In love with a billionaire

011

London, spring 1923. A few days had passed since the storm that had driven textile magnate Sebastian Hooper to seek refuge in the dilapidated East End bookshop. Sitting in his plush Mayfair office, surrounded by mahogany-paneled walls and Persian rugs, he stared absently at a stack of accounting records, his fingers drumming on the polished wood of his imposing desk. The soft light of a Tiffany lamp cast colorful reflections on the documents, but his mind was elsewhere, lost in the memory of a clear voice, a spontaneous laugh, a piercing stare that had challenged him. Adeline Smith. The name played through his head like a haunting melody, refusing to fade despite his efforts to concentrate on his business.

Sebastian stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over his leather chair, and walked to the window overlooking Berkeley Square. The streets below were busy—cabs clattered over the cobblestones, passersby in bowler hats milled about under a light gray sky, and a gleaming Rolls-Royce waited outside the building, Harold Grayson at the wheel. But Sebastian saw none of that. He saw Smith's Books again, its rickety shelves, the flickering oil lamp, and above all, Adeline, sitting behind the counter, Jane Eyre in her hands, dismissing him with a firm politeness that had both irritated and captivated him. “We have nothing in common,” she had said, and yet the words had lit a spark inside him, an obsession he couldn't explain.

A quiet knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. "Come in," he called sharply, without turning around. The door opened, and Harold Grayson walked in, cap in hand, his coat still marked by the traces of the past storm. "Mr. Hooper," he began, his Cockney accent cutting through the refined air of the office, "I just wanted to tell you that the car is ready. You have this meeting with the Americans tomorrow, and I thought we could take a drive to check the tires—they took a beating in the rain the other day."

Sebastian half-turned, his blue eyes searching Harold with an intensity that made him take a step back. "The tires can wait," he replied, his voice low but firm. "I have other things on my mind." He ran a hand through his brown hair, impeccably styled that morning, and approached his desk, grabbing his overcoat from the back of his chair. "We're going to the East End. Now."

Harold raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "The East End? Again? What do you want to do there, sir? There are no factories to visit, no investors to impress..." He paused, then a wicked smile crossed his weathered face. "Oh, I see. It's the little bookseller, eh? She's caught your eye, hasn't she?" He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe with an amused look.

Sebastian glared at him, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Don't be ridiculous, Harold," he snarled, shuffling into his overcoat. "I just… need some books. For a project. Something on the textile industry, maybe. She's bound to have it in her stock." He grabbed his bowler hat off a shelf and placed it on his head, adjusting the brim precisely, as if to give himself some composure.

Harold burst into a raucous laugh, shaking his head. "Books on the textile industry? In this hovel full of dusty novels? Come now, sir, you're as bad a liar as a kid caught with his hand in the jam jar!" He came over, tapping his foot on the carpet teasingly. "Admit it, you want to see that Adeline Smith again. I saw it in your eyes the other night—you were like a dog sniffing out a scent!"

Sebastian stopped in his tracks, swiveling to face Harold, his gaze hard but shot through with a flicker of amusement he couldn't suppress. "You're insufferable, you know that?" he said, jabbing an accusing finger at his driver. "And if I want to see that bookseller again, what's that to you? I'm your boss, not your confidant. So take the keys and drive, instead of playing fortune teller." He accompanied his words with a smirk, masking the rising agitation at the thought of seeing Adeline again.

Harold sneered, grabbing the keys from the desk with an exaggerated bow. "Oh, I'll drive, sir, I'll drive! But I'm just saying it's not books you're looking for, it's a smile—or maybe another 'no' to set your mind straight!" He opened the door wide, letting Sebastian walk ahead, and followed, muttering, "Gotta say she's got guts, that girl. Not like those expensive chicks who chase you around."

Sebastian descended the building's marble staircase, his footsteps echoing in the silent lobby, Harold close behind him. Outside, the crisp spring air hit him, laden with the smell of wet cobblestones and coal. The Rolls-Royce waited, black and shiny, a symbol of his status that seemed almost out of place in this nascent quest. He climbed into the back, leaning back in the leather with feigned nonchalance, while Harold took his place behind the wheel and started the engine with a soft purr.

"So, what's the plan, sir?" Harold asked, glancing in the rearview mirror as he slid behind the wheel with a wicked grin. "You go in there, say you're looking for books, and then what? Make eyes at her until she says yes?" He turned into a busy street, dodging a cab with expert ease, and added, "Because if you ask me, she's not going to make it easy for you, that Adeline."

Sebastian crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the window where the opulent buildings of Mayfair passed by, gradually giving way to the narrower, darker streets of the East End. "I don't need your advice, Harold," he replied, his voice dry but tinged with a hint of amusement. "I know what I'm doing. She said no, all right, but I'm not a man to give up so easily. She's... different. And I want to understand why."

Harold whistled softly, impressed. "Different, eh? I mean, she wasn't sucking your thumbs the other night. A change from the ladies of Mayfair who fall into your arms the moment you take out your wallet!" He sneered, accelerating slightly as the car crossed a noisy intersection. "But be careful, sir, a girl like that has her pride. You're not going to buy her with your tickets or your fine suits."

Sebastian turned his head, staring at Harold in the rearview mirror with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. "And you know anything about women, perhaps?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. "Because I've never seen you do anything but drink pints and fix engines."

Harold burst out laughing, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "Oh, I'm no gentleman like you, sir, but I know people! And that Adeline, she's not one to be intimidated. It'll take more than books and excuses to change her mind." He slowed as the streets narrowed, the buildings more modest, a sign that they were approaching the East End.

Sebastian didn't answer, his gaze lost in the reflection of the windowpane. Harold was right, of course—Adeline wasn't a woman to be bought or charmed with artifice. But that was precisely what attracted him: her independence, her frankness, her fearless defiance. He saw her face again—her brown hair in a loose bun, her green eyes shining in the flickering light, her fleeting smile when he'd joked about the rain. She was a mystery, an enigma he wanted to solve, and this burgeoning obsession drove him to act, against all logic.

The Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the bookstore, its faded facade and grimy windows a stark contrast to the car's elegance. Sebastian adjusted his hat, checked his reflection in the rearview mirror—a rich, soaked man now presentable again—and opened the door. "Stay here," he ordered Harold, getting out with newfound confidence. "It won't be long."

Harold snorted, leaning back in the seat mockingly. "Not long, huh? How much do you want to bet she sends you away with a stack of books and another 'no'?" He honked his horn lightly, a teasing sound, as Sebastian moved towards the door.

Sebastian ignored the provocation, his heart beating faster than he cared to admit. The bell jingled as he entered, and the familiar smell of damp paper and oil hit him, bringing back the memory of Adeline. He was here, driven by an obsession he didn't yet understand, but was determined to explore.