Page 77 of The CEO

Something snaps inside me. In one fluid motion, I have Foster pinned against the wall, my forearm pressing against his throat. “If anyone—anyone—moves against Eve Thorne, I will dismantle them piece by piece. Is that understood?”

Foster doesn’t struggle, doesn’t resist. “Perfectly, sir.”

I release him abruptly, stepping back. “Schedule an emergency council meeting. Tonight. Full attendance required.”

“Yes, sir.” He straightens his tie, his composure quickly returning. “And the agenda?”

“A reminder of exactly who leads The Shadows,” I say coldly. “And the consequences of forgetting that fact.”

* * *

Hours later, I stand at the head of the underground chamber, facing the assembled council members. They regard me with varying degrees of concern and wariness. The Vigilante sits with calculated casualness, but her eyes track my every movement. The Heiress maintains her usual poised demeanor, though her fingers tap a restless rhythm on the table. The Skull remains perfectly still, his expression unreadable behind his mask. The Raven and The Phantom exchange subtle glances with The Ghost when they think I’m not looking.

“I understand there have been discussions regarding Eve Thorne,” I begin without preamble. “Discussions that ended with a suggestion of containment protocol.”

Silence falls over the room, heavy and tense.

“Let me be absolutely clear,” I continue, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Eve Thorne is under my protection. Any move against her—any surveillance not directly authorized by me, any interference with her activities, any harm that comes to her—will be considered a direct attack on my authority.”

The Vigilante leans forward. “With respect, Damien, she represents a significant security risk. A risk you created by bringing her into our world.”

“A risk I have calculated and accepted,” I counter sharply.

“Have you?” The Skull speaks for the first time. “Or has your judgment been compromised by your . . . personal interest in her?”

The accusation hangs in the air, daring me to deny what we all know to be true.

“My judgment remains sound,” I say coldly. “And it is not subject to debate or vote.”

“Perhaps it should be,” The Heiress suggests, her voice deceptively gentle. “We’ve all noticed changes in your behavior, Damien. Your distraction, your absences, your growing . . . instability.”

The word strikes like a viper. Instability: the very quality I’ve ruthlessly eliminated in others, and the weakness I’ve never tolerated in myself.

“You’re suggesting what, exactly?” I ask. “A vote of no confidence? A coup?”

“We’re suggesting that your obsession with this woman has clouded your judgment,” The Vigilante says bluntly. “That perhaps you should recuse yourself from decisions regarding her.”

Something primal rises within me—rage unlike anything I’ve felt in years. Without warning, I slam my fist down on the table with enough force to crack the ancient wood.

“Eve Thorne is NOT up for discussion!” My roar echoes through the chamber, startling even the most composed among them. “She is mine to protect, mine to handle, mine to bring into our fold if and when she chooses.”

Silence follows my outburst, the council members exchanging wary glances. I’ve never lost control like this before them—never revealed such raw emotion. It confirms their suspicions and validates their concerns, but I find myself beyond caring.

“This meeting is adjourned,” I say, my voice returning to its usual controlled register, though the underlying threat remains. “We will not speak of this again.”

One by one, they file out of the chamber, leaving me alone with my fractured control and the empty throne that suddenly feels like a burden rather than a symbol of power.

* * *

Chicago’s streets blur past the window of my car as Foster drives me through the city. It’s past midnight, but sleep eludes me as it has for days now. My appearance has begun to reflect my internal unraveling—beard untrimmed, hair longer than I typically allow, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

“Stop here,” I command as we approach a small bar on the West Side. Eve’s coworker Ingrid frequents this place on weekends. Perhaps she knows something.

Foster pulls to the curb, his concern palpable though he says nothing. He’s witnessed my deterioration over the past week—the increasing desperation in my search, the thinning veneer of control.

Inside, the bar is dimly lit and half-empty. I spot Ingrid at a table with another woman, their heads bent close in conversation. They look up as I approach, recognition and wariness crossing Ingrid’s face.

“Mr. Knox,” she says, straightening in her seat. “This is . . . unexpected.”

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