Page 82 of The CEO

He steps closer, eliminating the remaining distance between us. “More real. More genuine. More consuming than anything I’ve felt since I was nine years old.”

The reference catches me off guard. “Nine?”

A shadow crosses his face. “The beginning. The moment that shaped everything that followed.” He takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving mine. “If you want the whole truth, Eve, we should start there. With the first death. With my mother’s boyfriend and the knife I used to end his life.”

The confession hangs in the air between us, the first of what I suspect will be many revelations. I search his face, looking for deception, for calculation, for the manipulative charm he’s so skilled at deploying.

I find only raw honesty, vulnerable and exposed.

“Then tell me,” I say, my voice softening slightly. “Tell me everything, from the beginning. And when you’re done, I’ll decide if there’s anything left between us worth salvaging.”

The vulnerability in his eyes deepens, along with something that looks dangerously like hope. “And if there isn’t?”

“Then I walk away,” I answer simply. “And you let me go.”

The ultimatum settles between us like a physical presence. For a moment, I think he might refuse—might retreat behind the walls of power and control that have defined him for so long. But then, there’s a flash of him: the real Damien. The one who haunts my dreams, taunting my body with whispers of how he has pleasured me.

“But if you decide to stay,” he steps toward me, his body coming over mine like a dark shadow, “I will own you. Completely.”

“I understand.”

He nods once, accepting the terms of this final negotiation. “Follow me.”

As I follow him deeper into the greenhouse, I’m acutely aware that the next few hours will determine everything: my future, his future, and whatever might exist between us.

The truth, in all its painful entirety, awaits.

Chapter16

Damien

My private study offers a more intimate environment for the conversation at hand. I move to a small bar cart in the corner, pulling out two crystal glasses. The weight of what I’m about to reveal presses down on me like a physical force.

“Thirty-year-old Macallan,” I say, handing her one of the glasses. “You might need it for what comes next.”

She accepts the glass but doesn’t drink, watching as I settle into an armchair across from the sofa where she’s chosen to sit. The space between us feels both necessary and too vast.

“Start at the beginning,” she says quietly. “You mentioned being nine years old.”

I take a long sip of whiskey, my eyes fixed on the fire rather than her. When I speak, my voice has lost its usual polished cadence.

“My mother was a dancer. Not the ballet or anything prestigious—she worked at clubs, taking off her clothes for men who saw her as nothing more than an object.” I pause, swirling the liquid in my glass. “She was beautiful, though. And kind, when she wasn’t high or drunk.”

Eve remains silent, letting me continue at my own pace.

“She had terrible taste in men. Drug dealers and pimps, mostly. Violent ones. There was a revolving door of them throughout my childhood.” My jaw tightens. “The last one was named Ray. He sold coke, slapped her around, and used me as a punching bag when she wasn’t available.”

The clinical detachment in my voice makes the words sound even more disturbing.

“One night, I came home from school and found her on the kitchen floor.” My eyes close briefly, the memory still vivid. “He’d beaten her badly before, but this time was different. There was so much blood. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing. I tried to wake her up, but she was already cold.”

Eve takes a sip of whiskey, and I’m sure the burn in her throat is a welcome distraction from the horror of my words.

“I didn’t cry,” I continue, my voice hollow. “I didn’t call the police. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I took a knife from the kitchen drawer—the biggest one we had—and I waited.”

The flames cast shadows across my face, highlighting the angles of my jaw, the darkness in my eyes.

“I waited for hours, sitting in the dark beside my mother’s body. When Ray finally came home, high and looking for her, I was ready.” My hand tightens around the glass. “I stabbed him twenty-seven times. I counted each one. The first few were clumsy—I was nine and he was a grown man. But once he fell, it became easier.”

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