Page 16 of Emperor of Corruption
What Idoknow is that I have my first scheduled interview with him tomorrow afternoon. It’s a Saturday, but I assume Killian works weekends as well as weekdays—just like I do.
I scan the itinerary sent over by his secretary, and it’s just as Sarah’s told me—2 interviews a week. What sheneglectedto mention is the clause that states the calendar is subject to change based on Killian’s whims. The last paragraph specifies that Killian can request to cut the interviews short, cancel the profile, or add interviews and events as he sees fit.
If he cancels, I’ll be in trouble with Sarah. If he adds, I’ll be in trouble,period. In any case, I will be walking on thin ice for the next two months of my life.
When the clock hits 8pm, I head downstairs to see Tommy. He hands over a brand-new iPhone and a shiny PC. When I ask if I can pay him for it, he grins and denies me, telling me he gets prototypes for free through a friend.
It’s only once I’m settled at home that I get a text from Annalise, a good friend and junior staff writer at the Empire Journal, asking if we’re still on for drinks tonight.
I’m not up for anything, so I text back that I’m feeling under the weather. Then, I take some melatonin and curl up in bed, praying to God that I won’t be in for another rape when I see Killian tomorrow.
The interview is set to take place at Killian’s office. I walk in with my bag slung over my shoulder, work laptop nestled inside, skin itching with anxiety and uncertainty. His secretary is seated at the desk outside of Killian’s office—apparently, that guy works weekends, as well. He gives me a distasteful up and down.
“Mr. King is ready for you,” he says. “In the future, I’d recommend you come dressed more professionally.”
I suppose my jeans and sweater aren’t what’s consideredappropriate. The last time I dressed well, it resulted in me being forciblyundressed. I’m not making the same mistake twice.
“I appreciate the advice,” I lie tonelessly. When I stop in front of Killian’s office, my breath catches. My body freezes as memories of what Killian did to me the night of the gala resurface, sinking their claws deep. Cold flashes over my body.
I’m walking into the lion’s den, where I’ll have no protection. No recourse. Where I’ll have to endure whatever might happen without complaint.
“Mr. King doesn’t appreciate having his time wasted—”
“And I don’t appreciate being rushed in my creative process,” I throw over my shoulder, cutting the secretary off.
A deep, throaty chuckle rumbles from behind the door. Killian’s close, and he’s listening in on my exchange with the man-child he employs. He’samusedat my expense.
Just endure, Lyra. Endure and get what you need.
I barely raise my fist to the wooden door before it swings open. Killian stands there, wearing a full suit and tie. There’s a pin in the center of his navy tie; a pin of amouse. A not-very-subtle reminder of how he sees me.
Killian looks down at me, lips curved with faint amusement. His eyes travel over my choice of clothing, and one of his eyebrows twitches, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he opens the door wider and motions for me to enter.
I feel like there are thousand-pound chains weighing down my body as I do. My heart races, sweat beads on the back of my neck, and there’s a fine tremble in my hands. Try as I might to suppress it, my body is firmly in flight mode.
I avoid Killian’s gaze by sweeping my eyes around the office. A wall of glass shows a stunning view of the New York City skyline. The room is large enough to fit ¾ of my apartment in it. The air is cool, with a slight scent of lemon cleaner floating around.
Killian’s desk is a black slab with a few monitors, pens, and a stack of papers aligned to the edge. One of the walls is comprised entirely of books. There’s a small sitting area near the door, with two grey couches facing each other, separated by a rug and coffee table.
“Lovely to see you again,” Killian says, closing the door behind us. My mind flits back to the last time he closed a door in an office of his. I assume I have some level of safety here since his secretary is just outside, but that’s far from guaranteed. “How was the rest of your week?” he queries pleasantly, as if we’re old friends.
I want to pick up the letter opener I spot on his desk and stab him in the neck. Instead, I say, “Why don’t we get straight to it? I know you’re a busy man.”
Killian’s polished shoes tap across the floor as he makes his way in front of me. He keeps a somewhat respectful distance between us—five feet—but even so, I can’t stop my breath from shuddering with anxiety. A tight coil of dread slithers through my veins.
“Iama busy man,” he says, nodding. He turns and leisurely walks to his desk, sinking into his office chair as if he has all the time in the world. I linger by the door, trying not to fidget, and trying to hide the sheer level of my fear from Killian. Considering the way his eyes glimmer with pleasure, I don’t think I succeed.
“And yet, no amount ofbusinesshas been able to get you off my mind.” Killian tilts his head to the side, considering me. “That’sextremelyunusual for me, Lyra. You made quite the impression.”
“That wasn’t my intention, Mr. King.”
His lips thin at my use of his surname, but he doesn’t comment. “Perhaps that’s why it worked,” he murmurs. “You don’t want anything from me. That makes you a novelty. You also see through me—another way you’re a novelty. Honestly,Miss Stewart, I don’t think I’ve quite met anyone like you.”
Lucky for you and for them, you fucking bastard. You’ll regret the day you met me—I’ll ensure it.
I keep my lips sealed against the many retorts achingto spill out.
“Should we get started?” I ask flatly. Maybe if I don’t engage, he’ll lose interest.
