Page 93 of The CEO

How strange that I feel peace this morning, lying beside the man who helped cover up my parents’ murder. The rational part of my brain still insists I should hate him—should walk away from this darkness before it consumes me completely. But that voice grows fainter with each passing hour, drowned out by a deeper understanding of what binds us together.

Forgiveness isn’t forgetting. It isn’t absolution or erasure of sin. It’s a choice—my choice—to move forward carrying knowledge rather than hatred. To acknowledge the wrongdoing without letting it define my future. To see the man Damien is now alongside the man he was eight years ago.

My finger continues its path across his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath warm skin. His eyelids flutter at my touch but don’t open. He’s exhausted—we both are—after a night spent redefining the boundaries between us, exploring this new territory of honesty and vulnerability with our bodies when words failed us.

“Are you real?” His voice, rough with sleep, startles me from my thoughts. His eyes remain closed, but his arm tightens around my waist.

“Very,” I reply, splaying my palm flat against his chest, covering my name with my hand.

“I thought last night might have been a dream.” His eyes open, now serious despite the lingering softness of sleep. “That I’d wake up and find you gone again.”

The naked vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard. This man who commands an empire of shadows, who dispenses justice with calculated precision, who ends lives without hesitation . . . reduced to uncertainty by the fear I might disappear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure him.

His hand captures mine, pressing it harder against his chest. “You chose this,” he says, not quite a question but seeking confirmation nonetheless. “Knowing everything, you chose to stay.”

“I did.” I shift closer, feeling the heat of his body against mine. “I chose you, knowing exactly who you are, what you’ve done.”

His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with unexpected tenderness. “Does that frighten you? Being linked to me, and to The Shadows?”

I consider the question seriously, examining my feelings without the filters of conventional morality or societal expectation. “Not frightened,” I finally say. “Changed. Like I’ve been sleepwalking through my life since my parents died, and now I’m finally awake.”

“You were never meant for half-measures, Eve. Never meant for the sanitized obituaries of strangers. You were always destined for more.”

“For this?” I gesture between us.

“For this,” he confirms, pulling me closer until my head rests on his chest, directly over my name inked into his skin. “For us.”

I close my eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear. There should be turmoil in my soul—conflict about the path I’ve chosen. Instead, I feel only certainty: a strange, calm clarity about who I am and where I belong.

Not in spite of the darkness, but because of it. Not despite knowing what Damien is capable of, but because I now understand what I’m capable of too. We lie together as the sun climbs higher, neither of us speaking, both understanding that something fundamental has shifted between us. No longer manipulator and target, no longer hunter and prey, no longer separated by secrets or guilt.

And for the first time since my parents died, I feel completely, terrifyingly alive.

* * *

TheTribunenewsroom buzzes with familiar energy as I settle at my desk after weeks away.

“Thorne! Is that you?” Brian’s voice booms across the room, causing several heads to glance my way for a moment before returning to their screens.

“Morning, Brian,” I reply with practiced casualness, powering up my computer as though I haven’t been mysteriously absent.

He approaches my desk, coffee mug clutched in one hand, dark circles shadowing his eyes. His rumpled shirt and loosened tie suggest he’s been here since early morning—typical for when we’re closing in on a major story.

“Two weeks, Thorne,” he says, planting himself against my half-wall. “More than two weeks, actually, without so much as a text, and you waltz in like it’s nothing?”

“I sent an email,” I remind him, referencing the message I’d composed from the cabin, explaining a family emergency requiring immediate attention following my “bout with the flu.”

“A vague email about a family emergency when, as far as I know, you don’thaveany family.” His voice lowers as he leans closer, studying my face with the keen observation that made him a good journalist before management dulled his edges. “You disappear right after bringing up dangerous accusations about one of the most powerful men in Chicago, then return looking . . .” He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in my appearance.

“Looking what?” I prompt, meeting his gaze steadily.

“Different,” he concludes, folding his arms across his chest. “Focused. Energized.” His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he believes me, but he’s at least relieved to see that I’m okay. “You planning to share what this mysterious discovery might be?”

“Not today.” I turn to my computer, pulling up the template for obituaries I’ve written hundreds of times before. “But I do have something to discuss with you when you have a moment.”

His curiosity is visibly piqued, and he gestures toward his office. “I have a moment now.”

---