Page 17 of The CEO

But I don’t let the fear deter me. I’ve already lost everything, so the only thing left that he could take would be my life, and I’m not so sure I even care about that anymore.

I’ve only ever called in to work sick two times, and today will be the third. Brian didn’t seem to care much and didn’t press for any further details. Just dismissed me with his usual brashness: “Well, don’t expect any grace on your deadlines for the week because of this, Eve. You’re an adult; figure it out.”

“Of course not, sir. I’ll have everything done in time.”

He hangs up without a goodbye, and I toss my phone onto my bed then reach for the sensible, no-nonsense outfit I picked out for this impromptu meeting: a navy blazer, white blouse, and matching navy pencil skirt. It’s the outfit I wore to my interview at theTribyears ago, and I’m pretty confident that was the last time I wore it.

As I grab my things and head for the door, I give myself one last glance in the floor-length mirror in my hallway. I look professional, so at least there’s that. Hopefully it will be enough to get me in the door.

What if they don’t even let me past the lobby?

I stop in my tracks, an embarrassing flush coming over me as I start to panic and talk myself out of doing this.

How could I not have even considered that I might not make it past the lobby? Of course I won’t. A man like Damien Knox has more layers of security than the president. Then again, if the odds are that I won’t even make it to the elevators, I guess there really is no harm in going . . . is there?

I shrug, yanking open my apartment door and locking it before I can change my mind again.

Knox Industries occupies all fifty-eight floors of the impressive skyscraper in downtown Chicago that also bears his name in massive letters. I shield my eyes from the morning sun as I stare up at the impressive building. It’s not the tallest in the city by far, but if his goal was intimidation, he nailed it.

Ignoring the burning pit in my stomach, I stop procrastinating and whisk through the revolving door with a few other people I assume are employees. As expected, there are X-ray machines and metal detectors before you can even scan your badge to get past the lobby. But that’s not what catches my eye. It’s a massive, shiny black sculpture in the middle of the marble lobby. Something about it makes me feel uncomfortable, but I push the thought aside.

When I pass through security, I approach the large, ornate desk that has two security guards sitting behind it. With feigned confidence, I push my shoulders back, hold my press badge in my hand, and plaster a huge smile on my face.

“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Knox.” I tilt my head, suggestively biting my lip just enough that the other guard notices.

“Do you have an appointment, Miss?”

“Yes,” I say, again with feigned confidence. “Miss Eve Thorne, from theChicago Tribune.” I hold my breath as I watch him click through the calendar.

“Sorry, not seeing anything with that name. You can call?—”

“What?” I interrupt him, my hands flying to the counter. “Oh my God, you have to be kidding, right?” He looks confused. “Shit! I thought I had called to make the appointment. Ugh, my boss is gonnakillme.” I really start to put on a show, pouting my bottom lip.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t?—”

I let the tears start. “I know, I’m just so . . .” I fan my face, tilting my head backward a little for extra effect. “My boss already hates me, and he thinks I’m an idiot. This was supposed to be my big break, my chance to ‘prove myself,’ as my boss put it.” I roll my eyes. “We’re doing this huge profile piece on Mr. Knox, and I was tasked with the portion about his philanthropy and how amazing he is for the city of Chicago.” I make sure to lay it on thick, and it must be working, because both men look at each other then back at me, like they feel sorry for me.

“I was hoping to get just a few direct quotes, and now . . .” My lip starts quivering again. “Now I’ll be fired and probably homeless.”

“Shit, okay, listen . . . I’m not supposed to do this, but I’ve been in your shoes. Let me call up to his assistant. She’s a friend of mine, so maybe she can squeeze you in.”

“You would do that?” I jump up and down. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He still looks a little skeptical, but he picks up the phone and steps aside just far enough that I can only make out fragments of the conversation.

“Yeah,Tribunereporter . . . no, just a quote or something . . . yeah, okay, sounds good.” After what feels like an eternity, he hangs up. “Take that elevator just over there up to the top floor, and someone will meet you there.”

I glance down at his name tag as I reach for his hand and give it a quick squeeze. “Thank you a million times over, Joe. Karma will repay you for this.”

The elevator ascends with stomach-dropping speed, each floor giving me another chance to walk out of here. I reach inside my purse and pull out my compact, dabbing beneath my eyes to make sure I didn’t ruin my makeup. By the time the doors open on the 58th floor, I’ve mentally rehearsed and discarded at least a dozen ways to approach this.

A tall, impossibly thin woman waits for me, a tablet in her hand and a stunning smile on her face. “Miss Thorne? I’m Amanda, Mr. Knox’s executive assistant. I understand you’re here about a philanthropy piece for theTribune?”

“Yes.” I smile, reaching for her outstretched hand. She ushers me through a reception area that looks like it came from the cover ofArchitectural Digest. “I’m profiling Chicago’s most charitable businessmen.”

“I’m sure he will be happy to oblige your questions.” She gestures to a seating area. “Mr. Knox is currently in a meeting. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

I’m about to refuse when I realize how dry my mouth has suddenly become. “Water?”

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