Page 9 of The CEO

“Stable but nothing remarkable. No significant debt outside of her student loans. She seems to live within her means.”

“Work performance?”

Foster flips to another page in the report. “That’s where things get a little interesting.” That piques my interest. “Three different instances where she conducted unsanctioned investigations. Most notable was four years ago—she compiled a mountain of evidence against a man she believed killed a woman whose obituary she wrote. Police dismissed her theories, but the evidence was pretty compelling.”

A smile tugs at my lips.

“Sir,” Foster hesitates, “if I may ask—why are we focusing on her? Standard protocol would be to retrieve the evidence and . . . eliminate any threats.”

I take a seat in my chair, leaning back as I pick up her scarf again. “Because she interests me and because I’ve been waiting a long time to bring her into our world.”

“She’s a journalist, sir. A liability.”

“She’s much more than that.” I run the scarf gently between my fingers as I stare at her image on the screen across from me. “She investigates the very same corruption we target. She simply lacks the resources to deliver proper justice.”

“With all due respect, sir, The Shadows requires your full attention and objective judgment. If this woman is a distraction?—”

“She’s not a distraction,” I say sharply, interrupting him. He meets my gaze evenly, one of the few men brave enough to do so, which is why I keep him around. “She’s an asset we’re going to cultivate.”

He knows better than to push further. “What are the next steps you’d like me to take regarding Eve Thorne?”

“Continue monitoring her. Full surveillance. Make sure you and your men are discreet, Foster. She has a photographer’s eye. And run a deeper background check on the people she’s been investigating. I want to know what she knows, see what she’s seeing.”

“And her camera and photos?”

“Leave them alone. I want to see what she does with them.”

Foster nods, though I can sense his unease. “Will that be all, sir?”

“One more thing: Have Amanda send her an invitation to the charity gala at Eden this weekend.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. “You’re inviting her to Eden?”

“I’m providing her with an opportunity to investigate further,” I smile, “in a controlled environment.”

“And if she declines?”

“She won’t.” I turn back to the security footage, watching her careful movements through the trees. “The curiosity will be too much for her to resist.”

The certainty in my voice masks my internal unrest. Eve Thorne, watching me from the shadows. Eve Thorne, capturing evidence of my other life. Eve Thorne, suddenly real and tangible after eight years of surveillance and distance.

I dismiss Foster with a nod, needing solitude to process this development. My fingers find their way to my chest, tracing the outline of Eve’s name tattooed over my heart. The mark I’ve carried since seeing her at her parents’ funeral . . . a permanent reminder of the night that changed everything.

A memory rises unbidden, more vivid than usual. Not of Eve at the funeral, but of what came before. What led me to her. What made me the man I am today.

There I am, nine years old, small for my age but quick, hiding in the cramped kitchen cabinet beneath the sink. I can almost feel the fear that burned in my chest. Ray, my mom’s boyfriend, is home early. His footsteps are heavy and uneven.

Drunk again. Angry again. Always so angry.

“Maria!” His voice booms through our small apartment. “Where the fuck are you, bitch?”

I curl tighter into myself, arms wrapped around my knees, trying to become invisible. I know what’s coming—I’ve seen it played out dozens of times. Mom will try to calm him. He’ll hit her. She’ll cry. Eventually, he’ll pass out, and tomorrow, they’ll pretend nothing happened.

Except today is different. Today, Ray found the money Mom was hiding: her tips from the club where she dances—cash she’d been secretly saving so we could leave, to start over somewhere he couldn’t find us.

“You think you can steal from me?” His voice sounds different today . . . colder, more controlled despite the alcohol. “After everything I’ve done for you and that little freak of yours?”

I hear Mom’s voice, pleading, explaining. Then the sound of flesh hitting flesh—a slap, followed by something harder. A thud as she falls. The scenario is familiar, but the intensity is new. Ray isn’t just angry tonight; he’s enraged.

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