritted his teeth. "It's a wall of water, sir. We won't last long like this." Sebastian leaned forward, scanning the storm through the window. Passersby ran for cover, their umbrellas flipped in the wind, while the cab horses kicked nervously in the mud. Suddenly, there was a sharp click from under the hood, followed by a high-pitched whistle. The car slowed abruptly, then came to a stop in the middle of a now-deserted street. Harold slapped the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. "The engine! It's gone, sir!" Sebastian felt a wave of irritation rise within him. "Got it? This car's worth a fortune, Harold! How can it go wrong?" Harold hurried out into the rain, his coat already soaked, and lifted the hood. A plume of steam escaped, quickly dispersed by the wind. "It's the belt, sir. It's blown. It needs replacing, but not here, not in this downpour." Sebastian opened the door, ignoring Harold's protests. "Stay inside, sir, you'll ruin your suit!" the driver shouted, but Sebastian was already outside, the icy water seeping into his patent leather shoes. Within seconds, his immaculate suit was reduced to a soggy mass, clinging to him like a cold second skin. He cursed under his breath, his hair plastered to his forehead, and glared at Harold, who was futilely trying to shield the engine with his coat. "Fix this, and fast!" he ordered, his voice almost drowned out by the roar of the storm. Harold shook his head, water streaming down his face. "No way, sir. We'll have to wait until it calms down, or find a garage. We're stuck." Sebastian clenched his fists, his breath puffing in the humid air. "Stuck? In this... this giant puddle?" He scanned the street, searching for a solution. The Mayfair buildings had given way to more modest ones—they must have veered off toward the East End without him noticing. The luxury shops were long gone, replaced by crumbling facades and rickety shuttered windows. "Look over there!" Harold shouted, pointing at a flickering light about thirty meters away. Sebastian squinted, making out a sign barely visible in the rain: " Smith's Books." A bookstore, small and shabby at first glance, but a shelter. "Let's go," he said, already walking, his shoes sinking into the mud. Harold protested again. "And the car, sir? I can't leave it like this!" Sebastian turned around, soaked to the skin, and barked, "Then stay here and drown with her! I'll get somewhere dry." Harold muttered something incomprehensible—probably an insult—and reluctantly followed his boss, holding his coat over his head like a paltry shield. The two men trudged forward, struggling against the wind whipping their faces. Sebastian could feel water seeping everywhere—into his sleeves, his collar, his socks—and every step increased his irritation. “This is ridiculous,” he groaned. “A thunderstorm, a breakdown, and now I’m splashing around like a kid in a puddle. If my mother saw this, she’d have me locked up.” Harold snorted in spite of himself. "She'd rather have you drying off by the fire with a cup of tea, sir. But yeah, it's not your day." Sebastian glared at him, but another flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a crack of thunder that made them jump. "Hurry up," he ordered, speeding toward the bookstore. The door was in sight, an old, peeling wooden thing with a rusty bell hanging above it. Sebastian reached for the handle, his fingers numb from the cold, and breathed a sigh of anticipated relief. "If this place is as shabby inside as it is out, I'm going to go mad," he muttered to Harold, who just shrugged, water dripping from his cap. "As long as it's got a roof, sir, I'm fine with it." Sebastian grunted, turned the handle, and went inside, the bell jingling faintly behind him. Harold stood outside for a moment, shaking out his coat like a wet dog, before following. The storm continued to roar outside, but inside, a faint warmth and the smell of old paper greeted them—a stark contrast to the chaos they were leaving behind.