Page 8 of The CEO

Direct confrontation.

The wine is clearly working overtime, because that thought doesn’t scare me nearly as much as it should.

“This is insane,” I say the words out loud as I frantically type on my laptop, pulling up the Contact Us section of Knox Industries’ website. Hoping for a direct email address listed on the website was a long shot, but there is a standard form to send a general email. I can’t imagine that sending an inquiry about seeing Damien Knox threatening someone in the forest preserve would get me very far.

I switch back to the photos again, studying the way he carries himself. That’s another trick of the trade my dad taught me.

“You can get to know a lot about someone from behind a camera lens.”

Everything about him is calculated, that’s evident. Men like him thrive on control; it feeds their ego. I imagine that a man like him isn’t often caught off guard, if ever. Something about that thought creates a small sizzle of excitement in my belly. Maybe that’s the only way a man like Damien Knox would ever take me seriously.

After a few more hours of research, I’m more convinced than ever that this is the only way to handle this. He needs someone bold enough to confront him directly.

“What’s he going to do . . . kill me in his downtown office in front of everyone?” I snort, rolling my eyes, the wine doing its job of lowering my inhibitions a little too well.

The plan falls into place in my head with alarming clarity. I’ll go to his office tomorrow, posing as a journalist working on a feature. It’s not technically a lie. If I do find anything worth reporting, it will certainly be front page news on every single publication out there.

It’s reckless and dangerous, and for the first time in eight years, it’s the only thing that’s made me feel alive.

I close my laptop, move to the small window in my living room, and look out over my neighborhood, where the bright lights of the Chicago skyline shimmer in the distance. Somewhere out there, Damien Knox is going about his evening, having no idea what I know about him.

At this moment, that knowledge feels like power, but I know that in the morning, it’s going to feel like a thousand tons pressing down on me.

Chapter2

Damien

Her scarf lies across my desk. The green silk feels soft between my fingers as I lift it to my face, inhaling the lingering scent of her perfume. A hint of jasmine, subtle and sweet. I close my eyes and see Eve scrambling to escape my presence at the forest preserve—a flash of fear on her face when she thought she’d been caught.

She fascinates me.

“Sir, the security footage you requested is ready,” Foster’s voice breaks through my thoughts as he enters my office. Foster’s ability to move with quiet precision has made him an invaluable asset to both my legitimate business and The Shadows. “We were able to get angles from three different cameras.”

I place the scarf down and turn to look at the monitors on the wall as Foster taps on his tablet. I watch my confrontation with Roberts play out in front of me, but that’s not what interests me. It’s the subtle movement of branches in the background—the occasional flash of green that doesn’t quite blend in with the foliage.

“There,” I say, pointing to a small area in the corner of the screen. “Enhance that.”

Foster taps again, the image zooming in and clarifying enough to reveal the perfect profile of Eve—camera raised.

“Sir,” he says, looking back at me, “do we have a problem?”

“No,” I say, perhaps too quickly. “I’ll handle it.”

“She took photographs, sir.”

“I’m aware.” I pause the footage, studying Eve’s face. “Have you completed the updated background report I requested?”

Foster slides a file across my desk. “Everything’s here. Eve Thorne, twenty-seven. Obituary writer for theChicago Tribune. Parents died in a car accident when she was nineteen.” He pauses, his gaze flicking to my face. In our years of working together, Foster has never asked me for more information on who Eve Thorne is and why I give a fuck about watching her. But for the first time, I can see it brewing in his eyes.

“I’m aware of who she is, Foster, considering I’m the one who has ordered her surveillance for the last eight years.” My tone carries a warning that makes his eyes drop. “What I need to know is what she’s been up to the last six months.”

He clears his throat. “Nothing remarkable. She works consistent hours at theTribune. Lives alone in a modest apartment in Lincoln Park. No pets. Occasional drinks with her coworker Ingrid, but no close relationships. Spends her free time taking pictures.”

“Dating?”

“Two first dates in the past few months, neither progressed.”

I nod, satisfied with the information. “And her finances?”

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