Page 60 of The CEO

Mrs. Eleanor Winters, beloved grandmother of six, passed peacefully on Tuesday surrounded by family . . .

My fingers hover over the keys, but the words won’t come.

Instead, I see Kurt’s face—the moment of shock as the bullet tore through him. I feel the weight of the gun in my hand, the recoil as I pulled the trigger. I taste the metallic tang of fear and exhilaration that flooded my mouth.

I try again.

Mrs. Eleanor Winters, whose charity work spanned five decades . . .

But my mind drifts to the way Damien moved in that alley: precise, controlled, deadly. The way he looked at Kurt like he was nothing more than a problem to solve. The way my body responded to that casual display of power.

What would Eleanor Winters’ enemies say about her, if they could speak freely? What secrets did she take to her grave? What justice went undelivered in her ninety-three years?

I slam my laptop closed, my breath coming too fast. What’s happening to me? Since when do I look at a grandmother’s obituary and wonder about vengeance?

Since I pulled that trigger. Since I watched a man die and felt . . . relieved. Vindicated. Powerful.

I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. This isn’t me. This can’t be me. But even as I think it, a voice whispers from some dark corner of my mind:But what if it is?What if this is who you’ve always been, beneath the polite fictions and social constraints? What if Damien didn’t create this in you, but rather, he just recognized what was already there?

My phone buzzes in my purse, startling me from my spiraling thoughts. I fumble for it, welcoming the distraction. Four missed calls from Brian. Three text messages asking where I am. And suddenly, I remember.

“Shit,” I whisper, the memory of our conversation rushing back.

I was supposed to meet Brian today to show him the evidence I’d gathered on Damien. Evidence I no longer have—or at least, evidence I’m no longer willing to share.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

My heart races as I stare at the screen. What am I going to tell him? That I’ve changed my mind? That the story isn’t viable? That I’ve fallen in with the very man I was investigating?

None of those options seem particularly appealing, especially since Brian was skeptical about my investigation from the start. Coming back empty-handed will only confirm his assumption that I was chasing shadows.

I can’t face that conversation today. Not when I can still smell gunpowder and blood if I breathe too deeply. Not when my lips still tingle from Damien’s kiss.

With shaking fingers, I type out a text:

Me:Brian, I’ve come down with a terrible flu. High fever, can’t stop throwing up. Won’t be in today. Can we postpone our meeting until later this week when I’m back on my feet?

I send it before I can overthink things, watching the message bubble whoosh away. It’s not my most convincing lie, but it buys me time. Time to figure out what story I’m going to tell Brian. Time to decide what I’m going to do about Damien and what I now know about The Shadows.

My phone buzzes with a text almost immediately:

Brian:Feel better. We’ll talk Thursday.

Relief washes over me, followed by a fresh wave of anxiety. Thursday. Three days to come up with a plausible explanation for why I’m abandoning what I’d presented as the biggest story of my career. Three days to decide what I’m going to do about the fact that I’m now complicit in not one but two deaths.

I push myself up from the floor, moving to the kitchen on autopilot. Coffee. I need coffee. And a shower. And maybe to burn these clothes that still feel contaminated despite being freshly laundered at Damien’s penthouse.

As water heats for coffee, I catch my reflection in the microwave door. I look the same. Same dark hair, same eyes, same features. But something behind my eyes has changed—a hardness that wasn’t there before, and a knowledge that can’t be unlearned.

In killing Kurt, I crossed a line I never thought I’d approach, let alone step over. In kissing Damien, I crossed another.

And I’m not sure which terrifies me more: that I might regret these steps . . . or that I won’t.

* * *

The sheets tangle around my legs as I thrash in half-sleep, caught in dreams that blur the line between nightmare and forbidden fantasy. Damien’s face hovers above mine, his expression shifting between cruelty and desire, his hands everywhere at once—on my throat, between my thighs, tangled in my hair.

“I will fuck you like I own you, because after this, I do.”

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