Page 46 of Emperor of Corruption
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck, dampening my shirt. Killian’s review on my performance isn’t an act of kindness; it’s a reminder of his control over me. It’s a way for him to tell me that he can make or break my career with a few lines of text on a screen… or a video involving me, tied down—
“I’m so glad to hear that.” I manage to make my tone far more even than I did with Annalise. “That’s wonderful news.”
“It is,” Sarah agrees, nodding animatedly. “I knew you were the right woman for this gig. And to think, a week ago, you were asking for me to pass off the job to someone else.” Her chuckle is tense, and her eyes flash with warning.
Killian’s review might have helped me get back into her good graces, but she hasn’t forgotten my attempt at defiance.
I want to scream at her that Killian has assaulted me, drugged me, and generally treated me like his property. He’s crossed every line there is to cross. She didn’t put me with a good client, she put me with the man who’s threatening to destroy me. Even if he doesn’t kill me and doesn’t kill my career, he’ll kill me with trauma.
“It was my mistake. I was intimidated by a man of Mr. King’s caliber.” The lie rolls off my tongue with frightening ease.
“Well, seems like it’s all working out. Keep up the good work.” She flashes me another smile, this one seeming genuine.
I trudge my way to my office, sit at the desk, and power up the monitors. I stare at the computer screen blankly, trying to sort through my thoughts and emotions.
One of my favorite professors in college once told me that the best writing is done when emotions are high. That raw pain, fear, or anger are some of the best conduits to a fantastic story, whether it be for journalism or a novel.
I pull my personal laptop from my bag, open up a new document, and let my emotions spill onto a blank Microsoft Word page, watching as a strange, dark story begins to take shape.
Chapter Eighteen
I’m consumed by the story that begins to spill from my fingers and flow onto the page. I’ve never hit such a fluid, consistent creative flow; not even with short stories that I desperately wanted to turn into books but didn’t have time to.
Before I know it, it’s noon. My alarm for my lunch break goes off, and as I often do, I ignore it. My focus is entirely commandeered by the project in front of me.
One hundred words turn into one thousand, two thousand, and then five thousand. By the time I hit the seven-thousand word mark, it’s 4P.M. I pause, fingers aching from the rigorous typing, and briefly surface for air.
Thirty pages stare up at me from the Microsoft document. Thirty pages of my work, of my lifeblood.
I put away my laptop, and force myself to focus on myactualwork-tasks. Not the future dream of becoming a novelist. No matter what Killian’s offering me, Idon’thave the industry connections necessary for becoming an author, and I don’t think I have the luck or additional work time to turn this into a career. There are too many things going against me.
So, I glue my eyes to my screen, and I go over my tasks.
The articles from those working under me suddenly seem mundane and boring. My own work from last month makes my skin itch withirritation. It’s objectively good, but it’s missing something. It’s missing the creative spirit, thepainthat just drove me into writing 7,000 words in a few hours.
I do some line and copy edits. I bog myself down with the daily, menial tasks I’m in charge of… and when I finish, I realize only three hours have passed.
I did all of my work for the day—something that typically takes me around eight or nine hours—inthree.
It feels like I’ve unlocked a whole new side of myself that I never before had the ability to exercise. I’ve always done therightthing, thesensiblething. I’ve always conducted myself in the expected way.
Killian has traumatized me beyond belief… and it’s opened up a part of myself I didn’t know existed. Through the pain, both emotional and physical, I’m finding strength. I’m finding the will to survive, endure, and overcome.
Sitting in my office chair, gazing out at a sea of empty cubicles beyond, I come to a decision.
I’m going to write the exposé on Killian. I’ll never publish it, but I’ll do it. I need the closure, and I need to know I did it, even if I can never share it.
And I’m going to finish the book that’s sitting in an unnamed document on my laptop.
At 1pm the next day, I walk up to Le Bronte, a beautiful French restaurant that serves equally stunning food. I’ve never been here, butAnnalise has, and she’s been insisting we set up a girls’ night here ever since.
Unfortunately, reservations are booked out six months in advance, and eventhen, people with no connections have to waityears. Anna and I have been on the waitlist for at least eight months.
The head chef is purportedly an undying Jane Eyre fan. He opened a string of restaurants in Europe, all of them received with massive success, before making the transition to America and opening Le Bronte. The architecture of the restaurant is reminiscent of Thornfield Hall, with wrought iron chandeliers holding up lights, stone walls, and dim lighting. The vestibule narrows into an oak archway banded in iron, and beyond it the dining hall opens with ribbed beams overhead, chandeliers casting an amber net of light across rough stone, and narrow antiqued mirrors doubling the candleflame. Velvet banquettes bracket bone-white tablecloths; a low hearth has birchwood stacked within. The air tastes of smoke and rosemary—it’s impossible not to respect the architecture.
Somehow, the restaurant manages to balance the gothic setting with something romantic—possibly stemming from the candelabras mounted on the walls, the flower arrangements on every table, and the flowery fine china patrons are eating from.
The hostess at the front of the restaurant greets me with a wrinkled nose and haughty stare. She runs her eyes over my clothing—a cocktail dress appropriate for such an establishment—my heels, and the purse slung over my shoulder, which has a stack of papers peeking out of it.
