Chapter Seven
Istay late in the office, though no later than usual. I’m typically one of the first people in and last people out. Usually, Sarah comes to have a cup of tea with me and chat before leaving for the day, but she doesn’t today, probably because she’s still upset about me pushing back on the profile.
If she knew why I’m so reluctant to work with Killian, she might feel differently…
but telling her would put her in a terrible position.
If she took my side, she’d feel ethically required to take me off the piece and report this to management, but she knows better than I do that any report filed against Killian would affect us far more negatively than it would him.
My jaw tightens. While Sarah’s busy being bitchy, I’m looking out for her best interests. I try not to be too pissed about it. I try to tell myself that this is a golden opportunity I’ve been presented with—having access to Killian and all of his associates.
But I just can’t fucking stomach the thought of having to see him again. It’s beyond wrong; it’s horrifyingly immoral and wicked. The fact that he feels comfortable pulling a stunt like this after what he did to me the other night tells me all of my worries are entirely valid.
I know what I’m up against. I know that, odds are, I’m going to get retraumatized more times than I can count in the next eight weeks. Killian was insane enough to ask me to dinner after he forced me to suck his cock and spanked me—the regular rules of society and propriety don’t apply to him.
I’m not even sure if he sees what he did as wrong. Frankly, I don’t care. But not knowing exactly what I’m in for is what fucking kills me. He might never touch me again. This could just be a power play for him—a way to prove to me that he controls everything around him.
But there are plenty of ways he could prove that which don’t necessitate me spending time with him.
My skin itches, both at the prospect of exposing him for who he really is and at the knowledge that he’s probably going to assault me again, more than once.
The only thing I’ll be left with is a drive for vengeance and justice.
If he tries to break me, I’ll need to take all of my negative emotions, all my fear, anger, and anguish, and channel them into a furious desire to ruin him.
I know that is far easier said than done. I don’t know what state I’ll be in, mentally or physically, come December. I don’t even know if I’ll survive these eight weeks. He might have me killed.
What I do know is that I have my first scheduled interview with him tomorrow afternoon. It’s a Saturday, but I assume Killian works weekends as well as weekdays—just like I do.
I scan the itinerary sent over by his secretary, and it’s just as Sarah’s told me—2 interviews a week.
What she neglected to mention is the clause that states the calendar is subject to change based on Killian’s whims. The last paragraph specifies that Killian can request to cut the interviews short, cancel the profile, or add interviews and events as he sees fit.
If he cancels, I’ll be in trouble with Sarah. If he adds, I’ll be in trouble, period. In any case, I will be walking on thin ice for the next two months of my life.
When the clock hits 8pm, I head downstairs to see Tommy. He hands over a brand-new iPhone and a shiny PC. When I ask if I can pay him for it, he grins and denies me, telling me he gets prototypes for free through a friend.
It’s only once I’m settled at home that I get a text from Annalise, a good friend and junior staff writer at the Empire Journal, asking if we’re still on for drinks tonight.
I’m not up for anything, so I text back that I’m feeling under the weather. Then, I take some melatonin and curl up in bed, praying to God that I won’t be in for another rape when I see Killian tomorrow.
The interview is set to take place at Killian’s office.
I walk in with my bag slung over my shoulder, work laptop nestled inside, skin itching with anxiety and uncertainty.
His secretary is seated at the desk outside of Killian’s office—apparently, that guy works weekends, as well. He gives me a distasteful up and down.
“Mr. King is ready for you,” he says. “In the future, I’d recommend you come dressed more professionally.”
I suppose my jeans and sweater aren’t what’s considered appropriate. The last time I dressed well, it resulted in me being forcibly undressed. I’m not making the same mistake twice.
“I appreciate the advice,” I lie tonelessly. When I stop in front of Killian’s office, my breath catches. My body freezes as memories of what Killian did to me the night of the gala resurface, sinking their claws deep. Cold flashes over my body.
I’m walking into the lion’s den, where I’ll have no protection. No recourse. Where I’ll have to endure whatever might happen without complaint.
“Mr. King doesn’t appreciate having his time wasted—”
“And I don’t appreciate being rushed in my creative process,” I throw over my shoulder, cutting the secretary off.
