Page 28 of The CEO

How did he even find my scarf? How long had he known I was watching? And most disturbing: What else does he know about me?

Over the last few hours, my research on Knox has expanded from a single browser tab to a dedicated folder on my desktop. So far, it contains frustratingly little . . . just some public records of his business holdings, charity contributions, and society page appearances, all painting the picture of the perfect man. Nothing I can find, no matter how deep I go, connects to whatever The Shadows might be or explains who The Skull is.

The only damning evidence I have is my sliver of a connection between Knox Industries and the three businessmen I found. While that is suspicious alongside the conversation I overheard between him and Roberts, it wouldn’t prove anything to either the court or the police. I would be laughed out of any office if I tried to present this theory based on a hunch. Plus I’d have to admit I was spying on him without his knowledge.

Even though all three of these men died suspiciously, the timing could only be described as “unfortunate” considering their failed deals with Knox. It’s circumstantial at best, and nothing any credible news outlet would publish or even investigate. But the details nag at me, like a splinter just beneath the surface of the skin.

I open a new document and create a timeline, placing these deaths alongside major Knox Industries business announcements. Three data points aren’t enough to establish a definitive pattern, but they form a troublesome question, and I need more information.

My phone sits on the desk beside me, Damien’s business card propped against it, with his private number written on the back in precise, angular numbers. It calls to me like a forbidden fruit, tempting me toward something I know can change everything.

The invitation to his charity gala at Eden feels like bait for an obvious trap, and yet . . . I’m considering taking it anyway.

I pick up the card, flipping it over carefully in my fingers. I study it as if it’s going to reveal something I don’t already know. Another one of my father’s wise quotes comes back to me:“The best way to know your enemy is to enter their territory. Nothing will ever tell you more about someone than when they’re comfortable in their own surroundings. They always let their guard down just enough.”

But my dad was talking about journalists who go behind enemy lines to interview dictators on the world’s stage. He wasn’t talking about walking unprotected into a lion’s den with a bloody steak around your neck.

I close my laptop, the sudden darkness of my apartment amplifying the silence. In the quiet, doubt starts to creep in.

What am I doing?I’m an obituary writer, not an investigative journalist. I don’t have institutional backing, legal protection, or even basic training for this kind of situation.

What I do have is a growing certainty that Damien Knox is not the poster child Chicago believes him to be, and questions that only get louder the more I try to ignore them.

Yawning, I finally drag myself to bed. I won’t be able to stay on my toes with a lack of sleep. I’ll continue my research down the rabbit hole tomorrow.

* * *

“You look like hell warmed over,” Ingrid observes as I drop into my chair at work the next morning. “Late night with Mr. Right?” She bounces her eyebrows playfully.

I manage a weak smile while clutching my extra-large coffee like a lifeline. “Afraid not. Just couldn’t sleep, so I caught up on some research.”

“Must be some project. You’ve got the thousand-yard stare going.” She leans closer when I don’t respond, her voice lower this time. “Seriously, Eve, you okay? You’ve been a little off the last few days.”

“I’m fine.” The lie comes easily, practiced from years of assuring people I’m okay when I’m anything but. “I’m just going through a little insomnia phase is all.” I yawn, punctuating my statement.

She looks unconvinced but thankfully drops the subject when her phone rings. I turn to my computer, pulling up the obituary templates for the ones I need to complete before lunch. Today’s subjects: an elderly schoolteacher, a mid-level bank manager, and a retired postal worker. Lives distilled down to a few paragraphs, and legacies reduced to a list of causes and survivors.

Even with the extra caffeine, my mind keeps drifting to Damien, The Shadows, and what might await at Eden this weekend . . . if I decide to go.

I force myself to focus, typing mechanical descriptions of lives I never knew.

I open my contacts, adding Damien Knox’s private number to my list before returning my attention to obituaries. I check my watch as I submit my final work for the day, and realize there’s still time to check out a small boutique I always pass on my way into work. If I’m going to attend a gala, I first have to find something appropriate to wear. I’m confident my one pencil skirt and blazer won’t do the trick this time.

As I gather my things, I notice Ingrid watching me, her expression concerned. Before I can acknowledge her, she turns away, busying herself with her computer. Something about the way she looked at me makes me wonder if she knows more about what I’m researching than she’s letting on.

I’ll deal with that later. For now, I have a dress to buy.

The boutique is nestled in Chicago’s Gold Coast, its understated exterior plain compared to the stunning gowns that hang in the window. I hesitate at the door, suddenly aware of how out of place I am in my work clothes and sensible shoes. This is a shop for women who carry credit cards with limits higher than most mortgages, and last names they wield like weapons.

“May I help you?” The saleswoman’s soft voice interrupts my thoughts when I finally muster the nerve to open the door and step inside.

“Um, hi.” I glance around nervously. “I need a dress for a gala,” I blurt out.

“Well, you have certainly come to the right place then. I’m Giselle—a pleasure.” She walks around the counter in a sweeping motion, her hand extended out toward me politely. “What kind of dress did you have in mind?”

“I’m not really sure; I’ve never been to a gala before. I guess I’m not even sure what’s acceptable at an event like that.”

“No worries, that’s what I’m for.” Her smile is polite and genuine and starts to put me at ease. “Most galas are black tie, so let’s go with that assumption. That would be our floor-length gowns over here. Can you tell me more about the event, such as where it will be held?”

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