Something Like Hate: An Enemies-to-Lovers Billionaire Romance

by Harloe Rae

  Copyright © 2021 by Harloe Rae, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher listed above, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or purely coincidental.

  Editing: Infinite Well

  Cover Artist: Book Cover Kingdom

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model: Zakk

  Interior Design: Champagne Book Design

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  NOVELS BY HARLOE RAE

  DEDICATION

  PLAYLIST

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  WHAT TO READ NEXT

  MORE TITLES FROM HARLOE RAE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Reclusive Standalones

  Redefining Us

  Forget You Not

  #BitterSweetHeat Standalones

  Gent

  Miss

  Lass

  Silo Springs Standalones

  Breaker

  Keeper

  Loner

  Total Standalones

  Watch Me Follow

  Ask Me Why

  Left for Wild

  Leave Him Loved

  Something Like Hate

  To BB and Lacie for always graciously swooping in.

  And for the inner Vannah in all of us. Bring on the snark!

  “Consequences” by Camila Cabello

  “Lost Without You” by Freya Ridings

  “I Hate You, I Love You” by Gnash & Olivia O’Brien

  “Build a Bitch” by Bella Poarch

  “Only Love Can Hurt Like This” by Paloma Faith

  “Bad” by James Bay

  “When Was It Over?” by Sasha Sloan & Sam Hunt

  “Sabotage” by Bebe Rexha

  “My Ex’s Best Friend” by Machine Gun Kelly

  “Burning Fire” by Camino

  “Paradise” by Bazzi

  “Wrong Direction” Hailee Steinfeld

  “River” by Tom Gregory

  “The Difference” by Daya

  “Déjà vu” by Olivia Rodrigo

  “American Cliché” by Finneas

  “Missing Piece” by Vance Joy

  Listen on Spotify here!

  “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I’ve never been a good liar.”

  That’s his initial offense against me.

  Don’t worry—there’s plenty more where that came from.

  Landon Winters is colder than his last name suggests.

  Cruel and callous too.

  He’s a billionaire by his own making—not satisfied with simply inheriting a white collar and silver spoon.

  Landon’s arrogance is so thick I could choke on the stench alone.

  He’s also responsible for gouging a jaded chip to my shoulder.

  The only saving grace is never having to see him again.

  Wishful thinking is a fickle beast.

  My boss just announced that Landon is my latest client.

  I’ll need to impress him or kiss my promotion goodbye.

  Either way, this is my chance to get even.

  Revenge is all I see.

  The price for redemption is steep.

  Landon will pay a small fortune in humiliation.

  And I’ll walk away filthy rich in vindication.

  “All rise.”

  A chorus of creaks from the wooden pews responds to the pastor’s command as the guests stand in a fluid formation. The entire crowd turns toward the sealed barricade on the rear wall, bated breath stalling in our lungs. This is that precarious moment we’ve been on the literal edge of our seats for. Or on our aching feet, for those of us in the bridal party. In my case, I’m wobbling on the point of my stiletto in greedy anticipation.

  With a rusty groan, the doors open to reveal a beautiful vision in white. I practically melt into the altar at the sight. Elegant lace and silky satin sweeps down the aisle, following the trail of glittering rose pedals. My cousin is getting married—finally, many would say. But I’m the type that appreciates Ashlee’s patience.

  Her family almost wrote her off as a spinster at the ripe age of twenty-nine. Ashlee didn’t give in when her parents put on the pressure, though. She waited until the right groom came along. Based on her demure smile dipped in sordid intentions, I’d say she found her prince. And she’s not the only one ensnared in this whimsical cloud. Josh’s stare is the epitome of enraptured. I can feel the electricity pumping between them as the tether gets shorter with every measured step. How does a love of this caliber feel? They’re giving me a new standard to strive for, and I always meet my goals.

  A string quartet is playing the procession, coming to an end as Josh eagerly steals Ashlee from her father’s grip. He spared no expense for his only daughter. Renting the ritziest hotel downtown was expected. There are no less than four ice sculptures waiting for us in the ballroom. The band is local and famous, no doubt costing a small fortune. A catered meal from the most popular chef Minnesota has to offer. Pretty sure the cake has seven tiers. Just thinking about the final bill for this shindig makes me wince.

  I dap at my stingy eyes while the ceremony passes without a hitch. The happy couple seems to be pushing the service along faster than we rehearsed. Vows are exchanged and rings are slipped over knuckles by trembling fingers.

  There’s a distinct scoff when the bride and groom are pronounced husband and wife. I turn and whip a glare at the offender, invisible though he might be. The rude interruption was most definitely male. When only clapping and cheers ripple through the audience, I face my cousin and her Mr. Right once again. They’re wearing matching grins fit for this day. A kiss seals their union and everyone hoots in celebration. Ashlee and Josh link hands, floating across the aisle on newlywed bliss.

