Chapter Two #2
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.
I shift to the side, and find myself level with a crisp white shirt and tasteful bowtie. My eyes rise a bit higher, and I come face to face with Killian King. Even in my four-inch heels, he’s significantly taller than me. Again, I’m struck by the severe power imbalance between us.
He’s bigger, stronger, older, and more powerful. Usually, that wouldn’t cow me. I’ve gone head to head with some high level individuals and come out on top—even won a prize off an expose on one of them—but right now, it does.
Killian offers me a kind smile that raises every single one of my alarm bells, because it’s perfectly polished but completely insincere. I don’t think anyone else would catch the insincerity, but it’s glaring to me.
“Lyra,” he says. I blink at his warm use of my first name. I was Miss Stewart earlier, but now, I’m Lyra? The fuck is going on here?
“Mr. King.”
“I’m glad you could make it, albeit quite a while past what might be considered fashionably late.”
I lift a shoulder in a careless shrug. “I didn’t want to take more than a bit of your time. I don’t expect my last few questions will take long.”
“Nonsense. The gala is made brighter by your presence.”
Charming, charismatic, and oh-so-dangerous.
“Would you happen to have a moment to wrap up a few questions? I’d like to get a start on the article.”
“What’s the rush?” Killian asks pleasantly. “You only just got here. Why don’t you network a bit? I’m sure it could help your meager prospects.”
Meager prospects? It’s a jab, but it’s said with such a warm tone, I almost struggle to pick up on the context.
“I’m quite happy with my prospects, thank you.” I barely refrain from adding, prick.
“In any case, I’m regrettably not available at this precise moment. I had twenty minutes set aside for you at the start of the gala, but since you weren’t here… I’ll get back to you soon.”
The bastard is holding my lateness over my head. I don’t believe for one moment that he’s set aside any time specifically for me, but he’s reminding me that he holds the strings here. I can either dance for him or get in trouble with my boss.
Once again, he’s offering me a peek beneath the exterior he presents to the world.
I’ve spoken with other reporters who have written about him and had interviews with him, and all of them praised how wonderful he was as a subject—forthcoming and earnest. Why is he showing me this side?
Is it really because I asked a single question out of turn, and pushed back just a little?
The bartender sets my drink down in front of me, tipping me a wink. I return it with a smile, and in the corner of my eye, I see Killan pin the bartender with a chilling glare.
“I’ll find you in a bit,” Killian says calmly.
“Do enjoy yourself in the interim. The editor-in-chief of the New York Times is here—I could introduce you later, if you’re interested.
” He cranes his head to look around the room.
I follow his gaze, eyes landing on the NYT big boss.
My heart speeds up at the prospect of an introduction—knowing him could do great things for my career.
“Ah, unfortunately he’s otherwise occupied, and I’d be loathe to disturb him,” Killian says, manufactured regret staining his tone. “You really should’ve come on time, Lyra.” Before I can respond, he floats away.
Mother. Fucker.
I down my drink in two gulps, turn to face the room, and do precisely what Killian invited; I network.
I may disdain the way he’s taking jabs at me, but this is a good opportunity nonetheless, and I refuse to waste it.
Had I known the caliber of people who would fill up this room, I would have come earlier.
My stubbornness cost me two precious hours I could’ve used to work.
Close to an hour passes as I speak to various men and women, and Killian constantly loiters in the background, throwing me long glances but refusing to approach.
The vodka soda I downed starts pressing on my bladder, as does the flute of champagne that came after it, so I leave the room in search of a bathroom.
After getting lost several times, I find one at the end of an abandoned hallway on the second floor…
but not before passing a door that’s slightly cracked open, showing a glimpse of an office.
Killian’s office. Killian’s personal office.
I may have stumbled on a goldmine. This feels somewhat like a sign from fate.
If I’m going to find something on Killian tonight, it’ll be in there.
The office is away from the public eye. On another floor.
