Emperor of Corruption (Vicious Vendettas #1)

Chapter One

Lyra Stewart

I’m also positive that, were I to try to tell anyone about it, I’d be lauded as insane, because Killian King is good. His mask is almost perfect—just not perfect enough to fool me.

He took care in preparing for the interview today, which earned him automatic favor when I first entered his office.

A lot of C-suite men treat reporters like trash, but this one is as polite and poised as I could hope.

Killian greeted me with a kind smile, offered me refreshments and even food from the restaurant on the first floor of the building, then invited me to sit and start in my own time.

Killian is, objectively, a gorgeous man.

Thick black lashes frame hooded, vibrant green eyes that make me feel like I’m staring into the canopy of a rainforest hiding untold treasures.

He has a cleft chin and a stubborn, angular jawline.

His cheekbones are high, his lips are full, and his mane of short, stylish hair is so dark you can scarcely tell it’s auburn and not black.

His suit is crisp—Armani, I think. He wears silver cufflinks that are eye-catching without being overstated.

His white shirt is accented by a navy tie, and his suit jacket stretches over muscular biceps and broad shoulders.

He’s 35 years old, and manages to look like he’s barely scraping his late-twenties while pulling off the sophisticated, focused intensity of a silver fox.

The only thing that makes me question his sincerity are his eyes; eyes that haven’t smiled once, even when his lips have.

One thing is abundantly clear to me: the posh facade Killian wears can’t entirely hide the dark energy simmering from him.

Killian tilts his head to the side, a single dark eyebrow twitching, and I realize I’ve been staring at him for nearly a minute without asking him a single question.

He probably assumes I’m fawning over his charm and devastatingly attractive appearance like I’m sure the entire female population of the United States does—like the tabloids do nearly every week.

Killian is acknowledged as not just New York City’s most eligible bachelor, but one of the most eligible bachelors in the world.

Killian King is danger wrapped in charm and beauty. If I had the option, I’d ask my boss to reassign the article Empire Journal has been hired to write on him to a different Staff Writer, but I was specifically requested by Killian’s people… so I don’t think my endeavor would bear any fruit.

The only way I could get out of it is by telling Killian that this interview is making me suspicious of him, but I don’t think that’d be a safe course of action. I don’t want to know what Killian would do if he thought I might be a threat.

“Miss Stewart?” His voice is as smooth as bourbon and just as much a punch to the gut.

Crap, I’m still staring. I drop my eyes to the MacBook in my lap, scanning the notes I’ve taken so far, and the questions I have prepared.

“My apologies, Mr. King,” I say with a smile, meeting his unnerving eyes again. Something about this man raises the hairs on the back of my neck—an internal alarm that practically screeches danger! Keep away!

“No harm done. Please, in your own time.”

He says the right thing every time. All of the answers I’ve gotten from him have obviously been practiced and predetermined, but he doesn’t make them sound that way.

He’s thoughtful, doesn’t speak too quickly, and doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.

He’s at ease despite the billion-dollar corporation he manages, as if he has all the time in the world to speak with me…

though his secretary emphasized that I could have no more than an hour of his time.

Killian’s guard dog—a frighteningly large man who greeted me in the lobby, introducing himself as head of security—reiterated how precious his boss’s time is, and didn’t make any attempt to hide his disdain for me.

I imagine if I stay in here too long, the tattooed ex-marine will burst in and drag me out by my hair.

Something isn’t right here. I know it, and now there’s an investigative itch beneath my skin. The need to dig until I unearth the true story, not the small article I was selected to do that’s meant to paint Killian in the best light possible.

Don’t overreach, Lyra. Do your job and get out.

I clear my throat. “What sparked your interest in the pharmaceutical industry?” I ask, keeping my tone light and professional.

Killian reclines in his office chair, his lean yet muscled frame practically dwarfing the seat, and casts his gaze toward the window.

He looks so contemplative it almost makes me forget that I was asked to send all my questions to his secretary in advance.

