Chapter 149: news pt 2

She wore a tight, wine-red dress that fell just below her knees, her hair styled in soft, loose waves around her shoulders.

She walked with an easy, quiet confidence, her heels making a sharp, steady rhythm against the floor. She didn’t look at the visitors; her eyes went straight to Kian.

She walked around the side of the massive desk, reached out, and casually took the lit cigarette directly from Kian’s fingers.

She brought it to her lips, took a slow drag, and exhaled the smoke over his shoulder before resting her hand lightly on the back of his leather chair.

The four visitors sat frozen, their eyes wide as they tried to place her.

Wasn’t she his infamous assistant? No assistant took a CEO’s cigarette out of his hand. Perhaps the rumors flying around them for months was true. Kian was already cheating on his ex wife with his assistant.

The lead producer leaned forward slightly, cleared his throat, and offered a polite, cautious smile. "And... Miss...?"

Alice smiled back, a sharp, knowing curve of her lips, but she didn’t answer. She simply reached out with her free hand and casually poured herself two fingers of whiskey from Kian’s decanter, as if she owned the room.

Kian didn’t pull away. He didn’t shift his posture. He leaned back in his chair, resting his arm over the side, his fingers casually brushing the edge of her red dress.

"Alice," Kian said smoothly, his voice cool and completely relaxed as he looked at the lead producer. "She is with me."

The room fell dead silent.

The media executives immediately understood. The subtle shift in their eyes was instantaneous... the rapid, calculating work of journalists realizing they had just been handed a massive, unannounced story.

The public still thought Kian Carter was grieving or bitter after his sudden separation from the blind Kingston heiress. And here, standing in his private office, drinking his whiskey, was the woman quietly taking her place.

"I see," the producer said, his voice dropping into a careful, respectful tone as a small, greedy spark lit up in his eyes. "Should we... expect Miss Alice to be present during the broadcast?"

Alice looked down at Kian, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

Kian took his whiskey glass back, taking a small, slow sip as he stared at the men across his desk.

"Not yet," Kian said softly, his voice flat, emotionless, and heavy with unspoken intent. "But the public wants to know how I am moving forward so I will make sure they see everything they need to see."

The men blinked, the quiet weight of the statement hanging in the air between them like smoke.

The lead producer glanced at Alice, then back at Kian, his eyes gleaming with the sharp, predatory excitement of a man who had just stumbled onto gold.

"That... that can be arranged, Mr. Carter. In fact, it will make for an extraordinary broadcast. A powerful statement."

Kian didn’t offer a smile. He simply nodded once, bringing the crystal glass to his lips and draining the last of the whiskey.

"My press secretary will handle the logistics," Kian said, his voice quiet, dropping the finality of a closing door into the room. "We’re done here."

The executives rose immediately, gathering their leather folders with hurried, respectful motions.

They offered practiced, lingering handshakes, offering brief words of thanks that Kian accepted with cold, minimal nods.

Within two minutes, the doors clicked shut behind them, leaving the vast space in complete, echoing silence.

Alice didn’t move from her spot beside his chair.

She stood there in her tight red dress, watching the dark wood doors.

The quiet satisfaction on her face was almost radiant. For weeks, she had walked on eggshells around him, terrified of pushing too hard, terrified of triggering the dark, hollow phantom that had haunted this very office since the divorce.

Now, hearing him claim her so calmly in front of those men felt like the final, glorious victory she had bled for.

She slid her hands down over his shoulders, her fingers digging gently into the dark fabric of his suit jacket. "You meant that?" she whispered, her sweet, heavy perfume filling the space between them.

Kian didn’t look up immediately. He reached for his silver cigarette case, setting it down on the desk. "I don’t say things I don’t mean, Alice."

She smiled, leaning down until her cheek rested against his dark hair. "I just... after everything, Kian... I wanted to be sure. I want them to know. I want everyone to know who stands next to you now. When are we going to make it official? Interviews are one thing, but us..."

Kian reached up, his large, warm hand catching hers, his thumb rubbing slow, reassuring circles over her knuckles.

"Soon," he murmured softly.

"How soon?" she pushed, her voice trailing into a playful, eager murmur as she shifted, stepping around the desk to sit lightly on the edge near his elbow.

"Soon enough that you won’t have to ask me again," Kian said, looking up at her with a calm, gentle expression.

There was no coldness in his eyes, no trace of the violent rejection that had shattered her weeks ago in the bedroom. "The divorce is still fresh in the public’s eye. If we rush the formal announcement today, the tabloids will spin it into trash. I’m protecting the company, Alice. And I’m protecting you."

The quiet, protective tone in his voice dissolved the tiny knot of insecurity left in her chest. She let out a soft breath, her eyes softening as she reached out, running her manicured nails over his cheekbone.

"You always have a plan, don’t you?" she whispered.

"Always," Kian said softly.

