King of Pride (Kings of Sin, #2)(67)

“Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you,” I said cheerfully, wisely skipping over the reality that Xavier was, in fact, a spendthrift playboy with no discernible aspirations. “I have faith in you.”

“Thank you.”

Sloane and I lapsed into silence again.

I wasn’t sure whether my words were any good, but I kept typing.

Kai hadn’t said anything about the chapters I’d given him on Christmas, which didn’t help my anxiety. Had he read them yet? If yes, why hadn’t he mentioned it? Were they that bad? If no, why not? Maybe he wasn’t actually interested in reading them. Maybe I put him in an awkward position by foisting a half-finished, unedited manuscript on him. Should I ask him about it, or would that make things even more awkward?

“Isa.” There was a strange note in Sloane’s voice.

“Hmm?”

Ugh, I should’ve stopped with the dinosaur erotica. What was I thinking?

“Have you looked at the news?”

“No, why? Did Asher Donovan crash another car?” I asked distractedly.

No response.

I looked up. A cold sensation crawled down my spine at Sloane’s neutral expression. She only wore that look when something was very, very wrong.

She silently turned her laptop around so I could see her screen.

The National Star’s distinctive red and black text splashed across its website. Lurid headlines and unflattering celebrity photos dominated the page, which wasn’t unusual. The trashy tabloid was famous for…

Wait.

My eye snagged on a familiar dress. Long sleeves, emerald-green cashmere, a hem that skimmed the tops of my thighs. A fifteen-dollar steal from the depths of the Looking Glass boutique’s basement.

I’d worn it on a date with Kai two weeks ago.

My stomach bottomed out.

They weren’t photos of celebrities. They were photos of us. Kai and me on Coney Island. Us strolling through the New York Botanical Garden, our heads bent close in laughter. Him feeding me a custard tart at a dim sum restaurant in Queens. Me exiting his apartment building, looking thoroughly

mussed and slightly guilty.

Dozens of photos capturing some of our most intimate moments. We thought no one we knew would be in such out-of-the-way places, but obviously, we were wrong.

My skin flushed hot and cold. The muffin I ate for breakfast threatened to climb up my throat and ruin Sloane’s pristine MacBook.

I’m so dead.

Once the club saw this, it was over. I’d lose my job and probably get blacklisted from working at any bar within a fifty-mile radius. Even worse, if the reporters did any digging, they’d find out— “Breathe.” Sloane’s crisp voice sliced through my fog of panic. She slammed her laptop shut and pushed a glass of water in my hand. “Drink this. Count to ten. It’ll be okay.”

“But…”

“Do it.”

In terms of comfort and warmth, she wasn’t the greatest. She was, however, excellent at crisis management. By the time I gulped down the water, she’d already typed up a ten-point bullet plan for defusing the bombshell.

Step one: discredit the source.

“It’s the National Star, which helps,” she said. “No one takes that rag seriously. Still, it’ll be good to—”

“Aren’t you mad?” I interrupted. Liquid sloshed in my stomach, making me queasy. “About me keeping the Kai thing a secret from you and Viv?”

Sloane rolled her eyes. “Isa, please. Anyone with a working brain can see you two have the hots for each other. I’m only surprised it took you so long to do something about it. Besides, I understand why you didn’t tell us. It’s a delicate situation, given your job. That brings me to my second point.

Valhalla will—”

She was interrupted again, this time by the buzz of my phone.

Parker. Speak of the devil.

My stomach plummeted further. “Hold that thought.” I sucked in a lungful of air and braced myself.

“Hello?”

So. Dead.

“Isabella.” My supervisor’s voice clinked over the line like jagged ice cubes. There wasn’t a trace of her usual warmth. “Please report to Valhalla as soon as possible. We need to talk.”

Half an hour later, I walked into the Valhalla Club’s executive office with a pile of concrete blocks in my stomach.

Reserved for the reigning head of the managing committee, which rotated between sitting members every three years, the mahogany-paneled office resembled a cross between a Georgian library and a cathedral. A massive dark desk dominated the far end of the room.

Vuk Markovic sat behind it with the stiff posture of a displeased general surveying his troops. He must be the current head of the committee. I didn’t pay attention to club politics, so I didn’t even know who the committee members were besides Kai and Dante—both of whom, I noticed with a jolt, were seated across the desk from Vuk. They occupied the chairs on the right; Parker sat on the left, her face tight.

Every pair of eyes swiveled toward me when I entered.

Self-consciousness prickled my skin. I avoided Kai’s gaze as I walked over, afraid any eye contact would unleash the pressure building in my chest.

“Isabella.” Parker nodded at the chair next to her. “Sit.” She was the lowest-ranked person in the room, but she kicked off the meeting by cutting straight to the chase. “Do you know why you’re here?”