Chapter Six
Lyra
Idon’t sleep when I get home—I can’t. I scrub my skin raw in the shower, trying to wash off the memory of Killian’s touch, and attempt to hold in my tears. He doesn’t deserve them. What I went through tonight was horrifying and traumatizing… but it also lights a fire inside me.
I will pin something on Killian. The article I publish about him next week won’t be the exposé I’m planning—I don’t think Sarah would sanction an exposé on Killian King—which means I’ll need to write that in my free time.
It also means I have to get the bullshit article praising Killian out of the way.
As nauseous as it makes me, I type up a draft of an article that paints Killian in a beautiful, completely false light.
I hate myself for each word I type, but knowing that I’ll be following this piece up with a profile on the true Killian King—the rapist lunatic who deserves to rot in hell—serves as a cold consolation.
It’s 4am by the time I’m done, and I’m not even a touch tired…
so I decide to begin preliminary research for the exposé.
The best starting point is analyzing Killian’s behavior at the gala tonight and searching for clues.
Think about anything I saw that could serve as hints for the darkness I’m certain lurks beneath Killian’s public affairs.
He was speaking to Silas Cornell, his greatest rival—and someone he’s fucked over with his business model—which is an excellent starting point.
I navigate to my favorite search engine on my laptop, one protected with layers of encryption and an ironclad VPN, and search up relationship between Killian King and Silas Cornell.
The internet paints them as rivals who tolerate each other for the sake of common decency, but try to screw each other over in various ways.
That might be true, but it doesn’t explain how… comfortable they looked, chatting at the gala. Silas’ only nervous tick was the way he twisted his signet ring around—
The ring. I didn’t get a close look at his signet ring, but Killian had one in his desk drawer. One that had an eye painted on it.
I search up signet ring with an eye next, and get a bunch of useless links to Etsy shops and jewelry stores. It’s only when I scroll through the fourth page of available results that I find something moderately interesting.
It’s a Reddit post—one dated from last week. It’s titled The Illuminati Is Real.
I nearly roll my eyes and disregard it. There are plenty of paranoid conspiracy theorists peddling ridiculous ideas, but as I go to scroll past, my eyes catch on the second line. Every industry leader is a part of it.
Killian is a leader in the pharmaceutical industry. My research on him also tells me he has controlling stakes in some oil drilling operations, and import/export businesses.
The post is probably bullshit, but something compels me to click on it anyways.
It details a complex conspiracy involving world and industry leaders—a few Presidents and Prime Ministers are listed, but also some well-known individuals. Moguls of luxury imports. Major real estate developers. The former CEO of the largest hedge fund in the world.
Killian isn’t listed, neither is Silas, but another thing catches my eyes; you can tell who they are by the symbols they wear.
Is the illuminati real? I highly doubt it.
Is it possible that a secret society comparable to it exists? It’s not only possible, it’s plausible.
This feels like a long shot, though. I write down the username of the person who made the post in my notebook, tuck it into my desk drawer, and decide to leave it for future contemplation. It’s probably nothing… but that investigative itch is back. My spidey senses are telling me to dig.
So that’s what I do. I digest every piece of media on Killian King and Silas Cornell that I can get my hands on. Nothing links them, but they’re both phenomenally powerful and well connected, and I make notes on anything that seems even moderately substantial.
I’ve scratched the surface of an intricate puzzle here—and I won’t stop until I’ve put the whole thing together.
By the time it’s actually morning, I’ve downed four cups of coffee, which is enough to give me the motivation to go into work. I could call in sick, I want to call in sick, but I can’t let Killian win. I can’t let him negatively impact my work life—he doesn’t deserve that power over me.
I still have to admit that I look like a zombie when I head into the office. I barely settle at my desk before my PA pokes her head into my office and relays that Sarah wants to see me. Probably to assign my next article.
I heave a sigh and drag my ass across the floor, over to Sarah’s much larger and better decorated office.
“Ah, there you are,” my boss says the moment she sees me. “Come on in. How was the gala last night?”
Memories of Killian forcing his cock down my throat and spanking me until I sobbed nearly make me flinch. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Sarah echoes. “That’s all?”
