Page 2 of The CEO

“Handle it,” he says before turning and limping toward my car, where he climbs into the back seat.

And I did—efficiently. Making sure to completely erase any shred of his involvement.

I lift the photo closer, studying the angles of her face and the slender curve of her neck. Even in grief, she’s beautiful . . . magnetic. In the days leading up to the funeral, I had spent an unhealthy amount of time watching her. At first it was just out of curiosity, wanting to know who she was. It was the first time I had ever researched a victim.

I convinced myself it was recon—that I needed to know my enemy, keep an eye on her in case she ever decided to do any digging on her parents’ accident. But quickly, it escalated. And somewhere between surveillance and background checks, I fucked up. My curiosity started to become an obsession . . . a dangerous one.

The last time I saw her was that day at the cemetery. Tucked far away among the headstones, I captured her image through my lens. I’ll never forget the feeling that took over me when I studied her face.

Her vulnerability should have disgusted me. Weakness always does. But it didn’t. Instead, it awakened something in me—something I hadn’t felt since I was nine years old—on the day I watched my mother’s life drain from her eyes at the hands of her boyfriend.

My chest tightens again, just like it did the day I first saw her—the same primal urge to possess her rushing through me.

It was that feeling that made me decide to walk away that night. Not guilt or remorse, but fear. Even as I stared at the photo on my computer screen, I knew that it wasn’t just a passing interest I had developed in Eve Thorne. It was the first time I’d felt I could lose control. She made me feel something that in my world could get you killed in a second.

Feelings are a luxury men like me don’t have.

Even now, I wish I could banish the memories of her from my head and free myself from this mental prison I’ve created. I let out a long breath, noticing the pattern on my dashboard created by the sun dancing through the leaves overhead. Although I have my windows up, I can hear the songs of a few birds nearby, a stark contrast to the ever-present darkness surrounding me.

I glance down at the photo one last time. The image of the beautiful woman whose life was forever altered at my mentor’s request. I only ever let myself linger on it for a few moments, afraid that someday I won’t be able to put it away again.

I bring the photo to my nose, as if I’ll be able to smell her through the image, before slipping it back inside my coat pocket. I press it against my chest briefly, the gesture sending an electric current straight through me, radiating from the spot where her name is etched into my skin.

I slip my hand beneath my shirt, fingertips tracing the memorized lines of the tattoo that spans my chest. The ink is a constant reminder—a self-inflicted wound that never heals.Eve.A permanent mark of my weakness.

I tuck it safely inside my coat pocket and turn to start my vehicle, but then movement just across the pond catches my attention. A woman walks slowly along the shoreline, a camera hanging from her neck—something not uncommon in this preserve, especially with the local ornithology club.

Instead of leaving, I watch her for another moment. The wind catches her green scarf, making it dance around her shoulders as she raises her camera to capture something in the distance.

My eyes stay trained on her, but something shifts in my chest the closer she gets. I squint, trying to analyze her features, but she’s still too far away. She snaps a few more photos, then continues walking until she’s close enough that when she turns to reveal her profile, my pulse quickens. A familiar unease starts to rush through my body as I reach for my phone.

“It can’t be,” I say, opening the camera and zooming in on her face. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I’m hallucinating; I have to be. I close my eyes as if that is going to erase the image of her, but it doesn’t.

“Eve.” Her name falls from my lips like a whispered prayer.

How is this possible?

I continue watching her, unable to pull my gaze away even if I wanted to. She looks slightly different—her face has lost that fullness of youth, her jawline more severe and angled. But her eyes . . . her eyes are just as intense.

Eight years since I’ve felt that familiar pull she created in me.

Eight years since I made the decision to walk away.

I’ve taken over my mentor’s business in that time, growing it from a success to an empire. I’ve become a god in the boardroom and the devil in the underworld.

But seeing her now, all of that carefully constructed control feels like it’s a house of cards, ready to fall at any second.

She pauses, kneeling down by the water as she adjusts her lens. That familiar pull in my chest returns—the feeling of knowing she has no idea I’m here. No idea I’m watching her. No idea who I even am.

A thought that both relieves and disappoints me.

Even though I decided to step away from watching her, I made sure to have my security detail keep a file on her. While I couldn’t trust myself to maintain a safe distance, I wanted to ensure she stayed safe. I don’t check it—I never have—and my head of security, Foster, doesn’t ask questions when I randomly ask about her. He simply provides me with direct answers that don’t offer much detail.

I’ve kept the questions to a minimum over the years, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of her situation. I know she studied English in college, graduating with honors. I know she lives in a small apartment in a neighborhood on the West Side. I know she writes obituaries for theChicago Tribune. . . and I know about her secret investigations.

The investigation into her parents’ deaths that I made sure ended before it began.

The investigation into a local woman who was murdered by a cop, but the police dismissed the case.

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