Page 103 of The CEO

“You’re smiling,” Eve says as we reach the house, setting down her bag to open the glass doors that lead directly onto a spacious deck overlooking the ocean.

“Am I?” I hadn’t realized.

“A real smile,” she clarifies, moving closer to trace the unfamiliar expression with her fingertips. “Happiness looks good on you.”

The observation catches me off guard. Even after months together, Eve’s perception continues to surprise me. She has an uncanny ability to distinguish between the masks I wear and the truth beneath them.

“I think,” I say slowly, considering the unfamiliar emotion, “I am . . . happy.”

Her answering smile is radiant as she slips her arms around my neck. “Good. That’s exactly what this week is for.”

The house is open and airy, walls of glass framing views of ocean and jungle from every room. Eve explores with childlike curiosity while I arrange our belongings in the master suite—a space dominated by a vast bed and floor-to-ceiling windows that can be made opaque or transparent at the touch of a button.

When I find her again, she’s standing on the deck that stretches across the entire ocean side of the house, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink. She’s changed into a simple sundress, her hair loose around her shoulders, feet bare against the smooth wooden planks.

The sight stops me in my tracks: Eve silhouetted against the sunset, completely relaxed and unguarded in a way I rarely see her in Chicago. There, we both maintain necessary vigilance, with the weight of our dual lives requiring constant awareness. Here, isolated from threats and obligations, she’s shed that armor entirely.

“Join me?” she asks without turning, somehow sensing my presence.

I move to stand beside her at the railing, following her gaze to where the sun meets the horizon. The air is warm against my skin, carrying the scent of salt. Her hand finds mine on the railing, fingers intertwining.

We stand in comfortable silence as the sun completes its descent, the sky darkening to reveal stars that sparkle impossibly brightly. The isolation that surrounds us is a welcome break from the constant demands back home.

“It’s strange,” Eve says finally, her voice soft against the backdrop of waves breaking on the shore below. “For the first time since I can remember, I don’t feel like I need to be watching, waiting, planning.”

I understand exactly what she means. “The constant vigilance becomes so ingrained, you forget it’s there until it’s absent.”

She turns to me, moonlight silvering her features. “Does it bother you? Being disconnected from everything?”

I consider the question seriously. “It should. For fifteen years, control has been my constant companion. The idea of surrendering it, even temporarily . . .” I pause, searching for words to describe this unfamiliar feeling. “And yet, I find I’m not disturbed by it.”

“Because you trust Foster and The Vigilante,” she suggests.

“Yes,” I acknowledge. “But more because I’m here with you.”

Her expression softens at my admission. She steps closer, her body fitting against mine with practiced ease. “You’ve changed,” she observes, fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “We both have.”

“For better or worse?” I ask, only half-joking.

“Definitely better.” Her eyes hold mine, steady and sure. “You haven’t lost any of your strength, Damien. You’ve just found room for something more alongside it.”

When Eve turns to me with the starlight reflected in her eyes, something shifts between us—a hunger different from our usual passionate encounters. This is slower, deeper, and not rushed by the demands that typically surround us.

Her lips meet mine with gentle intention rather than desperate need. My hands settle at her waist, drawing her closer with none of the controlled precision I typically maintain. Here, disconnected from my empire, from The Shadows, from the careful calculations that govern my existence, I find myself simply responding to her . . . to the warmth of her body against mine, to the soft sounds she makes as I deepen the kiss.

We don’t speak as I lift her into my arms, carrying her through moonlit corridors to the waiting bed. Words seem unnecessary, even intrusive, in this rare moment of pure connection. Her dress falls away beneath my hands, my own clothing discarded with unhurried movements.

“I love you,” she whispers against my skin. Though those are words she’s spoken before, they still catch me unprepared each time. “Not just for what we build together, not just for our shared purpose. For who you are when all the masks come off.”

The admission pierces something deep within me . . . a barrier I’ve maintained since childhood and that fateful night: the belief that emotion is weakness, that vulnerability invites destruction, that love is merely a convenient fiction for those who lack the strength to stand alone.

“I love you too,” I respond, the words still unfamiliar on my tongue but increasingly natural to my heart. “So much more than I ever thought possible.”

On this island, separated from the shadows we navigate so effectively together, our connection transcends the partnership that has defined us. Something deeper emerges—soul recognizing soul, darkness embracing darkness, strength meeting strength without competition or dominance.

We lie in each other’s arms, no rush to go anywhere or do anything. The time difference slowly pulls both of us under as we fade into sleep. As moonlight streams through the windows and Eve’s breathing evens out beside me, I find myself unexpectedly awake, thoughts drifting through possibilities I’ve never allowed myself to consider before. The freedom of this isolation, and the temporary suspension of responsibilities, creates space for us to just exist in each other’s company.

Eve stirs beside me, her eyes opening to find me watching her. “You’re thinking too loudly,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

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