Page 48 of Emperor of Corruption
“I’m just fine without wine, thank you,” I say with a smile. My stomach still turns at the memory of what I did the last time I drank wine served by one of Killian’s people.
“Very good, miss. Mr. King?”
“We’ll speak with the sommelier for our selection,” Killian says, his tone soaked in dry amusement. “Please allow my date to inspect the bottle before we indulge. She’s had some… poor experiences with laced wine in the past, so she’s understandably nervous.”
A thousand rocks descend on my shoulders, sagging my posture and making me feel like Atlas—eternally cursed to carry the weight ofthe world. Only I’m carrying the weight of my own experiences, which feel heavier than the world itself.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” The manager—waiter?—appears appropriately horrified. “Yes, of course, you are most welcome to inspect the bottle in whatever manner you see fit. I will also have the waitstaff wipe down every glass in clear view of yourself.” He offers me a sympathetic smile. “Would that be sufficient for your comfort?”
I see Killian smirk in my peripheral. It makes my blood boil.
“Yes,” I say, failing to keep the tension from the word.
“Very good. The sommelier will be along shortly. I will stop by after the meal’s concluded to ensure your satisfaction. If you need anything in the interim, don’t hesitate to call.”
The manager bows—bows—and makes his exit.
I reach for my purse and pull the sheath of papers out from it. I set them on the table in front of Killian and fold my hands in my lap, waiting for his verdict. If he doesn’t like what I’ve written, I have no doubt there’ll be hell to pay. I don’tthinkhe’ll release the sex tape—it’s too good of leverage to waste on something small like this—but there are many other ways he can make me suffer.
Killian stares at me for several moments before casually reaching forward and flipping open the folder. He glances over the first page, picks up the stack, and frowns. “This is more than five thousand words.”
No shit. “It’s approximately 15k.” I wrote like a madwoman after I got home from work yesterday. When I was done writing, I went ahead and plotted out the entire book, worked up character sheets, and was up until 3am going over my plot structure and beats.
I barely got any sleep, but I expect that’ll become the new normal for the next two months. Perhaps for the rest of my life. Every time I close my eyes, I remember what it felt like to be bound, completelyhelpless, and hurt. I remember my body betraying me after Killian drugged me. I remember every horrible thing that has transpired since the moment I met him… and it keeps me awake at night. Itterrifiesme.
In the last two days, it’s also given me the sort of creative fuel I’ve never experienced before.
Killian picks up the first page and begins reading. Nerves flutter inside me like the wings of bumblebees, beating against my ribcage and setting my chest on fire. I breathe deeply through my nose, clasping my hands to hide their shaking.
The last person to read a work of fiction I wrote was a college professor. I’ve written creatively since, of course, but very rarely—and even more rarely have I written more than a thousand words before giving up on a project. Something’s always gotten in the way; usually, work. Now, I have nochoicebut to write, and the worst part is… I think it might’ve worked. The crushing weight descending on me from all sides of my world has created a pressure chamber within me that needs some sort of visceral release, and that release is coming in the form of a very dark manuscript.
T.S. Eliot said, ‘anxiety is the handmaiden of creativity’.I think I’m realizing there’s much more to that quote than what meets the eye.
Killian sets down one page and picks up another. Another knock comes on the banister; he calls for whoever it is to enter. The sommelier steps inside, carrying with him a leatherbound menu, presumably containing a wine list.
Killian doesn’t look up from the page in front of him. “What bottle would you recommend to complement the lunch menu?”
“I would suggest a combination of two bottles; one white for the first courses, and then a red for your entree.” I half-listen as thesommelier runs through his recommendations—most of my focus is taken up by Killian, who continues scanning pages as the sommelier speaks.
“We’ll go with your second recommended pairings. 375ml each. Have the servers open the bottles in full view of my date, and clean each wineglass.”
“Very good, sir.” The sommelier leaves.
Killian continues reading, not making a single comment or observation. I want to tell him to stop calling me his date, but he made it very clear that I’m to act as I would if I were being courted by a man I actually wanted. I can’t say a word against him without repercussions.
For the time being, I’m stuck in an extremely undesirable position… and within the box I’ve been locked in, there’s a strange sense of freedom. I have very clear constraints, ways I should and shouldn’t conduct myself, things I’ll have to endure… and things that’ll lend me fuel.
I’m going to finish the book that’s taking up half the space in my mind… and I’m going to dig as deep into Killian as I can and write an exposé on him.
I understand now that I can never release the truths I write about Killian, not without ending my own life. He’ll never know about the piece, but he doesn’tneedto know; onlyIneed to know. It’s the one way I can think of making my peace with the next two months—I’ll fuck Killian over privately, and the joke on him will never be shared with anyone.
More employees come and go. I watch carefully as a waiter washes out a wineglass, uncorks a bottle of white, and pours some for Killian. He doesn’t take his eyes off the page he’s scanning as he picks it up, tastes it, and nods.
The waiter pours both of our glasses, then leaves.
Killian continues reading. He makes no comment on the quality of my work; his expression doesn’t change. My knee begins to jitter from anxiety; he reaches over and places a palm on it. I instantly freeze.
His hand is warm—a strange trait for a cold-blooded predator. What’s more perverse is that his touch is somewhat… pleasant. My mind reels into a pit of a panic, but my body inadvertently relaxes, as if I’ve been drugged again.