Killian’s already read them, and considering his polished words, I’m sure he’s prepared each answer, yet he’s making this interview seem genuine. It’s yet another red flag.

“I suppose you could boil it down to the gross mismanagement I observed in my youth,” Killian finally says.

I type out that answer. “Would you mind expanding?”

“Not at all, thank you for asking.” So. Fucking.

Polite. “I was very close with my grandfather growing up, and my grandfather was severely ill. I came from a destitute family, so we couldn’t afford the extravagant cost of the medication that was required to help my grandfather live on.

I remember going to a pharmacy with him, and I remember how broken he seemed when he was told that he’d have to pay three hundred dollars for thirty prescription pills because our insurance wouldn’t cover the costs.

” Killian’s jaw clenches. This is a genuine point of pain for him—a hint of vulnerability beneath the sparkling facade of the charitable, fair CEO.

Or maybe that’s what he wants me to think…

but my gut tells me it’s real. The big, bad Killian King was once a starving boy who had to watch Grandpa die.

Fascinating.

“To make a very long story short, I watched my beloved grandfather—the man who raised me and taught me the values of honesty and honor—wither away and die. Later, I looked up the wholesale price of the medication he needed. A thousand of those pills are created for all of 10$. That puts the cost to the pharmaceutical company at one cent a pill. Accordingly, the thirty pills my grandfather tried to buy were worth thirty cents but were inflated by 30,000% to the consumer. I knew something had to change in the industry in order for there to be fewer little boys like me, so I resolved to change it.”

I finish typing up his answer, brows furrowing as I process the information.

If even an inch of this is true—something that I could find out with a bit of digging—then Killian did indeed have a noble calling to the pharmaceutical business.

I want to fact-check his words, but I know that’s not my job.

My boss was very clear that this should be a simple, straightforward article and should take me no more than 1 interview and 1 week to complete.

Stick to the job, Lyra, the voice of reason whispers.

If I’d stuck to the job last year, I wouldn’t have won a Pulitzer, another voice retorts.

“You have a very unique business model,” I manage to say, scanning the rest of my questions.

“You’re upfront with the public about the cost of creating every medication, and about the cost of covering every link in your supply chain.

From acquisition of raw materials, to factories and their workers, to the white-collar employees in your empire.

So, when you sell a medication for 50$ when it costs 10$ to make, nobody bemoans the issue.

” He seems like such a good guy on paper, and the urge to prove that he isn’t is quickly ballooning.

Stay in line, Lyra. Stay. In. Line.

“Is that a question?”

“A precursor to one. Your business model has cast a lot of exposure on your competitors, making the public realize just how corrupt the pharmaceutical industry is.”

“Still no question.”

“If you’ll allow me to continue, I may get to one,” I say sharply, locking gazes with Killian.

An icy shiver skitters up my spine. His smile has evaporated.

The hard, sharp panes of his face are set in a blank mask.

His green eyes, however… for the first time since I sat down, they’re finally glimmering with an emotion.

I can’t pinpoint what it is—curiosity? Disdain?

—but it’s something, and it unnerves me more than the previous dissociation between Killian’s curved lips and his blank eyes.

“Please,” he says, recovering with a smile. “Forgive me. Go on.”

“Are you ever concerned that your competitors may try to retaliate against you, considering your methods have vastly shifted the market landscape in the six years since you founded Helixon Biopharma?”

Again, Killian takes his time, mulling my question over. Or, at least pretending to.

“I am aware of the risks,” he says. “It’s why I have a team of personal security.” The latter is said in a humorous, dry tone, but I sense a goldmine beneath it. With anyone else, his quip would land as a joke, but I’ve investigated too many dirty people to take it at face-value.

Something is definitely going on beneath the surface of Killian’s public persona, and I am aching to figure it out. There’s a darkness that necessitates guard dogs who would doubtlessly tear off the heads of Killian’s rivals or enemies.

“Do you worry for your safety?” I ask softly, gazing at him.

