Page 18 of The CEO

She disappears, leaving me alone. My heart pounds in my chest and floods my ears. I glance around, noting the security cameras that cover every angle. I’m sure there are plenty more I can’t even see. I touch my bag, the weight of my own camera feeling conspicuous. I brought it along more as a prop to validate my journalist story rather than with any real intention of using it.

A few moments later, Amanda returns with a glass of water and her practiced smile. “Mr. Knox’s meeting is running long. He suggested I collect your questions and arrange a proper interview for later this week.”

Shit. Fucking shit.

“Oh.”

The brush-off is polite and firm, but I’ve come too far to accept it. I’m about to quiver my lip again, but something about Amanda tells me it won’t work on her. So I go with a different tactic. Honesty.

“I appreciate that, really, but my deadline is rather tight. I’m perfectly happy to wait longer if there’s any chance he’ll have even five minutes to spare today.” She doesn’t seem to be deterred, though, so I lean forward slightly. “Between us, my editor is particularly interested in Mr. Knox’s connection to several prominent businessmen who’ve passed recently. The story angle is: Is someone targeting Chicago’s wealthy elite to siphon their money and launder it through charitable organizations?”

Something flickers in her expression so quickly, I almost miss it. I’m not sure how to interpret it exactly, but I can tell that my shot in the dark has struck something. She excuses herself with another tight-lipped smile.

“Let me see what I can do.”

I sip my water, attempting to remain calm and appear halfway casual while my mind feels like it’s spinning a million miles an hour. Whatever Amanda is saying to Damien, I’m confident that hearing a reporter mention a link between him and those deaths will be enough to garner five minutes of his precious time.

The floor-to-ceiling windows in this building provide a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan. I’m staring at the boats that dot the sparkling blue landscape, lost in thought, when a smooth, deep voice breaks the silence.

“Miss Thorne. I understand you have questions about my philanthropic work.”

My body flinches at the sound of his voice, my spine stiffening as I slowly turn, coming face-to-face with Damien Knox. He’s even taller in person than he appeared through the camera lens. His presence fills the entire space we’re standing in. A dark and commanding energy radiates from him—the kind that can’t be captured in a photo.

But it’s his eyes that hold me—the same cold, calculating eyes from the photographs. It shocks me. I expected to see the man everyone else sees when I finally met him in person. The man who smiles and winks at the camera. I swallow down the lump in my throat as he stares at me like he sees through my hastily constructed plan.

“Mr. Knox,” I choke, extending my hand nervously, “thank you for making the time to see me.”

He grips my hand firmly, his warm hand lingering on mine just a second too long. “I always make time for the press. Even if they mention something as unpleasant asdeath.”

His emphasis on the worddeathmakes my stomach drop at the same time my body’s sense of fight or flight is screaming at me to get the hell out of this situation. But I don’t. I maintain my professional smile.

“Yes, it’s part of a larger piece on how other successful Chicago businessmen like yourself honor their colleagues’ legacies.”

“Is it?” He gestures for me to sit in the large velvet chair behind me, and I do as he asks while he takes a seat opposite me. We’re even closer now, and he’s even more intimidating than I anticipated. Everything about him looks curated, almost too perfect. Like he was designed to lure you in, completely ignoring the glaring danger that lurks beneath his shiny surface. Then that cruel smile slowly slips across his lips. “And here I thought you were just an obituary writer, Miss Thorne.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush and I feel every ounce of color drain from my face. His smile widens slightly. “You seem shocked. Did you imagine a man in my position wouldn’t do a simple search on a journalist requesting an unscheduled interview?”

His voice flows like silk, so rich and smooth. Even in a moment like this, when I know very well that I’m in danger, there’s something . . . inviting about him. Something that makes me want to know just a little bit more.

I recover quickly, or at least try to. “Of course not. I’m just surprised, Mr. Knox, that a man in your position would take time from your busy schedule for an interview with someone who normally writes obituaries.”

“Maybe I find obituaries fascinating.” His expression doesn’t give anything away. “They’re the final punctuation on life’s story, aren’t they? A period at the end of a sentence that can’t be rewritten.” He leans back, studying me with uncomfortable intensity. “But you didn’t come here to discuss linguistic philosophy, did you, Miss Thorne? So what exactly are these ‘connections’ you’re investigating?”

My facade is crumbling a lot faster than anticipated. I can either retreat by asking vague questions about philanthropy, or I can jump headfirst into the abyss. As my mother would say:“The practical choice is always the right choice.”

So I leap.

“I think you’re involved in something that goes beyond your public image, Mr. Knox,” I say carefully, watching his reaction. “Something that happens in the shadows of your legitimate business. I’ve seen things that raise serious questions about your activities outside the boardroom.”

I watch his face for any hint of a reaction, but his expression remains perfectly stoic. Controlled. Even his dark eyes stay so focused on me that I’m confident he hasn’t blinked yet.

“That’s quite an accusation, Miss Thorne.”

“Observation,” I correct him. “I’m not making any accusations.” I impress even myself with the steady timbre of my voice. “An observation I found curious enough to investigate further.”

He drums the fingers of one hand slowly atop the armrest, my attention briefly distracted by the simple gesture. His fingers are long and thick, and for the briefest moment, I blush, imagining them doing unspeakable things to me.

“And what has your investigation revealed?” His tone remains conversational, but it still sends a shiver down my spine, reminding me of the danger that lurks just beneath his calm exterior.

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