Page 1 of Emperor of Corruption
Chapter One
Lyra Stewart
Ten minutes into my interview with one of the most powerful people in the world, I am 100% sure that the man sitting across from me is not the golden boy everyone assumes he is. I’m also 90% certain that he’s some variation of a sociopath or narcissist—or that he wears a mask so expertly, I’d be forgiven for assuming he’s somewhere on the anti-social spectrum.
I’m also positive that, were I to try to tell anyone about it, I’d be lauded as insane, because Killian King isgood.His mask is almost perfect—just not perfect enough to foolme.
He took care in preparing for the interview today, which earned him automatic favor when I first entered his office. A lot of C-suite men treat reporters like trash, but this one is as polite and poised as I could hope. Killian greeted me with a kind smile, offered me refreshments and evenfoodfrom the restaurant on the first floor of the building, then invited me to sit and start in my own time.
Killian is, objectively, a gorgeous man. Thick black lashes frame hooded, vibrant green eyes that make me feel like I’m staring into the canopy of a rainforest hiding untold treasures. He has a cleft chin and a stubborn, angular jawline. His cheekbones are high, his lips are full,and his mane of short, stylish hair is so dark you can scarcely tell it’s auburn and not black.
His suit is crisp—Armani, I think. He wears silver cufflinks that are eye-catching without being overstated. His white shirt is accented by a navy tie, and his suit jacket stretches over muscular biceps and broad shoulders. He’s 35 years old, and manages to look like he’s barely scraping his late-twenties while pulling off the sophisticated, focused intensity of a silver fox. The only thing that makes me question his sincerity are his eyes; eyes that haven’t smiled once, even when his lips have.
One thing is abundantly clear to me: the posh façade Killian wears can’t entirely hide the dark energy simmering from him.
Killian tilts his head to the side, a single dark eyebrow twitching, and I realize I’ve been staring at him for nearly a minute without asking him a single question. He probably assumes I’m fawning over his charm and devastatingly attractive appearance like I’m sure the entire female population of the United States does—like thetabloidsdo nearly every week. Killian is acknowledged as not just New York City’s most eligible bachelor, but one of the most eligible bachelors in theworld.
Killian King is danger wrapped in charm and beauty. If I had the option, I’d ask my boss to reassign the article Empire Journal has been hired to write on him to a different Staff Writer, but I wasspecificallyrequested by Killian’s people… so I don’t think my endeavor would bear any fruit.
The only way I could get out of it is by telling Killian that this interview is making me suspicious of him, but I don’t think that’d be a safe course of action. I don’twantto know what Killian would do if he thought I might be a threat.
“MissStewart?” His voice is as smooth as bourbon and just as much a punch to the gut.
Crap,I’m still staring. I drop my eyes to the MacBook in my lap, scanning the notes I’ve taken so far, and the questions I have prepared.
“My apologies, Mr. King,” I say with a smile, meeting his unnerving eyes again. Something about this man raises the hairs on the back of my neck—an internal alarm that practically screechesdanger! Keep away!
“No harm done. Please, in your own time.”
He says the right thing every time. All of the answers I’ve gotten from him have obviously been practiced and predetermined, but he doesn’t make themsoundthat way. He’s thoughtful, doesn’t speak too quickly, and doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. He’s at ease despite the billion-dollar corporation he manages, as if he has all the time in the world to speak with me… though his secretary emphasized that I could have no more than an hour of his time.
Killian’s guard dog—a frighteningly large man who greeted me in the lobby, introducing himself as head of security—reiterated how precious his boss’s time is, and didn’t make any attempt to hide his disdain for me. I imagine if I stay in here too long, the tattooed ex-marine will burst in and drag me out by my hair.
Something isn’t right here. I know it, and now there’s an investigative itch beneath my skin. The need to dig until I unearth thetruestory, not the small article I was selected to do that’s meant to paint Killian in the best light possible.
Don’t overreach, Lyra. Do your job and get out.
I clear my throat. “What sparked your interest in the pharmaceutical industry?” I ask, keeping my tone light and professional.
Killian reclines in his office chair, his lean yet muscled frame practically dwarfing the seat, and casts his gaze toward the window. He looks so contemplative it almost makes me forget that I was asked tosend all my questions to his secretary in advance. Killian’s already read them, and considering his polished words, I’m sure he’s prepared each answer, yet he’s making this interview seem genuine. It’s yetanotherred flag.
“I suppose you could boil it down to the gross mismanagement I observed in my youth,” Killian finally says.
I type out that answer. “Would you mind expanding?”
“Not at all, thank you for asking.”So. Fucking. Polite. “I was very close with my grandfather growing up, and my grandfather was severely ill. I came from a destitute family, so we couldn’t afford the extravagant cost of the medication that was required to help my grandfather live on. I remember going to a pharmacy with him, and I remember how broken he seemed when he was told that he’d have to pay three hundred dollars for thirty prescription pills because our insurance wouldn’t cover the costs.” Killian’s jaw clenches. This is a genuine point of pain for him—a hint of vulnerability beneath the sparkling façade of the charitable, fair CEO. Or maybe that’s what he wants me to think… but my gut tells me it’s real. The big, bad Killian King was once a starving boy who had to watch Grandpa die.
Fascinating.
“To make a very long story short, I watched my beloved grandfather—the man who raised me and taught me the values of honesty and honor—wither away and die. Later, I looked up the wholesale price of the medication he needed. A thousand of those pills are created for all of 10$. That puts the cost to the pharmaceutical company atone cent a pill. Accordingly, the thirty pills my grandfather tried to buy were worth thirty cents but were inflated by 30,000% to the consumer. I knew something had to change in the industry in order for there to be fewer little boys like me, so I resolved to change it.”
I finish typing up his answer, brows furrowing as I process the information. If even an inch of this is true—something that I could find out with a bit of digging—then Killian did indeed have a noble calling to the pharmaceutical business. Iwantto fact-check his words, but I know that’s not my job. My boss was very clear that this should be a simple, straightforward article and should take me no more than 1 interview and 1 week to complete.
Stick to the job, Lyra, the voice of reason whispers.
If I’d stuck to the job last year, I wouldn’t have won a Pulitzer, another voice retorts.
“You have a very unique business model,” I manage to say, scanning the rest of my questions. “You’re upfront with the public about the cost of creating every medication, and about the cost of covering every link in your supply chain. From acquisition of raw materials, to factories and their workers, to the white-collar employees in your empire. So, when you sell a medication for 50$ when it costs 10$ to make, nobody bemoans the issue.” He seems likesucha good guy on paper, and the urge to prove that he isn’t is quickly ballooning.
