Page 30 of The CEO

But he’s already gone, swallowed into the crowd before I can make out anything about him.

I jump onto the train, my heart pounding so erratically, I’m worried I’ll have a panic attack if I don’t get my breathing under control. I close my eyes, sinking down into a seat, as I take several long, slow breaths.

The man’s words echo loudly in my ears.

“The serpent’s garden.”

Eden.

By the time I’ve made it to my stop and climbed the stairs to my apartment, I’ve almost convinced myself I imagined the entire encounter. That it was a manifestation of my anxiety about Damien and his invitation.

Almost . . . but not quite.

My apartment feels different, but nothing is technically out of place. It’s a subtle feeling—the air disturbed in ways only I would notice. I glance around at objects aligned a little too perfectly, like someone could have picked them up, examined them, and tried to replace them perfectly.

I set down my bags and methodically check each room, looking for concrete evidence of intrusion or signs that I’m being watched or followed. Even with no evidence, I’m certain someone has been here, invading my space.

Only after completing my inspection do I notice the small envelope pushed almost completely beneath the fruit bowl on my counter. I move the bowl, staring down at the envelope.

“Tongs,” I say to myself, darting over to grab a pair from a drawer. I slowly reach them out to pick up the envelope, flipping it over. It’s plain, white, unmarked. It isn’t sealed, so I hold it open, not wanting to touch it with my bare hands. I grab a pen and hold the envelope open while using the tongs to pull out the single business card that’s inside.Detective Michael Reeves, Chicago PD.On the back, handwritten in blue ink, I read:

Not safe to meet Sunday. Watch your back. Trust no one.

A chill spreads through me as I drop the tongs onto the counter. If Reeves couldn’t safely meet me, then what does that say about the power Damien wields? And how the hell did this warning get into my locked apartment?

My gaze drifts over to the bags I dropped by the front door, the warning from the train platform still reverberating in my brain as well.

Cancel. Walk away now.

Instead, I reach for my phone, typing a message to Damien’s number that I saved in my phone earlier.

Me

I’ll attend. What time can I expect the car?

His response comes almost immediately, as if he’s been waiting by his phone for my confirmation.

Damien

8 p.m.

I debate whether I should say something back, but decide against it just as a second and final text comes in from him.

Damien

Eager to see which dress you chose, Eve. Good night.

The implication, or almost admission, that he is in fact watching me, should terrify me . . . and it does. But more than that, it excites me.

Whatever game Damien is playing, whatever web he’s weaving, I’m now determined to unravel it from the inside out, before he unravels me.

Chapter6

Damien

I’d watched as Eve Thorne’s day unfolded across my computer screens: her morning coffee, the conversation with Detective Reeves our wiretaps picked up, her visit to the boutique where I had called and opened an account over the phone.

“Sir.” Foster stands in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral as he watches the surveillance footage.

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