The CEO-Sneak Peek

PROLOGUE – DAMIEN

Six Months Earlier . . . 

The forest preserve sits silent around me, a small, welcome sanctuary just outside Chicago’s chaos. When I donated this land to Cook County several years ago, it wasn’t out of the generosity of my philanthropic heart. It was calculated and strategic—like every single decision I make when it comes to my public image.

Now this place is my refuge away from that world and sometimes even serves as a place to conduct business that pertains to a different world. One where secrecy and loyalty are required above all else. One where a single mistake can end with you begging on your hands and knees at my feet. 

I sit motionless in my car that’s parked deep in the shadows, just on the edge of the lot where the tree line meets the asphalt. My fingers run absentmindedly over the worn photograph in my hands, a habit I’ve developed over the last eight years.

“Eight years,” I mumble, recalling the day I took the photo like it was yesterday. The color has dulled over time, yet her face remains just as clear as that day. 

Evelina Thorne. 

Her face is partially obscured by a long strand of her hair caught in the wind, but it doesn’t completely obscure her features, which are twisted with grief. Her fingers are knotted together, a crumpled tissue in her hands. 

And just out of frame—the matching coffins of her parents.

Rain pelts my face as I stand among the distant headstones, camera in hand, lens focused on her face. She doesn't know I'm here, doesn’t know I exist. Her dress is soaked through, clinging to her frame, but she refuses the umbrella a mourner tries to offer. 

The rain mixing with her tears feels right to her. I understand that need for physical pain to match emotional suffering. 

Lightning cracks overhead as she looks up, eyes scanning the cemetery as if sensing my presence. For one heart-stopping moment, our eyes almost meet across the distance, and I duck behind a mausoleum, breath caught in my throat, heart hammering against my ribs. Not yet. She's not ready to see me. Not yet.

I close my eyes, mentally doing the math. 

Eight years, two months, and twelve days. 

That’s how long it’s been since Eve’s parents’ lives were stolen from her by my mentor. And that’s how long it’s been since I made the only decision I’ve ever felt contrite over. I didn’t just make sure my mentor walked away after drunkenly ending two lives; I staged another body behind the wheel, making it look like someone had stolen his car and crashed into the Thornes. 

It’s the only decision that has ever truly haunted me. 

I pinch my brows together as the memory assaults me with an unwelcome, vivid clarity. 

“Sir? Sir, look at me.” I softly pat Victor Messini’s face. 

Rain lashes against me as I lean inside his Bentley, its crumpled hood smashed into a small compact car. He’s slumped halfway over the console, blood starting to trickle down from his temple.

“Damien?” He slurs my name so thickly, I’m not even confident that’s what he said. “Damien, what are you doing here?” This time there’s no mistake. He looks around his car in confusion, the smell of Scotch rolling off him like he took a bath in it.

“Sir, you called me. You had an accident. We need to get you out of here now.”

As if it all comes rushing back to him, he snaps his head up and squints through his windshield.

“They’re already dead,” he mumbles, struggling to hoist himself out of the car.

“How do you know? Did you check?” He swats away my help, righting himself. 

“No, but if they aren’t, make sure they are.”

I don’t argue. Instead, I walk over to the other car, trying to mentally prepare myself for what I might see inside. Thankfully, this is a back road that doesn’t seem to get a lot of traffic, but I take a quick look around just in case. Then I lean down.

“Well?” Victor’s voice is gruff, and he’s swaying slightly next to his car. 

The passenger window is completely shattered, revealing two bodies—their final expressions frozen in fear. 

“They’re dead,” I confirm. And they most certainly saw death coming.

“Handle it,” he says before turning and limping toward my car, where he climbs into the back seat.

And I did—efficiently. Making sure to completely erase any shred of his involvement.

I lift the photo closer, studying the angles of her face and the slender curve of her neck. Even in grief, she’s beautiful . . . magnetic. In the days leading up to the funeral, I had spent an unhealthy amount of time watching her. At first it was just out of curiosity, wanting to know who she was. It was the first time I had ever researched a victim.

I convinced myself it was recon—that I needed to know my enemy, keep an eye on her in case she ever decided to do any digging on her parents’ accident. But quickly, it escalated. And somewhere between surveillance and background checks, I fucked up. My curiosity started to become an obsession . . . a dangerous one. 

The last time I saw her was that day at the cemetery. Tucked far away among the headstones, I captured her image through my lens. I’ll never forget the feeling that took over me when I studied her face. 

Her vulnerability should have disgusted me. Weakness always does. But it didn’t. Instead, it awakened something in me—something I hadn’t felt since I was nine years old. The day I watched my mother’s life drain from her eyes at the hands of her boyfriend. 

My chest tightens again, just like it did that day—the same primal urge to possess her rushing through me. 

