Page 80 of The CEO

Morning light filters through the trees as I follow the narrow path behind the cabin. The forest here is different from the preserve where I first saw Damien—older, wilder, less touched by human hands. Pine needles cushion my steps, and occasionally, a branch snaps under my feet, the sound startling birds into flight.

I’ve walked this path every day since arriving, sometimes for hours, letting the rhythm of my footsteps calm my racing thoughts. Today I stop at a small clearing where sunlight dances across the forest floor. A fallen log serves as my seat as I gaze up at the canopy above, fragments of blue sky visible between leaves.

Justice, vengeance, forgiveness. These three words have circled in my mind for days, their meanings blurring and shifting. What does justice look like for my parents? For me? Is it Damien’s punishment? Victor Messini’s death? Or something else entirely?

The law failed my parents. The system designed to protect them left their killer untouched, their deaths neatly categorized as a tragic accident. The justice my father believed in—the ordered, logical process of law—proved inadequate in the face of power and wealth.

Perhaps that’s why Damien’s underground kingdom called to something in me from the moment I saw it. Perhaps that’s why, even knowing what he’d done, I felt drawn to the justice he represents—direct, uncompromising, final.

I pick up a pine cone, turning it in my hands as I confront a truth I’ve been avoiding: My attraction to Damien didn’t begin with that kiss in his study. It began the moment I saw him in the forest preserve, threatening Roberts with that cold, controlled power. Something in me recognized something in him: a darkness that matched my own, though I’d never acknowledged it before.

The realization sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the morning chill. I’ve spent years writing obituaries because death fascinates me. I’ve investigated murders the police ignored because justice consumes me. I pulled that trigger in the alley without hesitation and felt relief—not horror—when Kurt Ivy’s life ended.

The darkness has always been there, buried beneath layers of conventionality and grief. Damien didn’t create it; he merely recognized it, nurtured it, brought it to the surface.

“Who are you, Eve Thorne?” I whisper to myself, the question evaporating into the quiet forest.

The answer comes with unexpected clarity: I am my father’s daughter, with his unwavering belief in justice. I am my mother’s daughter, with her fierce protection of what she loved. But I am also my own woman, shaped by loss and grief, by righteous anger and unfulfilled potential.

And this woman, the one I am becoming, understands that conventional justice has never served me. That the system my father revered failed us both in the end. That perhaps there is justice to be found in shadows—in the underground chamber beneath Eden, in the throne room where power and consequence meet.

This woman understands that forgiveness and vengeance aren’t mutually exclusive. That justice can take many forms. That darkness, properly channeled, isn’t something to fear.

I stand, dropping the pine cone back to the forest floor. The path ahead is clearer now, though no less difficult. I know what I must do, which questions need answers, and which truths I need to hear.

It’s time to return to Chicago. Time to face Damien Knox one last time.

* * *

The familiar skyline grows larger in my windshield as I approach the city, its towering structures catching the afternoon sun. Two weeks away have done little to diminish the knot of anxiety in my stomach, but they’ve clarified my purpose, solidified my resolve.

I need answers—the complete, unvarnished truth about my parents’ deaths, about Victor Messini, about Damien’s role in everything. No more half-revelations, no more manipulation, no more strategic disclosures. Just truth, however painful.

After that, I’ll decide what justice looks like.

I drive directly to Eden, not bothering to stop at my apartment first. The security at the gate seems heightened since my last visit—more guards, more visible weapons. They recognize me immediately, their expressions shifting from alertness to surprise.

“Ms. Thorne,” one says, reaching for his radio. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“I’m here to see Damien,” I say simply, offering no explanation for my absence or return.

The guard speaks quietly into his radio, then nods. “You’re cleared to proceed. Foster will meet you at the main entrance.”

The drive up to the mansion feels longer than I remember, the Gothic structure growing more imposing with each turn of the winding road. When I park and step out, Foster is already waiting, his usually impassive face showing the first signs of emotion I’ve ever witnessed from him.

“Ms. Thorne,” he says, relief evident in his voice. “Welcome back.”

“Is that the official position of The Shadows?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my tone. “Or just yours?”

“Both,” he answers without hesitation. “Your absence has been . . . noted.”

The understatement almost makes me smile. “I need to see him.”

Foster nods, but hesitates before leading me inside. “He’s not in the main house. He’s been spending most of his time in the greenhouse lately.”

“Then take me there.”

“Of course.” He begins walking toward the mansion, toward the glass structure glittering in the late afternoon sun. “I should warn you,” he adds, his voice lowered, “he hasn’t been himself since you left.”

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