Page 55 of Emperor of Corruption
This necklace cost me half a million—Lyra sold it back to me for just over a hundred grand, and most of the money she made will go to taxes. Of course, she doesn’t knowI’mthe buyer, but I monitor her work computer. And her home laptop, and phone. Nothing she does flies under my radar… which begs the question of how she managed to meet with Rhea without me finding out.
A riddle for another day.
“Scorned lover?” he asks.
“Uninterested woman,” I murmur in response, closing the box. If she doesn’t like this necklace, I’ll get her another—just to make a point. If I want to gift her high fashion jewelry, she’ll accept it and wear it. She’ll learn to stop behaving like an ungrateful brat who gotsupremelylucky by catching my eye and more like a woman who deserves to be on my arm.
Rhys lets out a low whistle. “Since when do you chase after women?”
“I don’t.” Or, more accurately, Ihaven’tin quite some time. The chase with my flighty little journalist is better than all the foreplay in the world, though.
Rhys nods. “Carter sends his hello.”
Carter, Rhys’s boss and one of the most dangerous men in the city—alongside me—is an old friend. Though, friend might be too kind a word; more like reluctant ally. We don’t fuck with each other, because a war between us would be catastrophic on a global scale.
“Please send my hello in return.”
“Please don’t call me for errand-boy shit ever again,” Rhys says. “Work like this is insulting.”
“Spare me the sob story; you’ll be too busy rolling around in the cash I just gave you to muster much regret.”
“And you’ll be too busy fucking in and out of what must be platinum pussy to give a shit about how I feel,” Rhys says. “Enjoy.”
I plan to.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lyra
Ifinally make it out with Anna on Sunday night. I’m exhausted after yet another sleepless night, but I’ve also found another potential source on Killian, edited the first 15k of my book, and written another 7k. My completed tasks leave me with a sense of accomplishment, even if one of my tasks is putting my life on the line, and the other is chasing a dream that’ll never become a reality.
“Ugh,finally,” Anna says when we reach the head of the line. She’s wearing a gorgeous gold minidress and matching heels; her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and she put on smokey eyeshadow that accentuates her already stunning beauty. “God, I hate waiting with the rest of the pedestrians.”
We pay the fee to enter the ritzy club. Inside, the space is filled with smoked glass, brass trim, and velvet ropes that move like a tide. The ground floor is mostly for spectacle. A long black marble bar throws honeyed light over cut crystal, sitting across from a DJ booth perched above a dance floor that pulses like a heartbeat, with strobes casting silver through the crowd. Bottles flare, ice cracks, and the bass pounds in time with my heartbeat. The ceiling is low enough to trap bodyheat but high enough to move light, with a second-floor mezzanine for voyeurs. Bartenders work diligently, their movements like lightning as they pour, mix, and serve.
Anna and I weave our way through the throng and find a staircase leading up, passing the mezzanine before continuing to the third floor. Here, noise becomes manageable and the atmosphere shifts from hectic to something more reminiscent of a speakeasy. The floor is a ringed lounge with velvet banquettes, bottle service, and an array of alcoves sporting cushioned couches and comfortable arm chairs. Sound is dampened, and the windows frame a view of the hustle and bustle of late night NYC.
“In other news, Sarah’s been swarming me with a ton of busywork,” Anna tells me as we look for a free couch or booth. “I think she might hate me.”
“She might hate me right now, as well,” I respond.
Anna’s eyes narrow. “Since when? She adores you. She keeps promoting you, so obviously, you’re her favorite.” There’s no bitterness or resentment behind her words—she’s simply stating what she sees as facts.
“I pushed back when she put me on the Killian King profile,” I reply. “I don’t have the time for it—or Ididn’t. You’re probably getting some of the leftover busywork that would’ve otherwise fallen on my plate.” We find a booth to claim, and both sink into a buttery leather sofa.
“Well, I can’t be mad atyou, so I’ll just be mad at Sarah,” Anna chirps.
The music is quieter up here; we still have to raise our voices to be heard, but we don’t have to scream or shout, which is a welcome change.
“Why can’t you be mad at me?” I ask, amused.
“Because you’re my best friend. Best friends can’t stay mad at each other.”
“I think there are many people who would beg to differ.”
“Those people aren’t us.” Anna flashes me a brilliant, beaming smile that would make legions of men fall to their knees. Several males in our vicinity turn to openly ogle her, and I can’t blame them. I’m straight, and I sometimes can’t help but ogle her.
Under her dazzling looks lies an ocean’s worth of wit, intelligence, and sharpness. Most men make the mistake of deeming her a dumb blonde, and Anna’s managed to get some brilliant traction in the industry because of that.
