And lucky me, Gemma Jones, as the head of HR at his company, I’ve got a front-row seat to the McLaren Show. Brooding intensity, perfectionist demands, and a glare that could stop your heart mid-beat. Every. Damn. Day.

I’ve spent years perfecting my professional mask. It’s the only way to survive in this cutthroat corporate shark tank. Never let them see you sweat. Or cry. Or show any human emotion, really.

But now, I’ve gone and committed the ultimate HR no-no: I’ve accidentally shared my diary with him. Yes, him. And when I say shared, I mean all of it. Every scathing thought about him and the company. Including some, ahem, personal musings that were never meant for public consumption. And certainly not for Liam’s piercing dark eyes.

And the look on his face?

Oh, I’ve seen Liam angry—I’ve watched him verbally eviscerate boardrooms and turn grown men into blubbering wrecks.
But this? This is pure, unfiltered fury that would make the devil himself cower.
God help me.