Page 72 of The CEO

Understanding begins to dawn, horror rising with it, and acid burning the back of my throat.

“And you did,” I whisper, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. “You covered it up. You made it look like someone else was driving.”

His expression remains carefully neutral. “Yes.”

The confirmation echoes in my ears, a deathly blow to everything I thought existed between us.

“Were they—” My voice breaks, and I have to start again. “Were they alive when you got there?” The question claws its way out of my throat, desperate and raw.

Something shifts in Damien’s eyes, a shadow of what might be regret. “Your father was already gone. Your mother . . .” He hesitates, and I know he’s weighing how much truth to give me. “She was still breathing when I arrived.”

A wounded sound escapes me, primal and broken. My mother was alive. She was still there, still breathing, while this man decided her fate.

“Did you talk to her?” I demand, tears now falling freely down my face. “Did she say anything? Did she know what was happening?” My voice rises with each question, hysteria edging in as images flood my mind: my mother trapped and bleeding, while Damien and his mentor decided to let her die.

“She wasn’t conscious,” Damien says, his voice softening marginally. “She couldn’t have felt any pain.”

“How do you know?” I cry, wrapping my arms around myself as if I might physically hold together the pieces that are breaking apart inside me. “How could you possibly know what she felt?”

“Eve—”

“Did you check her pulse? Did you call for help? Did you do anything to save her?” Each question comes faster, more desperate, with tears blurring my vision until Damien is just a dark shape across from me.

“No,” he admits, the word hanging heavy between us. “Victor gave the order, and I followed it. I made sure there were no witnesses, no evidence pointing to him. I staged another driver behind the wheel—a homeless man who’d died of an overdose earlier that day.”

I bend forward, a wave of nausea hitting me so hard, I think I might be sick right here on his expensive carpet. My mother was still alive, and he didn’t even try to save her. He just . . . stood there. Watched. Calculated.

“You could have called an ambulance!” I sob, my hands fisting in my hair. “You could have given her a chance. Even if it was small, even if it was hopeless, you could have tried.” My voice breaks on the last word, dissolving into heaving gasps that shake my entire body.

The reality of what he’s confessing crashes over me in waves. My parents died because a rich, powerful man was too drunk to stay in his lane, and Damien—the man I’ve been falling for—ensured he never faced consequences.

“I need to know,” I manage between sobs, forcing myself to look up at him. “I need to know everything. How it happened. What you did. Don’t you dare leave out a single detail.”

Damien studies me for a moment, then nods once. He walks to the window, his back to me as he speaks.

“I was at a fundraiser when Victor called. He was panicking, which was unusual for him. He told me there’d been an accident, and that I needed to come immediately.” His voice is steady, clinical, as if recounting events from a case file rather than describing the night that destroyed my life.

“I arrived seventeen minutes later. The road was deserted—it was after midnight, raining heavily. Victor’s Bentley was partially embedded in your parents’ sedan. The impact had pushed their car nearly thirty feet off the road.”

I close my eyes, but that only makes the images clearer, more vivid.

“Victor was still behind the wheel, bleeding from a cut on his temple. He was conscious but disoriented—the airbag had deployed, and he was still heavily intoxicated.”

“And my parents?” I whisper, needing the details even as they tear me apart inside.

“Your father was in the driver’s seat. The steering column had crushed his chest on impact. He died instantly.” Damien turns to face me, his expression grave. “Your mother was in the passenger seat. The side impact had caused severe head trauma. She was breathing, but it was shallow, irregular. Her injuries were . . . catastrophic.”

A fresh wave of tears streams down my face as I picture my mother in those final moments. Had she known my father was gone? Had she been afraid? In pain?

“What did you do?” I whisper, though I already know.

“I helped Victor from his car. Called our cleanup team—specialists who handle . . . delicate situations. While waiting for them to arrive, I checked the area for witnesses, traffic cameras, anything that might connect Victor to the scene.”

“My mother was still alive while you did all this?” My voice breaks, the betrayal so deep it feels physical.

“Yes.” He doesn’t flinch from the truth. “But by the time I returned to the cars, she had stopped breathing. The team arrived three minutes later. They removed Victor’s DNA from the scene, positioned the body of the homeless man behind the wheel of his Bentley, and staged it to look like a stolen vehicle crash.”

I press my hands against my mouth, trying to hold back the keening sound building in my throat. All these years, I’d believed the official story: a drunk driver who stole a luxury car, took a joyride, and killed my parents in a tragic accident. But it was all a lie—an elaborate cover-up to prevent a rich, powerful man from facing justice.

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