Chapter Eighteen #2
“Very good. The sommelier will be along shortly. I will stop by after the meal’s concluded to ensure your satisfaction. If you need anything in the interim, don’t hesitate to call.”
The manager bows—bows—and makes his exit.
I reach for my purse and pull the sheath of papers out from it.
I set them on the table in front of Killian and fold my hands in my lap, waiting for his verdict.
If he doesn’t like what I’ve written, I have no doubt there’ll be hell to pay.
I don’t think he’ll release the sex tape—it’s too good of leverage to waste on something small like this—but there are many other ways he can make me suffer.
Killian stares at me for several moments before casually reaching forward and flipping open the folder. He glances over the first page, picks up the stack, and frowns. “This is more than five thousand words.”
No shit. “It’s approximately 15k.” I wrote like a madwoman after I got home from work yesterday. When I was done writing, I went ahead and plotted out the entire book, worked up character sheets, and was up until 3am going over my plot structure and beats.
I barely got any sleep, but I expect that’ll become the new normal for the next two months.
Perhaps for the rest of my life. Every time I close my eyes, I remember what it felt like to be bound, completely helpless, and hurt.
I remember my body betraying me after Killian drugged me.
I remember every horrible thing that has transpired since the moment I met him…
and it keeps me awake at night. It terrifies me.
In the last two days, it’s also given me the sort of creative fuel I’ve never experienced before.
Killian picks up the first page and begins reading. Nerves flutter inside me like the wings of bumblebees, beating against my ribcage and setting my chest on fire. I breathe deeply through my nose, clasping my hands to hide their shaking.
The last person to read a work of fiction I wrote was a college professor.
I’ve written creatively since, of course, but very rarely—and even more rarely have I written more than a thousand words before giving up on a project.
Something’s always gotten in the way; usually, work.
Now, I have no choice but to write, and the worst part is…
I think it might’ve worked. The crushing weight descending on me from all sides of my world has created a pressure chamber within me that needs some sort of visceral release, and that release is coming in the form of a very dark manuscript.
T.S. Eliot said, ‘anxiety is the handmaiden of creativity’. I think I’m realizing there’s much more to that quote than what meets the eye.
Killian sets down one page and picks up another. Another knock comes on the banister; he calls for whoever it is to enter. The sommelier steps inside, carrying with him a leatherbound menu, presumably containing a wine list.
Killian doesn’t look up from the page in front of him. “What bottle would you recommend to complement the lunch menu?”
“I would suggest a combination of two bottles; one white for the first courses, and then a red for your entree.” I half-listen as the sommelier runs through his recommendations—most of my focus is taken up by Killian, who continues scanning pages as the sommelier speaks.
“We’ll go with your second recommended pairings. 375ml each. Have the servers open the bottles in full view of my date, and clean each wineglass.”
“Very good, sir.” The sommelier leaves.
Killian continues reading, not making a single comment or observation. I want to tell him to stop calling me his date, but he made it very clear that I’m to act as I would if I were being courted by a man I actually wanted. I can’t say a word against him without repercussions.
For the time being, I’m stuck in an extremely undesirable position… and within the box I’ve been locked in, there’s a strange sense of freedom. I have very clear constraints, ways I should and shouldn’t conduct myself, things I’ll have to endure… and things that’ll lend me fuel.
I’m going to finish the book that’s taking up half the space in my mind… and I’m going to dig as deep into Killian as I can and write an exposé on him.
I understand now that I can never release the truths I write about Killian, not without ending my own life.
He’ll never know about the piece, but he doesn’t need to know; only I need to know.
It’s the one way I can think of making my peace with the next two months—I’ll fuck Killian over privately, and the joke on him will never be shared with anyone.
More employees come and go. I watch carefully as a waiter washes out a wineglass, uncorks a bottle of white, and pours some for Killian. He doesn’t take his eyes off the page he’s scanning as he picks it up, tastes it, and nods.
The waiter pours both of our glasses, then leaves.
Killian continues reading. He makes no comment on the quality of my work; his expression doesn’t change. My knee begins to jitter from anxiety; he reaches over and places a palm on it. I instantly freeze.
His hand is warm—a strange trait for a cold-blooded predator. What’s more perverse is that his touch is somewhat… pleasant. My mind reels into a pit of a panic, but my body inadvertently relaxes, as if I’ve been drugged again.
Which I haven’t. I haven’t taken a sip of my wine, and I don’t intend to. I don’t know that I’ll ever drink around Killian again.
I watch his expression from the corner of my eye as he continues scanning page after page. Does he like it?
I shouldn’t give a shit about his opinion, but I can’t help myself.
I’d be nervous about anyone laying their eyes on a work in progress of mine—I’m nervous every time I send an article up the corporate ladder for review, and those always have a specific structure.
This is a creative fiction book, and it’s freeform—it’s my brainchild.
A charcuterie board is set on the table.
