I’ve made my fortune from liberation, but I’m far more comfortable with discretion.

I’ve built the pre-eminent sex club in London, but I don’t play there.

Not publicly, anyway. Not beyond its darkest corners.

I talk the talk, but I don’t walk the walk. Not like my male co-founders do.

Because I’m the immaculate one. The flawless, perfectly turned-out woman who’s cultivated her glacial facade so carefully she’s scared the slightest smear will ruin it.

I want to run a sex empire and be taken seriously in the old boys’ club that is the business world. I want to be the poster child, not the plaything.

So I stay polished. Tasteful. Beyond reproach.

Until Anton Wolff joins Alchemy. He’s the UK’s most charismatic billionaire, and he’s looking for a club that’s as discreet as it is debauched. As classy as it is carnal.

I think I’ve seen it all, until he shares what he desires from his Alchemy experience.

And what he desires, above all else, is me.

The pull is mutual.

The tension is unbearable.

And the risk that he unveils me, seduces me into abandoning any vestige of control, is very, very, real.

I think I’m afraid of the Big, Bad Wolff.