Page 4 of Emperor of Corruption
“He’s…” I trail off, trying to find the right words that won’t raise Sarah’s alarms. I want to saydangerous.Devious.“Poised and charismatic,” is what ends up tumbling from my lips.
Sarah nods. “Be sure to include that in the article. I want it to be a good one, Lyra. Show me that I made a good decision promoting you so soon.”
Fuck.Now Ireallycan’t color outside the lines she’s given me. “You got it.”
“Good. Take a half day; make sure you look stunning at the gala. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Shit.
My apartment resides in a good part of the city, in a nice building with a doorman. It’s a modest one-bedroom that makes good use of its allotted square footage. The main area is an open plan; kitchen to the left, living room hugging the right wall, complete with a practical couch, small rug, and a narrow media console that holds more books than movies. The windows on the back wall face east and cast light over a small dining table.
The bedroom sits off a short hall, and it’s home to a bathroom and walk-in closet. My queen-sized bed is elevated from the floor and has drawers for storage, and the mattress is soft enough to make me weep. It’s shadowed by nightstands on either side, each sporting a notebook and collection of scattered pens, along with some pictures from my childhood.
I wouldn’t be able to afford the rent for this apartment without my recent promotion, which is what I keep reminding myself of as I dig through my closet, searching for an appropriate dress for the gala.
I want to prove to the world that Killian isn’t what he seems, but I don’t think I can do thatandkeep this apartment. If I went to Sarah with hard evidence that there’s something murky beneath Killian’s philanthropist-extraordinaire persona, shemightlet me change the tune of my article…might. But I’m aware that Killian runs in the same circles as several of the Empire Journal’s board members and investors.
Unless I find something big, it’s not worth the risk. Maybe it wouldn’t be worth the risk evenifI find something big.
I sigh and force myself to focus on my clothes. Tonight won’t be the first black-tie event I’ve attended for work, so I have a few dress options, but all of them are somewhat…revealing. They’re not scandalous or too much, but I bought them for the specific purpose of drawingjustenough attention to gain an audience with high-profile men wholike eye candy.
Tonight, I don’t want any attention. Not with how Killian already unnerves me. Not when I sense there’s something more to his powerplay of forcing me to attend the gala. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to run out and grab another suitable dress. I have to leave in an hour, which gives mejustenough time to get ready. I spent too long going over the notes of my earlier interview.
I select the least revealing dress, toss it on my beige bedspread, and pray that I won’t draw Killian’s gaze for more than a moment. I just need to get him to answer the rest of my questions, and then I’ll leave.
I only plan on heading to the gala for the last hour. That still doesn’t give me enough time to search out and buy an appropriate dress, but it’ll limit the time I spend in the lion’s den, and that’ll have to be enough.
It’s 9pm when I get to the gala. It takes place at one of Killian’s properties in the city—a mansion off Gracie Square. Killian’s house neighbors themayor’s mansion. It’s not hard to deduce that he’s infinitely more powerful than any mayor—mayor’s change, and the mayor’s mansion gets a new resident every couple of years. Killian, however, will go nowhere unless forced.
I bet I can force him. I could find something, follow the wild hunch I have—
No. I can’t think like that. It’ll get me in serious trouble.
The mansion is a limestone façade behind an ornate wrought-iron gate, with a courtyard that has a fountain whichscreamsmoney. Brasslanterns flank the front door; cameras are tucked where only paranoid people would look.
Inside the ajar door, the entryway sings with quiet power. Black and white marble floors idle underfoot, a dark wooden staircase sweeps upstairs in a clean curve, and oil portraits hang on the walls. The ballroom opens beyond the entryway—herringbone floors, mirrored panels climbing to a plaster ceiling engraved with gold. Crystal chandeliers cast light on the attendees and waitstaff. A band plays soft classical music off to one side.
The men and women in attendance are beautifully dressed. Tuxedoes, gowns, overstated cocktail dresses… being at this gala enables me to rub up against the top 1% of society. I recognize several people in the mingling crowds—there areforeign diplomats, models, and plenty of C-suite executives. I’ve been to similar events before, but never one like this.
If this is Killian’s way of warning me how well connected he is, it’s working. If I cross him, I cross half the people in this room.
My eyes narrow when I catch a glimpse of Killian, standing in a corner of the room not far from the orchestra, talking with Silas Cornell.
Silas Cornell is Killian’s greatest rival in the pharmaceutical industry. Why onearthwould the two of them be chatting? The exchange doesn’t appear tense or angry—it’s not quite amiable, but it’s almost…routine?
Silas is a handsome man, but his looks are edged with palpable cruelty. His brows are set in the frown he seems to be wearing in every photo taken of him, and his lips are curled into a studious sneer. His dark brown hair is slicked completely back, and his muddy eyes alternate between staring intently at Killian and sweeping a gaze around the room.
My eyes fall to Silas’s hands, where he’s twisting a signet ring around with his thumb. I zero in on the ring, but don’t get a good glimpse at it. A moment later, I feel the weight of a heavy gaze on me, and when I glance up, I see that Killian’s staring at me.
I feel like I’ve been caught doing something wrong, even though I haven’t. Killian doesn’t smile, doesn’t give any outward reaction, but he does rake a gaze down my dress. I turn away before I can see his reaction, making my way directly to the wooden bar wrapped around one of the walls.
“What’ll it be tonight?” the bartender asks. He’s fit, young, in his twenties, and boyishly handsome. If I weren’t working tonight, I might return the appreciative look he gives me.
“Vodka soda.”
“Coming right up.”
A cool hand lands on my shoulder, startling me so much I nearly jump out of my skin.