Killian’s brows furrow. He blinks slowly, appraising me carefully. “That wasn’t on your list of questions.”

Aha. He has read my questions.

“No, but you’ve taken your time thinking each one over as if you didn’t have a pre-prepared response. I figured you wouldn’t mind a small addition so you could actually put all your thinking time to use.”

His jaw clenches as he realizes I’ve caught him in a deception. A surface-level one, but a deception nevertheless. I’ve gotten a glimpse beneath his facade, and now, I want to dig down to his core.

Killian’s smile doesn’t return. Instead, he watches me with a predator’s gaze, that strange emotion still swimming in his eyes.

I think it might be interest, and I am intimately aware that drawing the interest of Killian isn’t the best idea.

I’ve dealt with men like him—both in the course of my work life and outside of it— and they always either see me as an easy conquest or an insect they’d find pleasure in crushing.

“Do you have plans tonight?” Killian asks.

The question is a blow to my solar plexus. I expected him to grow irritated, maybe reveal a crack in his annoyingly composed mask, but asking about my plans?

Oh God, he’s not going to ask me on a date, is he? No. No way. He’s so far out of my league it’s comical, and that’s exactly how I prefer it. There’s something far too off-putting about Killian King for me to even consider him as anything other than an article.

An article I don’t want to write in a positive light without doing some thorough digging.

“I do,” I reply.

He nods. “Cancel them. I have a gala I’m hosting tonight—I’d like you to attend as an honored guest.”

What.

The.

Fuck?

What is he playing at? I go to a gala, I won’t be able to hold myself back from digging… surely Killian must suspect that. Or, maybe he thinks I’m a perfectly-trained puppet who dances on my boss’s strings, following her every order.

That’s not how I won a Pulitzer.

Still, it doesn’t take a genius to know that digging here might just not be a bad idea; it could be a deadly one. Messing with CEOs never ends well for lowly journalists.

“I don’t believe I’ll be able to cancel my plans on such short notice, but I’m honored by the invite,” I say politely.

Killian’s lips curve into something approximating a smile, and this time, it does reach his eyes… but they don’t shine with mirth. No, there’s something ugly buried in those green depths.

“Well, I’m ending this interview now. If you’d like to finish it and have enough content for the article you’ve been hired to write, you’ll join me tonight.”

My fingers curl into a fist. He’s trying to corner me, force me into doing something I don’t want to do. That coercion right there—I think I’m getting a glimpse of the real Killian King.

He’s not the philanthropic, reasonable angel he appears to be. And he’s deliberately offering me a glimpse beneath the veil… which means I’m in danger.

He has a security team to protect himself from any threats. What the hell do I have to protect myself from someone like this?

My options are to argue and anger him… or just give in and get what I can out of tonight.

I try to console myself with the idea that I might get to snoop around and perhaps find damning information on Killian King—something that I can bring to my boss along with a request to turn the article on Killian into an expose. Maybe I’ll even win another award.

Even as I have the thought, I understand the likelihood of that is low. I’d have to find something good. And I’d put myself at great risk while doing so.

I swallow. “You honor me with your request—”

“I don’t make requests. I give orders.” The mask is really coming down now. Something about me is triggering Killian. He stands and smooths down his tie. “I’ll see you tonight, Lyra. My secretary will send over details. It’s a black-tie event, so dress appropriately.”

The wooden door of his office opens. Killian’s guard dog, a bulky, horrifically large man fills up the entire doorway.

Does Killian have some sort of mind-control over his staff?

The guard showed up at exactly the right moment, twenty minutes before the interview should’ve been up, without being called.

I carefully stand from my seat, feeling more shaken than I have by an interview in a long time.

The power imbalance between Killian and me is frighteningly clear, and my only option is to get through tonight.

I’ll get the answers I need from him… and if the opportunity presents itself, dig around—but only if it seems safe. Which it probably won’t.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I respond affably.

Killian smiles, and the sight is soul-chilling. “I’m looking forward to it.”