Page 84 of The CEO

“How did you do it?” I’m sure the question emerges before she can consider whether she truly wants to know the answer.

“Carefully. Methodically.” My voice takes on a clinical quality that likely makes the description more disturbing. “I’d been planning it for years, weighing consequences, preparing contingencies. When the time came, I invited him to Eden for dinner. We discussed business, reminisced about old times. I poured him his favorite Scotch, laced with a paralytic derived from one of my rare plants.”

I pause, studying her reaction. When she doesn’t flinch or look away, I continue.

“I waited until the drug took effect. Watched the confusion spread across his face as he realized something was wrong. First, he couldn’t feel his fingers. Then his hands. The paralysis spread slowly, intentionally—I’d calibrated the dose precisely for that effect.”

Something shifts in my voice—a hint of satisfaction, of pleasure, in the memory.

“I told him why he was dying, and mentioned your parents by name. Made sure he understood that his actions had consequences, even after all those years. The recognition in his eyes when he realized I’d betrayed him . . . it was exquisite. Fifteen years as his protégé, his second-in-command, his heir apparent, and he never saw it coming. Never suspected that I’d been planning his demise since the night of your parents’ accident.”

I lean closer, my eyes brightening with the dark memory.

“His last words were ‘I made you.’ And he was right, of course. He created the man capable of ending him. There’s a certain poetry in that, don’t you think? The creator destroyed by his creation.”

“Did he suffer?” Eve’s question surprises me as much as it seems to please her.

“Yes.” No hesitation, no pretense of remorse. “I made certain of it. The paralytic immobilized him but left his sensory nerves intact. He felt everything. I wanted him to experience the fear your parents felt in their final moments—the helplessness of knowing death was coming and being unable to stop it.”

I run my fingers absently over the rim of my glass, recalling the details with unsettling pleasure.

“I used a blade similar to the one I’d used on Ray. I thought it was poetic symmetry, but this time, with skills honed through decades rather than the clumsy desperation of a child. I worked slowly, methodically, explaining the anatomical significance of each cut. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t move, could only watch through increasingly desperate eyes as I dismantled him piece by piece.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Eve asks, needing to understand exactly who sits across from her—exactly what darkness we share.

“Yes.” My honesty is unflinching. “I savored every moment of his fear, his realization, his final moments. I took pleasure in delivering justice that was eight years overdue. The sound of his struggling breaths, the moment he realized he couldn’t fight back, the gradual acceptance in his eyes as he understood that this was the end—I cherished it all.” My eyes hold hers, searching for judgment. “Does that make me a monster in your eyes?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with implications. The truth is, it should. In any rational moral framework, taking pleasure in causing suffering, in ending a life—even a guilty one—crosses a line into monstrosity.

Yet Eve finds herself understanding my satisfaction, perhaps even sharing it. If she had been there, would she have turned away? Or would she have watched, taking the same dark pleasure in seeing her parents’ killer face consequences at last?

“No,” she answers finally. “It makes you human. A darker version of humanity than most acknowledge, but human nonetheless.”

“There’s one more thing you need to know, Eve. About my original plan for you.”

I notice the look in her eyes—not disgust or horror, but something closer to understanding. Something that confirms what I’ve suspected: There’s darkness in Eve Thorne, too—just waiting to be awakened.

“When you photographed me in the forest preserve,” I continue, “when our paths crossed again after eight years, I saw an opportunity. Not just for myself, but for The Shadows.”

My voice remains steady, determined to give her the complete truth I promised.

“I intended to bring you in gradually, to expose you to our methods, our purpose. To cultivate you as an asset with your unique skills and perspective.”

“You were grooming me.” The realization isn’t new, but hearing it stated explicitly still stings.

“Yes. Manipulating circumstances, creating situations where you would see the failures of conventional justice, where you would begin to understand the necessity of our approach.” I lean forward, eyes intense. “But something unexpected happened. The boundaries I’d maintained began to crumble. The obsession I’d kept carefully controlled evolved into something deeper, something more genuine.”

“What?” she presses, needing to hear me name it.

I hesitate, perhaps searching for a word that can encompass the complexity of what exists between us. “Connection,” I say finally. “Real connection, beyond manipulation or calculation. Something I haven’t felt since I was nine years old, holding that bloody knife. Something I didn’t believe myself capable of anymore.”

The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and genuine. It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said to her—perhaps the most honest thing I’ve said to anyone in decades.

“When you left,” I continue, my voice rougher now, “when you discovered the truth about your parents and disappeared, I realized something I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge before.”

“What?” she asks, though I think she knows the answer.

“That you matter more to me than The Shadows. More than the empire I’ve built, more than the power I wield. More thananything.” My eyes meet hers, vulnerability and certainty mingling in their depths. “That I would sacrifice it all if it meant keeping you in my life.”

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