Page 43 of The CEO

I smile slightly, not denying the name. “Hypothetically speaking, such an organization would require individuals with exceptional means—people who are well connected.”

“People like . . . you,” she concludes.

“Hypothetically.”

The moment stretches between us, charged with unspoken implications. I’ve neither confirmed nor denied the existence of The Shadows, but I’ve given her enough confirmation that it could change her plans regarding what she’s going to do with this information.

“Why are you telling me this?” Confusion briefly overrides her professional composure.

“Because I’m never wrong about people, and what I see in you is exactly what my mentor saw in me. You’re not an idiot, and I don’t plan on treating you like one. You’re well aware of the evidence you’ve found, and I’m sure it’s compelling. But more importantly,” I say, narrowing my gaze on her, “you want it to be true, don’t you?”

Color rises in her cheeks. She knows I’m right.

“This doesn’t mean I condone whatever vigilante justice you’re implying,” she counters, though without the conviction I would expect. “I’m searching for a story and I believe in truth—no extrajudicial punishment.”

“Are you certain about that?” I challenge softly. “Your investigation into that woman’s murder years ago suggests otherwise. When legal systems failed to deliver justice, you continued pursuing it through alternative means.”

She stiffens, surprised by my knowledge of that incident. “That was different.”

“Was it?” I move to my desk, retrieving an item from the drawer. “Or did you simply lack the resources to implement the justice you knew was deserved?”

I extend my hand, revealing a small wooden box containing a precision-crafted handgun—matte black with a custom grip.

“What is this?” she asks, not touching the weapon.

“Protection. Insurance.” I hold her gaze steadily. “Chicago can be dangerous for people asking a lot of questions.”

“So you offer me a gun?” Her voice goes up an octave, and she’s clearly distressed.

“I’m offering you a choice, Eve.” I set the box on the desk between us and pull out the second item I’ve been saving for her: an NDA. “Continue your investigation with appropriate protection, or sign a non-disclosure agreement about what you’ve discovered about me and walk away.”

Her eyes move between the gun, the NDA, and my face, understanding dawning. I’m allowing her investigation to continue.

“I don’t need a gun,” she finally says, making no move to take it. “And I won’t sign an NDA preventing me from pursuing the truth.”

“Then we find ourselves at an impasse.”

“Do we?” She gathers her things with deliberate calm. “Because I think you want me to continue my investigation. You want me to follow these connections where they lead.”

“And what makes you think that?” Her assessment is uncomfortably accurate.

“Because you’re still talking to me instead of having your security team handle me.” She tucks the folder into her bag. “Because you showed me your greenhouse and hinted at who you really are. Because you just offered me protection rather than threatening consequences.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game with dangerous people, Eve. I’m only trying to help,” I warn her.

“So are you, Damien,” she counters, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “The only difference is, I’m not playing by your rules.”

Our eyes lock in a silent challenge. She’s crossed a threshold by directly accusing me with her discoveries, just as I’ve crossed one in acknowledging rather than denying them. The game has evolved between us, shifting away from my original design, becoming something more complex and a lot more exciting.

“I should go,” she says, finally moving toward the door.

“Take the gun, Eve.” I speak softly, but my authority is clearly conveyed. “Chicago has shadows darker than mine.”

She hesitates, chewing her lip for a moment before turning back and picking up the box. “This doesn’t mean I agree to anything, and I’m not signing the NDA.”

“Of course not.” I open the door for her and she pauses briefly next to me, our proximity to each other almost overwhelming. “It simply means you’re being practical.”

As she passes me, I notice the subtle flinch at my slight touch of her elbow. It’s not fear though—adrenaline, perhaps? The nervous energy that comes with stepping deliberately into enemy territory—dangerous but irresistibly compelling.

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