It was that feeling that made me decide to walk away that night. Not guilt or remorse, but fear. Even as I stared at the photo on my computer screen, I knew that it wasn’t just a passing interest I had developed in Eve Thorne. It was the first time I’d felt I could lose control. She made me feel something that in my world could get you killed in a second. 

Feelings are a luxury men like me don’t have.

Even now, I wish I could banish the memories of her from my head and free myself from this mental prison I’ve created. I let out a long breath, noticing the pattern on my dashboard created by the sun dancing through the leaves overhead. Although I have my windows up, I can hear the songs of a few birds nearby, a stark contrast to the ever-present darkness surrounding me.

I glance down at the photo one last time. The image of the beautiful woman whose life was forever altered at my mentor’s request. I only ever let myself linger on it for a few moments, afraid that someday I won’t be able to put it away again. 

I bring the photo to my nose, as if I’ll be able to smell her through the image before slipping it back inside my coat pocket. I press it against my chest briefly, the gesture sending an electric current straight through me, radiating from the spot where her name is etched into my skin. 

I slip my hand beneath my shirt, fingertips tracing the memorized lines of the tattoo that spans my chest. The ink is a constant reminder—a self-inflicted wound that never heals. Eve. A permanent mark of my weakness.

I tuck it safely inside my coat pocket and turn to start my vehicle, but then movement just across the pond catches my attention. A woman walks slowly along the shoreline, a camera hanging from her neck—something not uncommon in this preserve, especially with the local ornithology club. 

Instead of leaving, I watch her for another moment. The wind catches her green scarf, making it dance around her shoulders as she raises her camera to capture something in the distance. 

My eyes stay trained on her, but something shifts in my chest the closer she gets. I squint, trying to analyze her features, but she’s still too far away. She snaps a few more photos, then continues walking until she’s close enough that when she turns to reveal her profile, my pulse quickens. A familiar unease starts to rush through my body as I reach for my phone. 

“It can’t be,” I say, opening the camera and zooming in on her face. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I’m hallucinating; I have to be. I close my eyes as if that is going to erase the image of her, but it doesn’t. 

“Eve.” Her name falls from my lips like a whispered prayer. 

How is this possible?

I continue watching her, unable to pull my gaze away even if I wanted to. She looks slightly different—her face has lost that fullness of youth, her jawline more severe and angled. But her eyes . . . her eyes are just as intense. 

Eight years since I’ve felt that familiar pull she created in me. 

Eight years since I made the decision to walk away.

I’ve taken over my mentor’s business in that time, growing it from a success to an empire. I’ve become a god in the boardroom and the devil in the underworld. 

But seeing her now, all of that carefully constructed control feels like it’s a house of cards, ready to fall at any second. 

She pauses, kneeling down by the water as she adjusts her lens. That familiar pull in my chest returns, the feeling of knowing that she has no idea I’m here. No idea I’m watching her. No idea who I even am. 

A thought that both relieves and disappoints me. 

Even though I decided to step away from watching her, I made sure to have my security detail keep a file on her. While I couldn’t trust myself to maintain a safe distance, I wanted to ensure she stayed safe. I don’t check it—I never have—and my head of security, Foster, doesn’t ask questions when I randomly ask about her. He simply provides me with direct answers that don’t offer much detail. 

I’ve kept the questions to a minimum over the years, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of her situation. I know she studied English in college, graduating with honors. I know she lives in a small apartment in a neighborhood on the West Side. I know she writes obituaries for the Chicago Tribune . . . and I know about her secret investigations. 

The investigation into her parents’ death that I made sure ended before it began.

The investigation into a local woman who was murdered by a cop, but the police dismissed the case.

I like that about her, even though it presents a danger to me and my secret organization, The Shadows. It’s a danger I’ve managed to keep at bay without much issue at all—so far. 

Judging by the way she hunts for justice, she and I are more alike than she can possibly understand. The only difference: I’m willing to settle for vengeance when justice just won’t do.

I reach into my pocket, feeling to make sure the photo is secure in the spot it’s stayed in all these years, directly over the tattoo on my chest that bears her name. It’s my own personal brand I’ve carried for years, hidden beneath the suits and armor of my carefully and meticulously crafted persona. 

My phone vibrates against my thigh and I pull it free, seeing Foster’s name on the screen.

“Sir, the members have started to arrive at your estate for the meeting.” 

“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” I say before hanging up. 

I allow myself one more minute of watching her. She moves slowly along the shoreline, stopping every so often to snap wildflower photos. The wind whips around her, her long dark hair dancing across her face the same way it did all those years ago.

The compulsive urge to react too soon no longer simmers just below the surface like when I was younger. Now, I understand patience and control. I wait until she’s walked around the pond, far enough out of earshot that she won’t hear the engine turn over when I start the car. 

