The Reluctant Billionaire

THE RELUCTANT BILLIONAIRE SARA MADDERSON Copyright © 2023 by Sara Madderson Cover model photography by Wander Aguiar All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum To everyone who’s ever drooled over the Diet Coke™ ad guys… This one’s for you. CONTENTS SOME BRITISH LINGO DECODED! 1. Lotta 2. Lotta 3. Aide 4. Lotta 5. Aide 6. Aide 7. Lotta 8. Aide 9. Lotta 10. Lotta 11. Aide 12. Lotta 13. Lotta 14. Lotta 15. Aide 16. Lotta 17. Lotta 18. Lotta 19. Aide 20. Lotta 21. Aide 22. Aide 23. Lotta 24. Lotta 25. Lotta 26. Lotta 27. Aide 28. Lotta 29. Aide 30. Lotta 31. Aide 32. Aide 33. Lotta 34. Aide 35. Aide 36. Lotta 37. Aide 38. Lotta 39. Lotta 40. Aide 41. Epilogue - Aide Acknowledgments SOME BRITISH LINGO DECODED! My North American ARC readers were flummoxed by some of the British terminology in this book, so the following may come in handy before you dive in… VEST: tank top or undershirt (Die Hard style). Key to understanding Aide’s physical charms. Lollipop man: crossing guard OBE: Order of the British empire. A title bestowed on an individual by the monarch for remarkable public / cultural / charitable services Keepy-uppies: keeping a football (soccer ball) airborne with your feet / lower legs / knees / head / chest / shoulders. You’ve probably seen them on Ted Lasso… NFI - Not F*cking Invited Bollocked / Bollocking - a telling-off (is that also a Britishism?!) or a stern talking to, not to be confused with bollocks (noun), which are testicles, or bollocks (adj) which means bullshit or bollox (noun) which means a jackass / douche / twat. Glad we’ve cleared that up! Handing over to Lotta… 1 LOTTA ‘A community centre?’ I hope the way I’ve repeated my brother’s words back to him conveys my intense distaste for the merest concept of a community centre. While I’m not entirely clear on what community centres actually are, or what purpose they serve beyond being, presumably, centres for their, um, communities, I know they’re not for me. He sighs. ‘Don’t start with your shit.’ ‘But why? It sounds grim.’ ‘Of course it’s fucking grim. That’s why they need our help. Fuck’s sake, Lotts.’ ‘Why do I have to be the one to do it? Why can’t we just write a cheque and send some of the guys down to help with the heavy lifting, or bulldozing, or whatever they need?’ He gives me his best don’t push me look. It’s pretty effective, actually. Gabriele Montefiore-Charlton is good at making people feel like dog shit under his Gucci loafers when they piss him off. ‘Optics,’ he grunts. He makes it sound like an unwilling concession, because he’s basically admitting that my smiling face is a far more valuable commodity for our company’s PR machine than his miserable one. But because my brother is a commercial shark and never one to unwillingly concede anything, I suspect he’s playing me. Appealing to my ego will net him the exact result he wants in this and every instance, and we both know it. Still, I’m made of the same stuff as my brother. Our arguments can be as strategic—and as endless—as chess matches when we’re both spoiling for a fight. Dad’s suggested many times that we should have been lawyers. ‘You’re the CEO,’ I counter lamely. I’m on the back foot here and clearly not at my best. ‘And I oversaw that thing at Tower Hamlets last month. I showed my face—’ ‘For one day.’ ‘I shook hands and tousled kids’ hair and gave a pep talk. Made myself seen. Philanthropy at our level is more than just writing a cheque. You know that, for God’s sake. If Dad and I can grin and bear it, you can definitely suck it up.’ He’s right. I do know that. As the children of a painfully introverted and usually reclusive software-engineer-turned-billionaire, Gabe and I are well versed in the importance of giving back. Luckily for our quiet, British father, he’s had a secret weapon all these years: Mamma, aka Chiara Montefiore-Charlton, his flamboyant and wildly sociable Italian wife who loves nothing more than throwing a party for any cause. Gabe’s as underwhelmed as Dad is by other people, though he lacks Dad’s good nature. I, on the other hand, definitely take after Mamma. It’s no surprise I’m the Chief Marketing Officer of my and my brother’s massive property development company, Venus Holdings, and even less of a surprise that I frequently find myself the face of the brand, too, even if he’s the commercial genius. I mean, I have a much prettier face than my brother does, so there’s that. But I understand all too well that my high profile comes with strings attached, and that those strings don’t just require me to cut ribbons and attend polo matches in head-to-toe couture. They require me to show up, to advocate for those less privileged than my family in a city with an endemic housing crisis, especially at the affordable end of the spectrum. Not only do I get it, but I truly believe in the importance of giving back. It’s been ingrained in me for my entire entitled life. I’m still not clear on how that ties in with this community centre, though. Or why I have to spend two weeks on this project. Nothing, and I mean nothing, pisses me off more than Gabe’s inference that my time is less valuable than his. It’s arrogant and sexist and flagrantly uncommercial, because my time is expensive. ‘You’re asking me to do a lot more than make myself be seen,’ I complain now. I’m not rolling over without a fight. ‘Two weeks isn’t a good use of my time.