Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

All except for his own family.

Not many people drew the connection between him and the influential Sterling family back home. Probably because no one would think he’d abandon such fortune to become an attorney.

Still, he managed to become the media’s sweetheart and photographers’ wet dream. He has the looks anyone with cameras or eyes would want to freeze into an ethereal moment of perfection.

Over the years, Daniel gained everyone’s attention with his quick wit and dripping charm. Or at least that’s what the articles say.

They sing praises for him like angels hum hallelujah in the heavens.

But no one knows the Daniel I know.

The heartless, merciless jerk with control freak tendencies and egomaniac issues.

My gaze flits to his office, to where he disappeared with the lawyer named Knox.

They’ve been there for five minutes and I’m not sure if I’m allowed to interrupt him. But on the other hand, if I don’t get him what he asked for on time, he’ll just bring up the wanker parameter a notch.

Besides, I need to leave now if I want to get him his freaking “specific” lunch on time.

So I open my texts and grind my teeth at the long string of orders he sent at exactly three-second intervals just to distract me.

He can be such an unbearable fucking jerk.

But it doesn’t matter what he does. If I put my head to something, no one will be able to stop me.

Not even him.

Me: I finished the report.

His reply is instant.

Bloody Idiot: What are you waiting for then? Email it.

Me: If you checked your inbox, you’d find it there.

Bloody Idiot: Drop the fucking attitude, Ms. Adler.

Me: It wasn’t attitude, just a piece of information.

Bloody Idiot: Let me be the one to decide that. I need my lunch in exactly thirty-seven minutes.

I’m about to type that I was going to get that anyway, but I settle with, On it, sir.

I hate the flutter and the squeezing in my chest whenever I type or say that word.

I hate the wave of emotions that follows it.

But most of all, I hate this man.

I hate him with a passion that leaves me seething and constantly thinking about how to commit a flawless crime.

But I don’t let the anger rule me or it would ruin everything else.

Grabbing my bag, I storm out of the office as if my heels are on fire. I wore medium ones today because my legs are still screaming at me from yesterday’s torture.

After I take a taxi, I call Jay.

He picks up immediately. “What’s up?”

“Heeey! Is that any way to talk to me when I didn’t see you last night or this morning?”

“That’s okay. I’ll wait for you tonight if you prepare fish.”

“You greedy little rascal. But fine, I’ll bring some fish.”

“’Kay.”

“Don’t forget your medication, Jay.”

“I won’t. Stop moaning.”

“Did you just say I’m moaning?”

“You do that a lot. I’m a child genius, remember?”

He is. Last year, Jayden skipped two grades, which is why he doesn’t have friends.

If I had the necessary means, I would’ve sent him to one of Europe’s prestigious schools for the youth, but that’s a dream neither of us is capable of entertaining. At least, not now.

Maybe one day, when he’s older, I’ll be able to pick up the dream I’ve been secretly suppressing and I’ll be well off enough to afford a better education for him.

“I’m just reminding you, Jay.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shouldn’t you be working?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

“’Kay. Oh, by the way, Nikki. There was a letter in the mail this morning and…I kind of opened it, sorry.”

“What is it about?”

He pauses, gulping audibly through the phone which is not a good sign. “I’ll send it over. I gotta go.”

Then he hangs up, leaving me baffled.

The taxi pulls up in front of the restaurant and I pay the driver before I step out, practically jogging inside.

Katerina’s is a high-end restaurant with a futuristic clean décor that looks kind of tacky instead of revolutionary. If I was responsible for this, I would’ve added a splash of color and removed the loud music that doesn’t allow people to concentrate on what they’re eating.

But that’s just me.

“Menu du jour?” The cashier asks when I stop in front of him. His name is Jonas and he’s a middle-aged man with a kind, welcoming smile. I think he’s used to having dozens of different assistants come pick out Daniel’s meals.

He always gets the “menu du jour” with coffee if he specifically asks for it.

I’m half panting when Jonas shows me the ingredients in the meal.

“Is that parmesan and pesto in the pasta?”

“Yes,” Jonas says.

“I’ll just take a steak then.”

“Are you sure, miss? Mr. Sterling always takes the menu du jour.”

Not when it has parmesan and pesto. I shouldn’t remember that, but I know for a fact that he dislikes them.

“Yes, the steak will be fine. Medium cooked, please.”

“I’ll tell the chef.” Jonas gives me a “you’re out of line” look. “Not sure if she’ll appreciate it.”