I’m sure Killian wouldn’t leave anything horribly incriminating out in the open, but maybe I’ll find…
something in his drawers. Something I can bring to Sarah alongside a request to do an expose on the mighty Killian King.
She’ll probably say no, but God, I want to try. I have to try.
Killian’s dirty—I’m increasingly sure of it. Now, if I can prove it…
Bathroom first. Then, I’ll decide if it’s worth the risk.
Even as I do my business and wash my hands in the opulent bathroom, as I run through the cons—which range from me getting caught and escorted away to Killian blacklisting me or doing something equally horrific—I can’t deny the allure of that office. What could I find in there?
This is the core issue with being an investigative reporter. Once I scent blood in the water, there’s very little I won’t do to find the source. I know that, logically, I should walk away. That’s the only way I’ll keep myself safe, secure, and away from the likes of Killian King.
Even as I tiptoe up to the office, glancing up and down the hall to ensure I’m alone, I continue telling myself to walk away. Snooping might turn up something valuable, but at what cost? What consequences will I face if I get caught?
None if I don’t get caught.
I peek my head into the office, sweeping a gaze over the room to search for cameras. None. The coast is still clear; I don’t hear any footsteps up here. I could take a minute to rifle around his desk just a tiny bit…
I slip into the office. Mahogany wood panels are everywhere; the floors, walls, and hugging a stone fireplace.
Bookshelves decorate the back wall, filled with first-editions and academic journals.
There are no windows or side doors; no escape if I get caught, so I can’t let myself get caught.
I have to be quick, in and out in just a few minutes.
I take off my heels by the door to avoid making taps on the hardwood floor, and make a swift beeline to the desk.
The surface is empty of anything useful. The computer screen monitor is dead, and I don’t bother trying to break into it—no telling what alarms that’ll set off. Instead, I turn my attention to the hand-carved wooden drawers.
There are six of them total, and none are locked.
The odds of me finding anything valuable in them are low, but I can’t not try.
An expose on Killian King would be huge, both for my career and for my goal of speaking truth to power.
I might get fired by Empire Journal, but many other doors could open.
Even though I know I’m being reckless, I probably won’t find anything, and if I get caught, I’ll be in serious shit, I start rifling.
The first drawer houses a carton of pens, paperclips, and a neat stack of printer paper. Useless.
I move onto the drawer below it, which is completely empty. One by one, I go through the drawers, finding nothing useful until the very last one… which has a collection of knickknacks strewn about.
The items in this drawer are carelessly tossed around, while the other drawers were all meticulously organized. There are figurines, old photos, fountain pens… this looks like a junk drawer. It’s mildly surprising that a man as composed as Killian would have a junk drawer.
A glint of gold catches my eye, coming from something sandwiched between other items. I reach in and pull it out, brows furrowing when I see it’s a golden ring.
Not just any ring—a signet ring with an eye chiseled into the flat center of it. Something nags at my memory, some form of vague recognition, and then it hits me.
Silas Cornell was twisting a very similar ring around his thumb in the ballroom.
I was surprised to see Silas and Killian speaking with each other so casually, because they’re not friends by any stretch of the imagination.
They’re direct rivals and competitors, and the public views them as enemies.
I don’t have any proof that their rings are identical, but I have a small hunch.
The plot thickens. Not only is there a story about Killian here, there’s one that reaches deeper. I know in my soul that if I keep digging, I’ll find something big—
“I do believe this area is off limits, Lyra.”
My heart stutters, trips over itself, then drops down to my feet.
My stomach sinks.
My skin chills, and my chest freezes over.
I drop the ring into the drawer, slam it shut, and look up, dreading to see what I’ll find.
Killian King stands in the doorway. His stance is casual—except for his arms, which are crossed over his chest. His expression is blank. One foot is folded across the other as he leans against the doorjamb.
And I understand with a startling, horrifying clarity that I’m utterly fucked.