Home > Submitting to the Billionaire

Submitting to the Billionaire
Author: Georgia Le Carre

Chapter One






Something Inside So Strong



Thump, thump, thump.

Fucking hell! Someone take my head out of the drum of this washing machine. The wash cycle continues as my cell phone vibrates against the surface of the bedside table. The sound is like a nail gun going crazy. I unglue my eyes.

My lofty, gilded ceiling comes into view.

I stretch out my arm, fumble around, locate the blasted thing, hold it over my face, and squint at it. The blue light from the screen blinds me. Screwing my eyes, I hit the green button and put it to my ear.

“Boss, I’ve been pushing the bell for some time, and didn't get a response. Are you okay?” Semyon’s alarmed, booming voice tips the washing machine into the spin cycle.

“What time is it?”

“After seven, Boss.”


“At night, Boss.”


I took four pills and decided to lie down for a few minutes, but I must have been more wiped out than I thought. I should have been at the club by seven.

“Bring the car around to the front in fifteen,” I instruct, pulling myself off the bed.

My shoes are haphazardly kicked in two different directions, but I’m still in my clothes. Rolling my shoulders, I make my way to the bathroom. I open my mirrored cabinet, and reach for a new box of tablets. Discarding the plastic wrapper, I go into the drawing room and head for the bar. It’s an antique, made from wood reclaimed from a Russian church.

Warning. Do not take more than

twelve tablets in any twenty-four

hour period.



Fuck that. I pop out eight pills into the palm of my hand. Grabbing a bottle of Grey Goose, I unscrew the top, and take a generous swig of neat vodka. Nice one.

Fortified by the best legal anesthetic available, I go swiftly to the bathroom. In ten minutes, I’m showered and dressed in a fine Saville Row black tailored suit.

I grab my phone and wallet, and glance in the hall mirror. No time to shave. Still the five o’clock shadow suits how I feel. I open the door, and cool autumn air fills my lungs.

“I’ve called ahead and informed Vanessa that you’re running late and to have dinner ready for 8:30, Boss” Semyon says, as he opens the rear door of the Maybach.

I nod my approval and slide into the limousine’s luxurious leather interior. The air is scented with expensive perfume, and over the smooth purring of the engine, classical music plays. Semyon closes the door for me, and climbs into the front passenger seat. Immediately, Zohar, my stone-faced driver sets off for the club. I let my body ease back into the seat. Shutting my eyes, I rest my throbbing head on the plush headrest.

Were it midweek I sure as hell would not have left the house, but it’s Friday. It’s the one night I never miss being at the club. It’s not the truth, but I tell everybody that it’s because Friday night is sucker’s night. It’s time the dreamers, the hopers and the scammers will all be along. They go because, of course, life is a complete fantasy-fucking-land.

In their tiny, greedy bird-brains they think they’re just gonna stroll into my club, and a few fun-filled hours later, hit the £100,000 Free Stake (which has the same lure of fresh blood for the Great White shark). Sure, the odd one does good, gets to hold it in sweaty palms … for a bit, but that’s when the big hook comes out to play.

It’s the glittering, sweet-smelling, dream ticket out of their miserable, pathetic lives: the irresistible £5,000,000 Free Stake. The idea? Put a hundred K in there that didn’t belong to you in the first place, and win five million. It fucking fries their brains. Even the most cautious, most level-headed gambler will forget that he walked through my front door, the man who never loses.

What does the man who never loses, rush to his club like a slave running to his master, on a Friday night for, you ask? Even when his head is fucking killing him?

Awww … look at you. All curious.

Stick around, cupcake, and maybe you’ll see me get it.



Chapter Two






Roman and Andrei, both over six foot five, retired Special Forces soldiers, and the most loyal and reliable of my security team, are already waiting outside the entrance of Zigurat. You’re thinking because I’m a Russian billionaire, it’s fancy and probably built in a pseudo pyramid style, aren’t you?


The location is discreet, and it’s sandwiched between some plain, gray offices on a deserted backstreet. There are no bright lights to announce its existence. In fact, the nicest thing you could say about the entrance is it’s nondescript. No cameras, or reporters hanging around. Exactly the way I like it. We neither advertise nor court any attention.

One has to be recommended by another member to enter, then there is a rigorous vetting process. Before a punter can step a foot through our door he must understand exactly what’s on offer inside … and the risks … of non-payment. This way there are no, well, let’s call it, misunderstandings.

Roman opens my door. I slide out, and stand on the sidewalk for an instant, while Roman and Semyon with military precision step into place on either side of me. Their cold, expressionless eyes dart around, alert and wary. Andrei, he’s always scowling, remains holding the front door open. I shoot my cuffs before heading for the door, my bodyguards closely shadowing me.

It sounds like too much?

Trust me, you can’t be too careful in my business. I have more enemies than friends. Come to think of it. I have no friends. They are all enemies in disguise.

It’s a different world inside the plain black door. Rich velvet curtains, glossy marble floors, chandeliers, and burnished gold fittings. It’s every nouveau riche oligarch’s wet dream. I walk through the splendor without seeing it. Anastasia, who mans the front desk, nods and smiles at me. She doesn’t expect me to smile back. I don’t.

I head upstairs to the first floor. Roman remains on my heels. He enjoys his job and takes his task of protecting me very seriously, which I am rather pleased about.

“Good evening, Mr. Smirnov,” a cocktail waitress, greets me on the landing. Her smile is wide and promises all kinds of things. She is tall, willowy, and very beautiful, quite honestly, catwalk material. She licks her lips. Ah, that age-old invitation.

She’s new, but she’ll learn soon enough. I don’t ever mix business with pleasure. As a matter of fact, I don’t mix anything with business. I haven’t had a girlfriend since I was seventeen. That’s twenty years ago.

In my world, everything has a price. If I want pussy, I don’t chase it around the room. That’s bullshit. I just pay for it. That way I get exactly what I want, when I want it. It’s worked real well so far.

“How many in the Blue Room?” I ask her.

“Six, Mr. Smirnov.”

“And next door?”

“Six as well.”


“Thank you, Mr. Smirnov.”

I look at my watch. Eight-thirty on the nail. I head downstairs and make my way to the purple room, where I normally dine, and where, very occasionally, the richest punters are invited to dine too, but never with me, obviously.

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