Page 28 of Emperor of Corruption
A brief image flashes through my thoughts.Shallow breaths, raggedy coughs, quiet cries in the night that tore my soul apart, because I couldn’t help her…
I shake my head to rid myself of the memory and get out of the car, heels clicking angrily along the pavement as I storm up to theapartment building. An elderly doorman smiles kindly at me, though his smile wavers at the sight of Locke behind me.
“Mr. King said to send her right up,” Locke says.
The doorman nods. “Of course.”
The elevator ride is mere seconds long despite Killian residing on the twenty-ninth floor, thepenthouse. He lives a life of pomp and glamour, and literally has the pleasure of looking down on normal people.
I never wanted to be unable to afford medicine or groceries, and so I became a billionaire.His words from Saturday float across my mind as the elevator lets out directly into Killian’s apartment. The entryway wall has aPicassoon it—anoriginalPicasso. As much as I despise Killian, I can’t help but grudgingly admire him. He’s a self-made man through and through, and his accomplishments arestunning.
“Lyra. I’m so glad you could join me.” Killian appears at the mouth of a hallway. He’s wearing a dark suit with a black tie, expertly tailored to fit him like a glove. His hair is well-styled, his cufflinks are pristine—everything about him is polished to a shine and perfectly calculated.
“I can’t return the sentiment, Mr. King. Know that I am here unwillingly and I’d like to leave.”
“Noted,” he says absently. His eyes run down the length of my dress, glimmering with appreciation and desire. I really do look like a human sacrifice sent here purely to please him.
I hate it. I hate him. I hate the sum total of my life right now.
“Please, come with me.” He offers me his arm. My instinct is to ignore it, but Ireallycan’t take another punishment. I have to play ball and try to escape this unscathed.
I take his arm. The bastard smiles as he leads me deeper into his apartment—acave,really. A cave of my demise. I already know thattonight won’t end well for me, and if I want to spare myself pain, I’ll have to play ball with whatever Killian wants.
If my ass wasn’t bruised, I’d choose pain. I’ve recently discovered I have a high tolerance for it. But my tolerance isn’tthathigh.
We step into a dining room built to impress and intimidate. The table is a long slab of black wood, wide enough to make conversations difficult. Low-backed chairs in charcoal velvet line it, their brass feet catching the light like teeth.
The walls are paneled in dark walnut, satin-smooth, broken by tall niches of glass. Inside the alcoves are sculptures—a bronze spine arcing toward the ceiling, a shard of quartz trapped in a cage of gold. A single painting dominates the far wall, abstract and violent, thick strokes of crimson dragged through ash-gray. Above, a chandelier hangs like a frozen downpour—tiers of cut crystal suspended on blackened steel.
The long, polished wooden table is set for two at the head. China plates and glasses are artfully placed beside beautiful silverware and glassware. Everything about the space screams opulence, and as much as it sickens me, it also intrigues me. It doesn’t scream new money and obscene wealth, but rather old money—understated yet blatantly present wealth.
Killian King has taste. That surprises me, since his personality is a black hole ofdistastefulness.
He pulls my chair out for me as if he’s a gentleman. The seat has a velvet cushion, but even so, I can’t withhold a wince as I sink into it. Killian watches me with a slight smirk of pleasure. I want to snap at him to go fuck himself, but I bite my tongue.
Play ball, Lyra. Go along with it, eat quickly, and get the fuck out of here.
If only it were so easy.
As soon as Killian takes a seat at the head of the table, a group ofservantsfile in. Two men and one woman, all holding platters with appetizers or drinks. I’m wide-eyed and stunned into silence as a creamy soup is ladled into my soup bowl, my salad plate is filled, and wine is poured into my wineglass. I’ve eaten at high end restaurants before, but nothing likethis. I feel kind of like I’m in an episode ofDownton Abbey.
As soon as the servants leave, a man in achefuniform—topped off with the ridiculous hat—steps in.
“There will be four courses tonight,” he says pleasantly, staring at Killian. “Each will have their own wine pairing. For your first course, a fresh tossed Greek salad and a seasonal cream of corn soup with spiced sourdough croutons, paired with a lovely Sauvignon Blanc. The second course will be grilled salmon with a lemon-rosemary reduction and asparagus on the side paired with a glass of Albariño. Afterwards will be your main, filet mignon with a Cabernet Sauvignon, and finally, your dessert will be crème brûlée with a sweet Muscato.” The chef casts a brief, almost dismissive glance at me. “Any allergies?”
I shake my head mutely.
“Very good. Mr. King?”
I realize he’s waiting for Killian’s approval on the menu before proceeding. Killian nods, then turns to stare at me. I fix my gaze on the soup in front of me.
“Lovely. I hope you enjoy.” The chef turns and exits, leaving me alone with the beast in the room.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” Killian questions mildly, picking up his spoon and swirling it through the soup.
“Fine,” I say. Then, for good measure, I force out through gritted teeth, “yours?”
“Nowhere near as interesting as my Saturday was.” Killian rakes a gaze over me. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how beautiful you look.”