A deep, throaty chuckle rumbles from behind the door. Killian’s close, and he’s listening in on my exchange with the man-child he employs. He’s amused at my expense.
Just endure, Lyra. Endure and get what you need.
I barely raise my fist to the wooden door before it swings open. Killian stands there, wearing a full suit and tie. There’s a pin in the center of his navy tie; a pin of a mouse. A not-very-subtle reminder of how he sees me.
Killian looks down at me, lips curved with faint amusement. His eyes travel over my choice of clothing, and one of his eyebrows twitches, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he opens the door wider and motions for me to enter.
I feel like there are thousand-pound chains weighing down my body as I do. My heart races, sweat beads on the back of my neck, and there’s a fine tremble in my hands. Try as I might to suppress it, my body is firmly in flight mode.
I avoid Killian’s gaze by sweeping my eyes around the office. A wall of glass shows a stunning view of the New York City skyline. The room is large enough to fit ? of my apartment in it. The air is cool, with a slight scent of lemon cleaner floating around.
Killian’s desk is a black slab with a few monitors, pens, and a stack of papers aligned to the edge. One of the walls is comprised entirely of books. There’s a small sitting area near the door, with two grey couches facing each other, separated by a rug and coffee table.
“Lovely to see you again,” Killian says, closing the door behind us.
My mind flits back to the last time he closed a door in an office of his.
I assume I have some level of safety here since his secretary is just outside, but that’s far from guaranteed.
“How was the rest of your week?” he queries pleasantly, as if we’re old friends.
I want to pick up the letter opener I spot on his desk and stab him in the neck. Instead, I say, “Why don’t we get straight to it? I know you’re a busy man.”
Killian’s polished shoes tap across the floor as he makes his way in front of me. He keeps a somewhat respectful distance between us—five feet—but even so, I can’t stop my breath from shuddering with anxiety. A tight coil of dread slithers through my veins.
“I am a busy man,” he says, nodding. He turns and leisurely walks to his desk, sinking into his office chair as if he has all the time in the world.
I linger by the door, trying not to fidget, and trying to hide the sheer level of my fear from Killian.
Considering the way his eyes glimmer with pleasure, I don’t think I succeed.
“And yet, no amount of business has been able to get you off my mind.” Killian tilts his head to the side, considering me. “That’s extremely unusual for me, Lyra. You made quite the impression.”
“That wasn’t my intention, Mr. King.”
His lips thin at my use of his surname, but he doesn’t comment. “Perhaps that’s why it worked,” he murmurs. “You don’t want anything from me. That makes you a novelty. You also see through me—another way you’re a novelty. Honestly, Miss Stewart, I don’t think I’ve quite met anyone like you.”
Lucky for you and for them, you fucking bastard. You’ll regret the day you met me—I’ll ensure it.
I keep my lips sealed against the many retorts aching to spill out.
“Should we get started?” I ask flatly. Maybe if I don’t engage, he’ll lose interest.
But if he loses interest and throws me off the case, Sarah will have questions. Questions that could lead to me getting demoted or even fired.
In the span of a single week, Killian King has cornered me and put me in checkmate.
Endure, Lyra.
“Yes, let’s,” Killian says, nodding. “Please, have a seat.”
He watches me carefully as I sink into the armchair across from his desk, as if he’s searching for something as he observes me settle and withdraw my laptop from my bag.
“Not sore,” he murmurs to himself.
I startle when I realize he was looking for an indication that his spanking was painful enough to last days. He looks genuinely disappointed.
Asshole.
I navigate to the document I have open with a list of questions I worked up for today.
“What was the most challenging part of breaking into your industry?”
“Forming the right connections,” Killian replies. “What was the most challenging part of the night we spent together?”
The night we spent together? He’s making it sound like I volunteered to suck him off and let him turn my ass red.
I don’t dignify his query with a response. “What would you consider to be your first breakthrough?”
“The courses I took in grad school. I was connected to several high-level individuals who helped me get footholds where I needed them.” He pauses, and I can feel his disgusting gaze raking over me. It makes my nipples harden. “Have you always enjoyed pain with sex?”
I’ve never enjoyed sex, period.
“What are the three best adjectives to describe you?”
“Persistent, tenacious, and determined. Those qualities apply to every aspect of my life.”