Killian releases my leg and absentmindedly dips some focaccia into warm brie cheese and chews on it as he continues reading.
He’s now halfway through my pages, and he still hasn’t said a word.
His hand returns to my leg, and his thumb starts sweeping over my skin.
The sensation is far too pleasant for my comfort, so I try to shift away. His hold tightens. He doesn’t say anything, but his authority is absolute. I can’t move until he lets me move—I’m completely under his control, as always. Even more so now.
“You’re not eating,” he comments absently, reaching for another page.
“Strangely, my appetite has fled over the last little while.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is some of the best food you’ll ever have the pleasure of tasting. I suggest you enjoy it.”
“I’ll file your suggestion away with the other things I couldn’t give a single fuck about.”
His hold on my leg turns from pleasant to painful. His eyes flick up to my face, and I can feel the irritation seeping from him.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
“That doesn’t sound like what my date would say,” he murmurs. The words are silky and mild, but the threat beneath them is unmistakable. I have to play ball.
“Taunting is my love language,” I blurt.
His lips curl into a slow smile. I’m staring at the wall, but I can see it. “In love with me already? Consider me flattered. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too middle class for my tastes.”
Something in my chest sinks at that, at the reminder of my inferiority. I might be inferior when it comes to taxes, but I’m not when it comes to character or personality. Unlike the animal sitting beside me, touching me, I respect people regardless of how much money they make.
“I’m about as in love with you as I would be a steaming pile of garbage.”
Instead of berating me, he chuckles, sounding genuinely amused. “I’ll remind you that I’m much better looking than a steaming pile of garbage, and I’m a far superior fuck.”
“Sure. You only have to drug someone to get them to think that.”
Killian’s hold on my knee loosens. I exhale a long breath of relief, and he returns to reading in silence.
The first and second courses are served.
I play with my food, pushing it around on my plate to make it look like I’m eating, even though I’m not.
I can barely breathe, let alone eat. Killian, meanwhile, seems to have no issues with his appetite.
He eats as he reads, demonstrating admirable hand-eye coordination and multitasking abilities.
Dessert is served by the time he finishes the last page.
He returns the manuscript to the folder, tidying the pages, and then turns his full attention on me.
I can feel his stare on my face, my clothes, like countless insects crawling over my skin.
His touch might be manageable, but his stare is something else altogether.
“You’re a talented author—that’s clear to see.
The manuscript, however, is mediocre. The prose is good, but the plot is all over the place.
You need to tighten the middle section, speed up the inciting incident, and jump to the first major beat of rising action faster.
Edit the first 15k words by Monday and email them to me. On Wednesday, I expect another 15k.”
“I can’t do that,” I say, finally meeting his gaze. “I have a full-time job—”
“You had a full-time job on Friday, as well. You still managed to get this done. You have all of Sunday to make the edits, then Monday and Tuesday for the next batch. Get it done, or there will be non-enjoyable consequences. Do you understand?”
His tone is no-bullshit. Now isn’t the time to taunt or insult him. “Yes,” I grit out.
“Good. Drink your wine.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“You haven’t eaten or drank a bite.” Killian’s words ring with a vague undertone of boredom. “Don’t let me affect you to the point of changing your routine or appetite. Don’t give anyone that power over you, or you’ll forever be powerless.”
I feel my cheeks burn. “I do not need a lecture from you of all people.”
“You clearly do. You’re an ant right now, Lyra, living in a colony of billions of ants.
You’re unimportant at best, completely irrelevant and obsolete at worst. If you want to become something more than a mindless, meaningless ant, you have to work for it.
Cowing under pressure is not the way to go.
Being too afraid to pursue your passions is not the way to go—”
“I do not want a lecture from you!” I hiss. “I would rather be an ant than a cruel billionaire with no respect for people or boundaries. I’d rather die poor than become anything like you.”
“Then you’re nowhere near as smart as I pegged you to be,” Killian snaps. “For the record, there are people I respect, but only those who earn it. You want my respect? Work for it.”
“I don’t want anything from you. I want you to lose your interest in me, delete that rape-tape, and let me the fuck go!”
I’m panting in the aftermath of my outburst, digging my nails into my knees. Killian, in stark contrast, yawns. “Seven weeks to go. You’ll survive—or you won’t. Either way, I’ll get what I want; what you get out of this is entirely dependent on you.”
My jaw clenches. Before I can start screaming at him, yet another knock comes at the banister, and a waiter files in, asking politely if we’re enjoying our meal.
“Yes,” Killian says. “I plan to eat my fill of dessert. No more interruptions until we walk out; I don’t want the manager, sommelier, or anyone knocking. Got it?”
My stomach sinks, and the swarm of bees inside me turns into an angry hornet’s nest. I can only imagine that Killian’s demanding privacy because he plans to engage in indecent behavior.
“Of course, sir.”
“Excellent. You’re excused.” As soon as the waiter walks out, Killian addresses me. “Pull down your panties and get your ass on this table.”