The Velvet Rose

The Velvet Rose
There are many women who come to see Mr. Redington, but only one is the Velvet Rose.
Chapter 1
My name is Jeremy Redington, and I’m one of the best stockbrokers in the City of London. I work for NM Childroth Inc., the biggest firm in the Square Mile. Simply put, I know how to convince rich, entitled people to hand over their money. Once they sign on the dotted line, I collect my commission and head home, while they convince themselves it was a smart move.
By the time I turned thirty, I was pulling in £9 to £10 million a year. Safe to say, I know how to live the good life.
The real thrill of the job isn’t just the money — it’s getting my hands dirty to earn it. When you’re inside the right circles in the City, every door opens wide. Women, exclusive clubs, experiences most men only fantasise about… they all become available the moment you can move someone else’s millions in the right direction.
I’m now a member of clubs that most people don’t even know exist — ultra-private venues where the champagne never stops flowing, the girls are stunning, and the escorts cost more than most people’s yearly salary. My job is simple: get the client drunk, get him high, get him laid, and make him comfortable enough that blackmail feels almost unnecessary. Almost.
That’s why I’m the best at what I do.
Chapter 2
Before I became this rich, arrogant, womanising bastard, I was the complete opposite.
I was the middle child of four, raised in a working-class family in Charlton, south-east London. We lived in a council flat on the Cherry Orchard estate — back when it was still rough and far from gentrified. My brother and I shared a tiny bedroom while my mum did everything she could to hold the family together.
What I hated most was the constant reminder of the gap between rich and poor. Every evening on the bus home from college or a part-time job, I’d stare out the window at the glittering lights across the River Thames — Canary Wharf, the Barclays tower, the shining skyscrapers of the City. I’d press my forehead against the cold glass and make the same silent promise every single time:
One day, I’ll work there.
Chapter 3
Everything changed in my teenage years when my hormones kicked in.
Like most lads, I became obsessed with girls. The problem was I was a skinny mixed-race kid going up against muscular, gym-obsessed bad boys who seemed to pull whichever girl they wanted. I didn’t stand a chance.
Every time I thought a girl was interested in me, I’d hear the same soul-crushing lines:
“I love you like a brother.”
“I see you as a friend.”
“I like you… I just don’t love you.”
That was my love life — until I met her.
She was a 15-year-old secondary school student with the kind of body that drove teenage boys crazy. She was Black, Ghanaian, with smooth dark skin, a nice round bum, full C-cup breasts, oval eyes, a small round nose, and long braided black hair. But what I couldn’t resist was her smile — bright, confident, and dangerously sweet.
Her name was Abenna. I called her Abby.
Chapter 4
I met her on a hot summer afternoon while I was heading to the corner shop to grab drinks for my mates, who were too stoned to move.
She was standing in the same queue, wearing tight skinny jeans, yellow Timberland boots, and a cropped top that showed just enough cleavage to short-circuit my teenage brain. I could see the edge of her padded bra, but I made sure I didn’t stare… at least not obviously.
There was something about her I couldn’t ignore. My heart was hammering. Should I be funny? Smooth? Polite? In the end, my mouth moved before my brain could catch up.
“Want me to buy your bottle of water?”
You fucking idiot.
She turned, looked me up and down, and gave me that perfect smile.
“No, thank you,” she said softly, still smiling.
A smarter man would have kept his mouth shut right there.