Page 29 of The CEO

“Um, Damien Knox invited me to a private gala at his estate?”

“Oh!” Her demeanor shifts, and her eyes drift down my body and back up in a flash, as if she’s sizing up whether I’m his type or not. “Well, then that tells me exactly what I need to know.”

I allow her to guide me deeper into the store, as I wonder if this is a common occurrence for Damien: sending private invitations to young women around Chicago.

“He has an excellent eye,” she says, shuffling through a particular rack of dresses, pulling out only a few and leaving the rest. My skin prickles with unease as she holds them against me one by one.

How many other women in Chicago have had this same experience—shopping for a dress to impress a man who has summoned them to his private estate? But none of those women would have known the things I know about him . . . and then threatened him with that knowledge at his own company.

“Let’s go with a simple silhouette—something elegant with a bold color.”

“Okay.” I nod, having no clue what I’m doing in a store like this. If I’d been left alone, I would have most likely chosen something inappropriate for the occasion.

For the next hour, I try on dresses that cost more than my monthly rent, each one more beautiful than the last. I push away the nagging feeling that I’m going to have to dig into my savings to afford one of these, and even then, I’m not sure I can pull the trigger. I’ll just have to find something at a chain store that I can make look decent with the right shoes and jewelry.

Despite my earlier unease with the idea of being manipulated by Damien, I can’t help but enjoy the luxury of fine fabrics against my skin. I turn around in the three-way mirror, admiring the deep crimson of the material that flows over my body like water.

“This one.”

The dress is elegant and simple: a structured bodice with a sweetheart neckline that emphasizes my collarbones and a tasteful amount of cleavage.

“It’s stunning!” She smiles, stepping beside me to lift up my hair. “You should pull your hair back to keep the focus on your beautiful features.”

For the first time in I don’t know how long, I take the time to look at myself, trying to see what she sees.

“He’s going to love the color on you.” My eyes flash to hers in the mirror for the briefest second before she turns away. “Now, how about shoes? Accessories? A bag?”

I know I’m reading more into that than necessary, but even though I’m willingly choosing to attend this event, to continue to engage with Damien, it almost feels like I couldn’t deny him even if I wanted to.

“Oh, no, I can’t afford more than just the dress.”

“Don’t be silly!” She laughs as she waves off my concern with a flick of her hand. “I think with your coloring and this dress, you should go with silver—maybe black diamonds?”

“No, really, I’m serious. I can barely afford the dress. I mean . . .” I look around for the tag. “I actually avoided even looking at the tag because I’ve fallen in love with it.”

“No, dear.” She reaches for my hand. “Mr. Knox is paying for it.”

“What?” I pull my hand back, looking over my shoulder as if I expect to see him standing in the doorway behind me. “How’d he know?”

“Well, I assume he sent you here specifically since he has an account?” She walks away, presumably to look for the items she mentioned, while I just stare in the mirror—trying to decide if he did mention this place and I forgot, or if it’s the more likely situation: that he’s having me followed.

I stand awkwardly, in a daze, Giselle’s words going in one ear and out the other as she talks through shoes, necklaces, earrings, and more.

“You are all set, my dear.” She hands me a large bag with a few smaller bags containing all the items she just charged to Damien’s account.

“Thank you so much.” I accept the bag, still not entirely comfortable with him paying. It feels like another form of manipulation: his need to control every little thing a way of demonstrating his reach.

Back outside, Chicago’s evening traffic rushes around me as I make my way toward the train station. The weight of the garment bag on my arm is a tangible reminder of the path I’m choosing to follow—a path leading into whatever web Damien is trying to weave around me.

As I wait on the platform for the train, my mind is a tangled mess of thoughts trying to make sense of what I’m doing. I’m very aware of how far out of my depth I am.

“Excuse me.”

“No problem.” I smile at the man next to me who apologizes after bumping into me. I turn back to face the train that approaches and starts to slow.

He speaks again just as the doors are about to open. “Going willingly into the serpent’s garden is a death sentence,” he says, his voice barely audible above the station noise.

I whip my head toward him just as the doors open and the commuters rush out. “What did you say?”

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