I formulate a plan as I make the drive out to my estate. The first thing I need to know is if this is a regular spot for her. If it is, then I won’t worry about how the fly is going to end up in the spider’s trap; I’ll just create the trap myself. 

My mentor taught me a lot, and one of the things I’ve mastered, just like him, is the art of manipulation. The first rule: Let your target think they’re acting of their own free will. Create a circumstance so perfect that it will not only lead her right where I want her, but she’ll think it was her idea all along. 

I pull out my phone again, sending a quick message to Foster.

Me: Begin daily surveillance on Eve Thorne immediately. Full detail. No interaction at all. Send me the full file we have on her now.

My thoughts are consumed by her the entire drive back to Eden. Thoughts of slowly bringing her into my world, letting her see what kind of justice I can offer her. This time, though, the obsession doesn’t feel dangerous . . . it feels necessary.

When she finally enters my world, I won't just possess her body. I'll own her mind, her heart, her very soul. I'll strip away every defense, every hesitation, every moral boundary until she's as consumed by me as I am by her. 

The things I'll do to her... I've spent eight years imagining them in vivid detail. 

The way she'll tremble beneath my touch, the sounds she'll make when I bring her to the edge of pleasure and pain, how her eyes will look when she finally surrenders completely. 

Within six months, Eve Thorne will walk right into my life of her own accord. Only this time, she won’t be getting away.

---

CHAPTER 1 – EVE

Present Day . . . 

There’s a fine line between writing about death and feeling dead inside—a reality I have come to recognize as I hunch over my desk, sanitizing death into no more than 500 characters. Selfishly, sometimes I envy them. No longer are they troubled with the difficulties of existing. Meanwhile, my life hangs suspended in a purgatory of unfulfilled dreams.

When I graduated with an English degree, I certainly never imagined it would land me here, writing obituaries, but at least it pays the bills. 

Barely. 

“Eve, need the obits sent over by end of day,” my editor Brian calls across the open workspace, not bothering to wait for a response from me before ducking back into his office.

I take a sip of now-lukewarm coffee—grimacing at the cold, bitter taste. I contemplate dashing to the break room for another cup, my fourth of the day, but decide against it. Today feels like one of those days where no amount of coffee will spark the inspiration I need to finish this obituary. 

Martha Nahum, beloved mother to three children, grandmother of seven, and great-grandmother of four. She passed peacefully on Tuesday, surrounded by her loved ones. She was 92.

The words blur together, generic and bland. That’s what I don’t like about my job: reducing people’s lives down to the same two to three short, formulaic paragraphs, stripped of personality. 

I want to speak to the family members, hear the stories about how Martha raised hell in her youth, or the fire that burned in her eyes when she spoke about things that excited her. I want to hear how she slapped a handsy boss back in 1958 but kept her job because she was too valuable to fire. 

That’s what I did when my parents died. I made sure I told the world their beautiful love story when they were taken from me. I wanted the world to see how amazing these two people were. 

My hands tremble as I type, tears blurring my vision. The blinking cursor seems to mock my grief. I'm nineteen, sitting in the funeral home's small office, trying to capture my parents in 500 words. How do you distill two vibrant lives into something that fits between the Classifieds and Sports? "James and Lydia Thorne died together, as they lived, side by side." I delete and rewrite the opening line six times. Nothing feels right.

"Can I help you with anything, miss?" The funeral director hovers in the doorway, his practiced sympathy only making this harder.

"No," I whisper, fingers still moving across the keyboard. "I need to do this myself.”

I type furiously, refusing to let my parents become another generic death notice. I write about Dad's award-winning photography, Mom's fearless journalism. How they met covering a protest in '92, both chasing the same story. Their shared passion for exposing corruption. The way Dad could make Mom laugh even on her darkest days. I write about justice: the justice they sought in life, the justice denied them in death by a random drunk driver who stole a car and stole their futures. 

When I finish, it's three times the allowed length but I don't care. I'll pay the extra myself. My parents deserve to be remembered fully, completely. Their story deserves to be told correctly.

But that’s not what this job is. So I push the curious thoughts about what kind of woman Martha was and type out the rest of her obituary, finishing with five minutes to spare before my deadline. 

Pushing back from my desk, I reach down and grab my camera bag that sits at my feet—a constant reminder of those abandoned dreams down the path not taken. It’s been over eight years now since my parents died, and my father’s old Nikon became my most treasured possession. It also serves as a reminder that I still haven’t found the courage to pursue my photography dreams. 

“I’m heading out to lunch.” I flash a quick smile to my coworkers, with only Ingrid, my cube mate, glancing up to offer a wave.

“Enjoy lunch.”

