Page 27 of Emperor of Corruption
Making a scene would only negatively impactme.Yet again, I have no recourse, no option but to get in the car.
He must see the defeat on my face, because he walks to the limo and opens the door. “Please,” he says, motioning at the interior with his free hand.
I take one last long look up and down the city streets… then, I get in the car. Smooth, buttery leather dents under my weight as I slide down one of the long benches. A bottle of champagne rests in a small dip between seat cushions, along with a crystal glass. Locke closes the door behind me, and the interior lights up.
I wrap my arms around myself and glance around the luxurious limousine, eyes falling on a garment bag and box draped over theleather-bound long seat across from me. There’s my name written across the garment bag, but I ignore it.
I’m not putting anything else Killian gives me on. I’m just fine in my slacks and red button up—if Killian wanted me to look the part during dinner, he should’ve actually given me a choice.
Locke gets into the driver’s seat. I watch him through the lowered partition, and he adjusts the rearview mirror so our eyes can meet.
“Mr. King has asked for you to change into the dress,” he says. “He believes you’ll be more comfortable.”
Locke speaks as if I’ve elected to be here, when he just threatened to knock me out and take me by force if I didn’t go willingly.
“No, thank you,” I say tersely.
“Again, it’s not truly a request. Killian asked me to warn you of…consequences…should you refuse.” Locke stares hard at me for a few more moments, then raises the partition screen.
I want to scream in frustration.Punishmentlikely refers to some form of corporal punishment, and I can’t take any more after Saturday. I’ve barely begun healing from the vicious belting I got—using the bathroom is still painful, as is sitting, lying down, and evenstanding.
It’s either put on the dress or earn more pain, and I can’t take more pain—not right now.
I squeeze my eyes closed. Take a few deep breaths. Then, I reach across the aisle and snatch the garment bag. When I unzip it, I see a lovely silver dress that gleams in the light, made of a metallic fabric. It has spaghetti straps to hold up the shoulders, a slight v neckline, and a slit going up the thigh.
I can’t wear a bra with this dress—it’s too tight. My nipples are bound to poke out. At any other time, I might actually beexcitedby a dress like this; it’s Vera Wang, outside my budget, and absolutelygorgeous. But right now, I know that it’s less of a dress and more of something to wrap me in to make me the perfect little doll.
I hate the dress. I hate the limousine. I hate Killian, and I’m starting to hate myself.
Even so, I strip out of my work clothes and pull it on. Even though I can’t stand up straight or look in a mirror to examine it, I can tell that the dress is flattering and stunning. Killian must’ve somehow gotten my measurements and passed them on, because it fits me perfectly, as if it’s been tailored. The waist is tight, the skirt is tastefully flowing, and the slit isn’t scandalously high—it stops mid-thigh.
I open the accompanying box, and pull out a pair of three-inch matching Jimmy Choo heels. I have to grudgingly admit to myself that Killian has a good personal shopper. I pull them on, wincing at the stiff material. The heels won’t make for comfortable walking shoes, but I have to admit they’re very pretty. Besides, I don’t get the sense I’ll be walking much tonight. No, all of this is for Killian’s viewing pleasure—this getup doesn’t take my desires into account.
The limousine pulls to a stop just as I finish dressing. When I glance out the window, I see that it didn’t stop in front of a restaurant—rather a prestigious, upscaleapartmentbuilding.
No.Fuckno. A public restaurant is one thing; a private dinner with Killian in one of his properties isfarmore dangerous.
I’ll have no way out.
I’ll be trapped, the same way I was in his office.
Chapter Eleven
Ishrink back into my seat when Locke opens the door for me.
“This isn’t a restaurant,” I say, panic in my voice. “The texts I got were about a reservation at a steakhouse.”
Locke nods. “Yes, Mr. King assumed your failure to respond meant you would prefer a more private setting, so he arranged a chef to cook for you in his home.”
“I’m not going to his apartment. It isn’t safe.”
Locke arches a challenging eyebrow. “If you’d like to cause a fuss, I’ll inform Mr. King. I’m sure he’ll be willing to come down and retrieve you personally, but I don’t believe he’d be happy about it.”
No—fucking—choice. I either get out or I get punished.
My bitterness grows. I’m trapped in every way; when I don’t listen to Killian, he resorts to extremes. When I displease him, he hurts me. There is literally no winning for me.
Fury tightens my gut. I’ve been helpless many times in my life, but I thought those days were over.