  After five beats of the recessional, I loop arms with the best man and follow in their wake. The booming applause chases us outside onto the manicured lawn. We’re all smiles during an hour of pictures. Bubbles and laughter skip through the air. Glee is reflecting from every facet. My jaw and cheeks ache, but I’ll never com
plain. This is a day to remember.

  Servers deliver brimming flutes of champagne to us as we stroll into the reception. I raise my glass, many mirroring me as we toast to the bride and groom.

  “Cheers,” I announce to anyone listening.

  Jeff chuckles beside me. “You’re totally catching the bouquet.”

  I bat my lashes at him as he escorts me to the head table. “That might be a waste, considering my single status.”

  The best man just shrugs. “Weddings are the perfect place to meet a special someone.”

  “Are you offering?” The question is in jest, since his very happy girlfriend is standing mere feet in front of us.

  “I might know a few of the guys roaming around without dates.”

  Consider my interest officially piqued. “Do tell.”

  Jeff points them out with subtle nods as dinner is served. I recognize most from the coed stag party Ashlee and Josh hosted a few weeks ago. My gaze returns to one in particular, but I can’t recall his name. He’s memorable as the only man who didn’t participate during Stick the Dick on the Prick. That game is hilarious, but he apparently doesn’t enjoy dirty humor. He was silent and broody while the rest of us cackled—very similar to now, in fact. I had felt a slice of disappointment from his withdrawn attitude. A single glance was enough to feed my fantasies for days so I’ve been stuck fantasizing about what a touch could do. Maybe he’ll give me the chance to slap more than a cartoon penis decal on him tonight. I’d even consider fetching a blindfold and let him spin me around—if he’s so inclined.

  During my maid of honor speech, I’m splitting attention between the giddy sweethearts and this surly gent. I find myself wondering what’s behind his grumpy demeanor. Maybe that’s why I seem to be declaring poetic affections directly to him. That’s all perception, of course. No one else will assume I’m gauging interest while relaying tales of Ashlee and Josh.

  I’m not shy by any stretch of the imagination. Being a bold modern woman, I’m more than capable of making the first move. Many men find it intimidating that I take pride in my confidence, but the one meant for me will not. I’m ready to see if this guy is a contender.

  His dark gaze tracks my slinky approach. I add more sway to my hips under his intense focus. While I erase the distance separating us, my eyes have a feast of their own. His hair is a dark shade of blond, styled in that effortless way I want to tousle with my fingers. A slight shadow coats his jaw in stubble. Just enough to elicit a burn against sensitive flesh. Flammable tingles stir in my lower belly. All I need is a fuse to go off like a rocket. Yes, please. Is it too early to ask for seconds?

  I shamelessly prop myself against the wall he’s leaning on. With a quirked brow, I glance at his drink. Bourbon, maybe? The sophisticated choice wouldn’t be a surprise. He smells like money. The ancient type that’s seared into his DNA. He wasn’t just born with a silver spoon in his mouth—it was already there before his parents had sex. An entitled kind of stench seeps from his pores. Luxury and privilege drape over his casual pose, fitting even better than his custom-tailored suit. He reeks of expensive liquor, fast cars, and bad decisions.

  And I’m hooked on it.

  He remains unmoving and imposing, much like a concrete pillar. Perhaps his emotions resemble a similar structure. Breaking this thick ice between us is also my responsibility, apparently, as he continues to wear a mask of indifference. The sneaking suspicion that he’s a bad choice begins whispering in my ear. I mentally swat at that pesky voice, refusing to surrender without a proper attempt.

  “Hey, handsome. I’m Vannah.” I offer him my hand to shake—or kiss, if he’s into that sort of thing.

  The ass sneers at my outstretched palm as if I’m poisonous. To a man like him, I just might be. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I’ve never been a good liar.”

  “Wow, okay.” I drop my arm. “That’s how it is?”

  His features return to a neutral state of disregard. “You interrupted me.”

  A glance over my shoulder lands on the packed dance floor. “Creeping on someone?”

  He snorts into his crystal tumbler. “Hardly.”

  “Care to fill me in?” I straighten from my come-hither position.

  “Just enjoying destruction in the making.”

  What an odd thing to say. “Vague much?”

  “That’s intentional.”

  It feels like my lashes are coated in concrete as I blink at him. “All right then.”

  Well, this is a bust. Pressure of my own making threatens to hunch my shoulders. Dignity rattles through my posture, keeping me poised and on guard. I almost startle when the silence ends between us.

