Page 15 of The CEO

I smile, appreciating her boldness even as I marvel at how reckless she is. Most people would run from this kind of danger, yet here she is, eagerly heading right toward it.

I call Foster. “She’s heading to Knox Tower. Make sure security knows to let her up, but make it sound like they aren’t going to, and tell Amanda to give her the expected resistance before bringing her to me.”

“You think she brought the photos?” Foster asks.

“Doubtful. She won’t play her hand this early. She’s about to make her move, so let her.”

I end the call, instructing my driver to stop tailing her and head to the office. By the time Eve reaches the building, I’ll be in my office, watching her approach on security cameras. I’m curious to see what kind of tricks she has up her sleeves if she thinks she’s going to march into my office and catch me off guard.

It’s a test—the first of many I can’t wait to see her take on. Eve Thorne isn’t someone to be intimidated through conventional means. No, the way to handle her is to intrigue her. To draw her in while making her believe she’s the one with the upper hand.

Chapter3

Eve

THE NIGHT BEFORE . . .

Once again, sleep is the elusive ghost that haunts me, just out of reach. Instead of continuing to fight it, I flip off my covers and trudge back out to my living room. My dad’s camera on my table catches my eye, and that same warm feeling that accompanies any memory of him washes over me.

I trace the edge of Dad’s old Nikon, remembering his hands guiding mine to find the perfect focus.

“The camera doesn’t just capture what’s there, Evie,”he’d say, voice gentle in my ear.“It reveals what others don’t see. The truth hiding in plain sight.”

Mom would watch us from the porch, her journalist’s notebook always nearby.“Like a good story,”she’d add,“the facts matter, but it’s the connections between them that reveal the truth.”

I set the camera down, tears threatening. Eight years gone, and their voices still guide me. Would they understand the darkness I’m drawn to now? The justice I’m seeking outside their cherished systems?

My father believed in truth above all else. James Thorne, award-winning photojournalist, who documented wars and famines and revolutions with unflinching clarity. His photographs showed the world what most people turned away from—the raw, unfiltered reality behind sanitized headlines.

“Never look away, Evie,”he’d tell me, showing me images most parents would hide from their children.“Looking away is how injustice thrives.”

My mother was his perfect counterpart. Lydia Thorne, investigative reporter, who dug into corruption others deemed untouchable. Corporate malfeasance, political scandals, systemic abuses—nothing was beyond her reach if she believed the public deserved to know.

“Facts are weapons,”she’d explain while working late at our kitchen table.“The powerful count on people not having them.”

Together, they were formidable. The Thornes—truth-tellers, justice-seekers. They taught me to question everything, to look beneath surfaces, to trust my instincts when something felt wrong.

And then they were gone. A “tragic accident” on a rain-slicked road.

I pull out the box I keep on a low shelf—their personal effects salvaged from the crash. Mom’s notebook, water-damaged but still legible. Dad’s press credentials, stained with something I’ve never been able to bring myself to acknowledge might be blood. A USB drive with their final projects.

I knew the last investigation they were working on together involved corporate negligence covered up by powerful interests. They never named the company in their notes—too careful, too professional to commit accusations to paper before they had irrefutable proof. But they were excited, I remember that. They thought they were close to breaking something big.

Three days before the crash, Mom paced our living room, phone pressed to her ear.“We need more time,”she argued with her editor.“This goes deeper than we initially thought.”

Dad sat at his computer, sorting through photographs he refused to let me see.“Evidence doesn’t lie,”he muttered.“It’s all right here if you know where to look.”

I never found out what they discovered. The police investigation into their deaths was perfunctory at best. Road conditions, mechanical failure, case closed. Their research materials from the office disappeared—“misplaced during the transition,” their editor explained apologetically.

I flip through Mom’s notebook now, searching for clues I might have missed in previous examinations. Most pages contain interview notes, meeting schedules, source references. Nothing explicitly naming their target.

But on the last used page, a single name catches my attention: It looks like scribbled initials followed by what looks like an appointment time. I’ve never noticed it before, tucked in the margin, partially obscured by water damage.

I return to the memories that have sustained me through eight years of grief.

Mom at the kitchen table, explaining ethical journalism over hot chocolate.“It’s not enough to tell the truth, Evie. You have to tell it in service of justice.”

Dad showing me how different angles can tell different stories.“Context matters. The wrong frame can turn victims into villains.”

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