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.
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 my actual work-tasks.
Not the future dream of becoming a novelist. No matter what Killian’s offering me, I don’t have 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 with irritation. It’s objectively good, but it’s missing something. It’s missing the creative spirit, the pain that 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—in three.
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 the right thing, the sensible thing. 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, but Annalise 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 even then, people with no connections have to wait years. 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.
“We only accept reservations, not walk-ins,” she says primly.
“I’m very happy to hear that, since I’m here to meet Killian King. I believe there’s a reservation for two in your system.” I smile, baring my teeth. “I’m number two.”
I can’t stand it when people look down on me, simply because I came from meager beginnings. Killian King did, as well, but I’ll bet he doesn’t get looked down upon by staff.
Then again, he’s a billionaire, and I’m pulling in just enough to live semi-comfortably in New York City.
“Right,” the hostess repeats doubtfully.
“Listen, this is a high-end establishment. Your off-brand dress and secondhand Jimmy Choos—not to mention that hideous bag—aren’t going to fool anyone.
Mr. King hasn’t yet arrived for his reservation, and I suggest you leave before he does, otherwise he’ll be very displeased to see some slut posing as his plus-one…
” she trails off at the same time that I hear footsteps behind me.
A dark sort of energy washes over me, raising goosebumps on my arms and legs. My hands begin to tremble.
Killian.
“Mr. King,” the hostess chirps, plastering a bright smile in place of her sneer. “We have your table—”
“You’re fired.” Killian’s words are punctuated by his hand, which lands possessively on my waist. I startle, nearly jumping out of my skin. “Get out.”
“W-what?” the hostess stutters.
“You’ve been relieved of your duties. You’re dismissed. You’re inadequate.” Killian pauses. “You insulted my date. Get the fuck out.”
The hostess blinks ten times in a row, an expression of abject horror overcoming her face. A thrill travels through my body at her terror, a feeling of pure power. I despise Killian King, yet hearing him fire a woman for insulting me is heady.
“B-but—”
“Would you like to be backlisted from every reputable establishment, as well?” Killian asks threateningly. “If you say another word, not even gentleman’s clubs will take you. Now, I am going to take my date to our table, and you are going to get the fuck out. Send the manager to me before you go.”
He uses his hold on my waist to steer me past the restaurant’s entrance. A mixture of fear and appreciation twists my chest and fogs my thoughts.
I’m being escorted through a fine restaurant by a man who viciously assaulted me two nights ago, and filmed the entire encounter for blackmail.
I’m being blackmailed by a man who just fired a woman for being rude to me.
What the hell am I supposed to make of that?
“I hope you didn’t give any credence to her words. You look beautiful.”
I swallow but can’t find it in myself to respond. I don’t want to thank him, because I wish he didn’t find me attractive. Then, I might not be stuck in this position. He might not have a sex tape that could ruin my life.
I still haven’t mustered the courage to look at Killian. But when he leads me to the very back of the dining hall and pulls open a curtain for me, revealing a private dining nook, I understand that I’ll have no choice.
The walls here are polished wood with a finely-carved banister. There’s a chandelier holding candles above us, and lights shining up from the floor. It’s intimate yet not claustrophobic, and the curtain lends the space a veneer of privacy.
From the way Killian’s staring at me, I’m inclined to believe the privacy will be put to excellent use.
Killian pulls out my seat for me, acting the part of a gentleman.
I swallow and sit, trying to keep my trembling to a minimum.
Being confined to close quarters with a man who can ruin me with a single message, a man I have to please, isn’t pleasant.
And if I disappoint or anger him, I’ll suffer unfathomable consequences.
Killian’s ass barely hits his seat before a knock comes beyond the curtain. The manager must be rapping his knuckles on a banister, asking for permission to come in.
I’m struck anew by the overwhelming force of Killian’s influence.
“Enter,” Killian says sharply.
A man wearing a tuxedo—the manager, presumably—pulls aside the velvet curtain and steps in.
“Madame, monsieur,” he greets pleasantly. “Mr. King. It is a pleasure to have you gracing our dining room once more. Would you care to hear our lunch menu?”
“Please,” Killian says with a nod.
“Wonderful. To begin, we have a lovely charcuterie board for your enjoyment, paired with fresh rosemary-olive focaccia. The next course is a delicious tuna tartar prepared from fresh-caught tuna flown in just this morning. After that, we will have a decadent fillet with a pepper reduction, and dessert will be an assortment of gelatos and sorbets, all in bite-size portions. Would you care to see our wine list, or is your preference to have the chef send a glass with each course?”
“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 of the 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.