Chapter Two
I’m still shaky when I get back to my workplace after a train ride, but the familiar comfort of Empire Journal offers me some sense of calm.
Although the Empire Journal is considered a boutique newspaper, specializing in digital articles, we still have impressive and well-funded headquarters.
There are several prize winners on our staff, and all of our editors are very well known and fantastic at their jobs.
The company isn’t perfect, but the salary’s good enough to sustain my life in an overpriced metropolitan city, I’m treated well by the staff and my bosses, and I enjoy the chaotic calm of our headquarters.
Our offices live thirty floors above the New York City streets, nestled right in the center of the corporate district.
The floor plan is open; low cubicles sit in ordered rows, each equipped with computer screens casting a soft blue light over mugs, notebooks, and employees.
Keyboards clack, phones vibrate, and the scents of coffee and fresh paper swirl through the air.
Junior and Senior Staff Writers, along with Editors, all have offices that hug the perimeter of the cubicles. Framed front pages hang along walls like medals, and awards glint in the kind of fluorescent light that flatters absolutely no one.
The headquarters themselves are a study in organized chaos, but my office is my safe haven, a place away from the insanity of the cubicles—a corner office I worked extremely hard to earn.
A wall of glass shows the city streets and avenues braided below.
The desk faces the door, with twin monitors sitting atop it.
A gray couch sits along the side wall, with bookshelves opposite it.
A lush carpet prevents any stability for high heels, so I kick mine off at the door, and pad over to my desk.
My eyes skim along a row of framed front pages on the wall between the couch and bookshelf, first-edition newspapers I had to pay a pretty penny to get.
There’s a frame for the moon landing, another for marriage equality, a war report that changed government policies, and my first front-page byline.
On my bookshelf, court transcripts and white-collar case studies share space with poetry books and dog-eared FOIA guides bristling with tabs.
I barely have time to set down my bag before my direct supervisor and Empire Journal’s Deputy Editor raps her knuckles on my wooden office door and slips inside.
Sarah Brown is in her forties, poised, elegant, and an absolute shark in the newsroom.
I respect and admire her—she’s half the reason I took a job here.
She’s not a friend, but she is a mentor figure of sorts.
She can also be very tetchy when people disobey her or push back, so I do my best to stay on her good side.
“I heard from King’s secretary,” she says, running her manicured fingers through her bright blonde hair. Her sharp, dark blue eyes rake over me, searching for something. “King wants you at his gala tonight.” An approving smile splits her lips while my stomach sinks.
Killian didn’t send the gala details to me, he sent them to my boss, which all but corners me into attending.
He’s giving more and more credence to my belief that something isn’t quite right with him.
He’s not who he wants the public to believe…
and I want to prove it, even though I don’t know if I’ll be able to.
Not when I’m meant to write a positive article on him, and certainly not when my gut tells me there’s something profoundly wrong with him.
“Good work,” Sarah says. “Enjoy the gala, but don’t forget, you’re working. I want the article on my desk by Monday.”
Monday. It’s Wednesday, so that gives me two workdays and the weekend to complete an article. If I stay in my lane and take Killian at face-value, that should be easy… but I don’t know if I can do that.
I’ll have to do it, though.
“You got it.” I try to keep the concern from my tone.
Sarah lingers in the doorway, telling me that she has more to say. Curiosity sparkles in her eyes, so I anticipate her next question before it comes.
“What’s he like?” she asks. “In person, I mean. There’s so much media on him, but few people have gotten to sit in a room with him.”
“He’s…” I trail off, trying to find the right words that won’t raise Sarah’s alarms. I want to say dangerous. 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 I really can’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 that and keep this apartment.
If I went to Sarah with hard evidence that there’s something murky beneath Killian’s philanthropist-extraordinaire persona, she might let 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 even if I 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 drawing just enough attention to gain an audience with high-profile men who like 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 me just enough 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 the mayor’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 facade behind an ornate wrought-iron gate, with a courtyard that has a fountain which screams money. Brass lanterns 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 are foreign 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 on earth would the two of them be chatting? The exchange doesn’t appear tense or angry—it’s not quite amiable, but it’s almost… routine?