“Nothing notable happened.” A complete lie, but I can’t say anything else without risking my neck. “I knocked out the article on Killian after. It should be in your inbox.”
“Yes, that’s what I wanted to see you about.” Sarah gestures for me to take a seat in the armchair across from her, and I gracelessly plop down on it. “Killian’s secretary called me this morning, just after I was done reading your article—great work on that, by the way.”
My stomach sinks. The last time Killian’s secretary called for something, I was forced into an ordeal I never want to repeat. He let me go, though. Could he have changed his mind about ruining my life? Am I here to get fired and blacklisted, after all?
Before my mind can spiral down all the worst-case scenarios imaginable, Sarah says something that’s even more terrible than what my imagination could have conjured.
“Killian must’ve been terrifically impressed with you, because he requested that your article be turned into a full profile. Five-page spread in our December edition.”
A profile takes much more work than an article. Multiple interviews with the subject, lots of time spent in their vicinity. It goes much further in depth than what a mere article ever could, and is meant to highlight multiple parts of a subject’s life—personal, business, past.
No. I promised myself I’d never be in a room with that disgusting man again. No fucking way am I doing multiple interviews with him.
“I don’t think I’m the right candidate for that,” I manage to say, barely keeping the tremble from my voice.
Sarah frowns. “What do you mean? You’re perfectly positioned. He knows you, and he must like you—”
“I have a lot on my plate,” I say, my tone rising in pitch. “I really can’t take on a profile right now. Maybe Annalise could—”
“I’ll reassign your other projects.” Sarah’s tone has turned stony—she’s not pleased with my resistance.
“You’re still young, Lyra, and this could be a big deal for your career.
I’m not passing up the opportunity to have a sanctioned profile on the Killian King in The Empire Journal.
Do you have any idea how many editions we’d sell? ”
“Sarah, please,” I try again. “Please, assign it to someone else—”
“No.” She’s officially done with my shit. “Killian specifically requested you, and I’m not going to deny him. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ll remind you that I’m your boss, and I’m giving you an assignment.”
My hope that she’ll listen deflates. My ass starts to prickle and burn again, in memory of the disgusting, entitled way Killian handled my body. Like it was his to handle.
Sarah is unknowingly sending me into the lion’s den, and I can’t tell her the truth to make her reconsider. Even if I did, she might not reconsider.
“You’ll be interviewing with him twice a week for the next eight weeks,” Sarah says, pinning me with a warning glare. “His secretary mentioned some events Killian would like you to attend so you get a sense for his philanthropic spirit, hobbies, and lifestyle.”
Kill me now. I scarcely survived one evening with him, and I certainly didn’t leave intact. What he did to me is going to haunt me for the rest of my days. How the fuck will I make it through the next two months?
I force myself to nod. Smile. Thank Sarah for the opportunity before leaving her office.
I don’t go straight back to mine; first, I make a pit stop in the bathroom, where I throw up all the coffee I drank. The mere idea of being confined with Killian again is enough to make me sick. How the hell am I going to grapple with the real thing?
For the second night in a row, I don’t sleep, and the exhaustion begins weighing heavily on my limbs.
Instead, I go over the bullshit itinerary sent to me by Killian’s secretary. My vision starts to blur after a bit, but I persevere.
As much as despair is dragging me down, body and soul, I can see that there might be an opportunity here.
I’ll have consistent access to Killian. Opportunities to lightly question the people around him.
To start putting together the puzzle of who he really is, other than a man who ascribes no value to consent.
But that comes at the cost of spending time in the same room as the man who assaulted me and spanked me like an errant child.
Tonight, I’m not strong enough to withhold my tears. I let myself curl up in my bed, clutch a pillow, and sob. Sob for the dignity I’ve lost and for the dignity I know I’ll lose. Sob for what I went through, and the fact that I strongly suspect there will be a repeat experience.
Then, I shore myself up. Remind myself I’m more powerful than those around me assume. And promise myself that, for every horrible thing Killian might do to me, for the horrible things he does to other people, I’ll do him one worse.
I’m going to expose him, plain and simple. And he won’t see it coming until it’s too late.
I just hope that, by the end of this, there are still some pieces of me left.