She leaned down, pressing her lips to his. It wasn’t a tentative kiss; she parted her lips, leaning her weight into him, her hand sliding up into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Kian didn’t pull away. He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her steady against him, returning the kiss with a slow, deliberate warmth that made her blood run hot.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a rush of triumph flooding her senses as she pressed closer, her fingers tugging at his collar.

Then, deep inside his coat pocket, his phone vibrated.

A single, dull buzz against his ribs.

Kian broke the kiss smoothly, his movement so natural that it didn’t feel like a rejection. He kept his arm resting around her waist for a fraction of a second before pulling his hand back and reaching into his inner pocket.

He flipped the screen on.

A single line of text sat against the dark glass:

’He has arrived. Proceeding to the location.’

Kian swiped the screen black and slid the phone straight back into his suit pocket. His face remained entirely smooth, not a single line tightening in his forehead, not a single drop of warmth leaving his eyes as he looked back up at her.

Alice let out a small, disappointed sigh, resting her palms flat against his chest. "Don’t tell me you have to leave."

"I have to step out," Kian murmured, lifting a hand to brush a strand of blonde hair back behind her ear.

"Kian, come on," she pouted, her fingers tugging playfully at his tie. "We just got rid of those media parasites. We have the rest of the evening. Can’t your managers handle it?"

"It’s business, Alice," he said softly, his voice dripping with patient, gentle charm. "Important business. If I could hand it off, I would."

"You’re always working," she muttered, though the edge of her complaint was weak, thoroughly softened by the way his thumb was lazily tracing her lower lip. "You promised tonight was going to be quiet."

"And it will be," Kian murmured, leaning up to press a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering there against her skin for a quiet beat. "I just need to clear this up, and then I’m coming straight home to you. I won’t be long."

Alice looked into his dark eyes, searching for any flicker of lie, but saw only the steady, sweet devotion he had shown her for the past two weeks.

"Promise?" she asked softly.

Kian offered a small, fond smile. "Promise. Go back to the house, have the kitchen open a bottle of the red wine you like, and wait for me."

He stood up, grabbing his dark overcoat off the leather armchair. He smoothed down his vest, checked his cuffs, and gave her one last attentive look before turning toward the heavy oak doors of the study.

Alice stayed sitting on the edge of the desk, watching his broad back as he walked across the vast room.

His stride was calm, steady, and effortless. But as his fingers wrapped around the brass handle of the door, a sudden, cold prickle ran up the back of her neck.

For a single, fleeting second, the image of his back in the dim light merged with a memory—the image of him standing in the dark bedroom weeks ago, voice raspy and dead as he shoved her away.

Her breath hitched slightly in her throat.

’No,’ she told herself firmly, squeezing her eyes shut for a brief moment to banish the thought. ’That’s over. He was just grieving his pride. He’s fine now. He’s mine.’

When she opened her eyes, the heavy oak doors were already clicking shut, leaving her alone in the quiet, golden light of the empty room.

Outside Kingston Tower, the evening air was cold and biting.

The instant Kian stepped out of the glass private entrance, the quiet warmth left his face entirely.

His features settled into a hard, stone-cold mask, his dark eyes unblinking as he walked straight toward the single black sedan waiting at the curb.

There was no motorcade. No flashing security detail. Just one unmarked car.

The driver opened the rear door silently. Kian climbed into the back, the heavy door shutting out the ambient hum of the city.

The car pulled out smoothly, merging into the evening traffic and bypassing the main highway, heading toward the older, secluded quarter on the edge of the city.

Twenty minutes later, the sedan turned down a dark, narrow lane lined with ancient trees, pulling up to the heavy iron gates of a private estate hidden behind high stone walls.

The gates swung open without a sound, allowing the sedan to roll down the gravel driveway and stop before the granite steps of an old, grand house.

Kian stepped out into the damp, sea-salted air.

Standing near the top of the steps, bathed in the dim yellow glow of an overhead lamp, was an older man.

He wore an expensive, heavy wool coat, his silver hair cropped short, his face carved with deep lines that spoke of a lifetime spent in the shadows of heavy, dangerous power. Behind him stood two silent men with their hands folded over their coats.

He was one of the high-ranking leaders of the Eastern European syndicate—the very organization that had cold-shouldered Kian’s initial approach weeks ago.

Kian walked up the stone steps, stopping two paces away.

The silver-haired man looked at him, his sharp, gray eyes assessing the young CEO’s calm posture, his tailored suit, and the utter lack of hesitation in his stance.

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The damp wind rustled the leaves in the dark gardens around them.

Kian extended his hand.

The older man looked down at the hand, then raised his eyes back to Kian’s face. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and took Kian’s hand in a firm, heavy grip.

"Mr. Carter," the man said, his voice deep and thick with an accent.

"You came," Kian replied flatly.

The older man let go, a small, tight line forming at the corner of his mouth, not a warm smile, but an acknowledgment of strength.

"You offered something worth hearing," the man said softly, turning toward the heavy oak doors of the house.

Kian adjusted his coat and followed him into the dark.