  “So… Savannah.” His tone resembles a hiss. “How do you fit into this scenario?”

  I ignore his question, still mulling over his audacity and the urge to set sights on prospects with actual potential. Then I process what he else he said. Why does he assume that’s my full name? The fact that he’s correct boils my blood a bit hotter. “Everyone calls me Vannah.”

  “I’m not everyone,” he drawls.

  “No, you’re clearly not.” I wrinkle my nose and re-appraise him with a lazy perusal. Such a pity to discover his appearance is hiding an ugly spirit.

  He swirls the remaining alcohol in his glass. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “Do you actually care about my response?”

  “No.” His blunt retort should be expected at this point, but the bite still burns.

  I could walk away, as any logical woman would. But this is becoming a matter of stubborn nature and principle. Who has the bigger balls? Metaphorical or not, this guy isn’t getting the final word.

  With a haughty tilt of my chin, I stare him down and prepare for battle. “Ashlee is my cousin, but we might as well be sisters.”

  “How nice. I suppose that explains your dress,” he says with a curl of his upper lip.

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m a bridesmaid. The maid of honor, actually.”

  He grunts, polishing off the rest of his beverage. “What an idiotic tradition. This spectacle is all for show. Not to mention a horrific waste of money.”

  A storm cloud seems to be thundering above his head. I get a chill from that stony look. Not that I’d ever expose my reaction. On the outside, I appear calm and detached to a fault. That’s how I got the reputation as a snarky diva, defense mechanism or not. My resting bitch face could win a gold medal at the Olympics. This dickhead has nothing on me.

  I press my lips into a firm line to keep an expletive shower from pouring out. “Then why did you bother attending?”

  “Josh is an old friend. I felt the need to watch him go down in flames.” His wrist flicks in that dismissive way cocky men overuse.

  “How kind.”

  “I aim to please.”

  It’s my turn to huff. “Okay. Mr. Grey.”

  A furrow creases his harsh brow. “What?”

  No shock that the similar phrase and reference are lost on him, although it would be funny if he’d read the popular books. “Never mind. You don’t believe in the sanctity of marriage?”

  He shoves a fist into his trouser pocket. “Only if the arrangement financially benefits both parties and there’s a bulletproof prenup.”

  Bile churns in my stomach. I gulp to avoid chucking filet mignon over his loafers. “Like a business transaction?”

  He nods, the movement sharper than his sculpted jawline. “Precisely. A merger of sorts.”

  “Wow,” I stretch the word with feigned enthusiasm. “You’re a real piece of work.”

  “Thank you.” The douche tips an imaginary hat.

  “That wasn’t meant to be a compliment.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” The snarl pinching his features should look disturbing, but he’s just too damn hot.

  That doesn’t mean I have to accept his appeal. “You’re casting a real doom-and-gloom vibe on this momentous occasion. Maybe you could ease up on the theatrics.”


  “At least I don’t look like a dehydrated apricot.”

  I don’t need to glance at my dress to confirm that the orange clashes with my hair. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of confirming the obvious. All he gets is my glare, narrowing further on his stupidly handsome face. “Are you offering to buy me a drink? I’ll take a dry martini with extra olives.”

  “How predictable. The bar is right over there.” His shooing gesture is where I draw the line. There are only so many strikes I can handle before being mistaken for a pushover.

  I sashay backward. “Well, this conversation has been enlightening. I hope to never see you again.”

  His gaze devours my retreat. Whether in glee or disappointment, I’ll never know. “The sentiment is entirely mutual.”

  “Enjoy the party.”

  “I won’t.”

  All he gets in return is my middle finger waving goodbye.

  Realization strikes as I’m stomping off. The asshole never told me his name.

  “I’m cursed!”

  My pitiful wail is loud enough to catch more than a few stray stares from fellow patrons at Delish Dish. Melodic tweets from hovering birds replace the customary chirp of crickets in the silence that follows. I wave at the horde of gawkers and giggle when shame registers on their features. With matching frowns, they all return to eating brunch.

  Two of my best friends exchange strained glances at my confession. Presley rests a palm over mine on the table between us. “What’s wrong?”

  I have a forceful urge to bang my head on the plate in front of me right now. Why can’t I be satisfied with my lucrative career and generous assets? Maybe it’s because a happily ever after seems so damn unattainable. “I’m destined to be alone.”

  “Um, hello.” Clea wiggles her fingers at me. “Nice to meet you, Hissy Fit. My name is Chopped Liver.”

  I swipe at some stray hairs that are stuck in my eyelashes. “You know what I mean. Someone hexed me.”

  “That’s only further proving your dramatics on this subject.” She tosses in a wink for good measure.