Outside, the spring air is so crisp and fresh it makes being stuck inside feel criminal. I check my watch as I slip behind the wheel of my car—I have just over fifty minutes before I need to be back at my desk. 

A short drive later, I’m at my favorite forest preserve just outside the city. It’s my secret sanctuary when writing about death becomes too suffocating. Out here, there’s nothing but new life flourishing. A stark contrast to my daily work. 

I loop the camera around my neck, the familiar weight settling against my chest as I walk down one of the paths. It’s the path that leads to the small pond at the back of the reserve. I take my time along the way, pausing every so often to capture the beauty that surrounds me.

But the further I walk into the preserve, something slowly starts to shift in the air. The singing bird that greeted me falls silent, as if the forest is holding its breath. A gust of wind whips my scarf around my face, making me shiver. It’s colder than it should be for spring. Goosebumps rise along my arms despite my jacket. Even the shadows between the trees seem deeper somehow, the light struggling to penetrate the canopy above.

Someone's watching me.

The thought appears unbidden and completely out of character for me, raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I spin around, scanning the empty path behind me, but I don’t see anything unusual. No creepy strangers lurking or even a questionable shadow. Just trees swaying in the increasingly restless wind. A distant rumble of thunder startles me. I glance off in the distance, the sky starting to grow dark off in the distance, a clear warning of an approaching storm, even though the sky was clear just moments ago.

I shake off the sensation, chalking it up to too many late nights reading up on old cases while watching Dateline, and continue toward the pond

I adjust the viewfinder, focusing on a small spider that busies herself with spinning her web. Her practiced precision is impressive, even if she’s terrifying by most standards. I walk down a little further, the edge of the pond coming into view along with a beautiful blue heron that wades through shallow water. I zoom in, snapping several shots of the detailed markings around his eyes. The water ripples away from his skinny legs in perfect formation and I crouch down, capturing what feels like a cover shot for National Geographic. 

Every time I snap a photo, it feeds something inside me that feels starved for attention. Some untapped, untouched part that no practical job could ever satiate. That familiar guilt of abandoning my dreams starts to creep in, but I push it aside, reminding myself that time spent out here is a gift and I don’t want to waste it on regret. 

As I move deeper through the preserve, I reach the point in the path where I usually turn around. But today, something pulls at me to keep going. I contemplate it for a moment, checking my watch to make sure I have enough time to follow the path that dead ends around the far side of the pond.

“Why not?” I shrug when I realize I haven’t even been out here that long. I don’t get very far down the path, when I hear muffled voices. Figuring it’s probably a couple of birdwatchers, I lighten my steps so I don’t scare away any wildlife. But the closer I get, the more intense the voices become. They’re both male and they sound angry.

I freeze, my instincts suddenly telling me to get the hell out of here—but I don’t. I continue toward them, tiptoeing now as my curiosity pulls me forward. 

When I reach a large clump of overgrown bushes next to a tree, I spot them. I was right: It is two men, standing in a small clearing. Even from this distance, though, the power dynamic between them is clear. 

“You had very simple and clear instructions,” the taller man says, his voice low and controlled as it carries over the breeze. He stands at least a foot taller than the other guy, his shoulders broad but relaxed, despite the disgust in his tone. His back is toward me, but even from this angle, it’s clear this man is powerful. “Nothing should have been confusing for you.”

“Mr. Knox, please, I can explain—” The shorter man shifts his weight nervously, his hands gesturing in a frantic manner.

I have no idea what kind of moment I’m capturing when I lift my camera, but something inside tells me this is something I’m going to want to remember. I peer through the viewfinder, focusing the frame on the shorter man whose mustache dances across his upper lip as he pleads with Mr. Knox.

Mr. Knox.

The name sounds familiar, but with his back toward me, I still have no idea who this man is. I continue snapping several more photos, and just as I’m about to lower my camera, Mr. Knox turns his head. I gasp, his profile coming into perfect view. I hit the button and hold it down, my camera taking photos at a rapid pace when I realize who I’m looking at. 

Damien Knox—Chicago’s most famous and somewhat reclusive billionaire. A man known for pulling himself up from obscurity to take over one of the most powerful businesses in North America. As CEO, he has turned a once-thriving company into an empire, his philanthropic endeavors putting any other rich assholes to shame. While his face often graces the cover of popular media outlets, his personal life is left untouched. 

But something about the man I’m seeing before me—his posture and the predatory stillness in his voice—doesn’t match the public image he lets the world see. I focus again on his face, his features cold, his jaw sharp and firm, his eyes dark, like they absorb light instead of reflecting it. 

“Is that . . . an excuse?” 

“N-n-no, no.” The man stumbles over his words as Damien’s lips curve into the smallest semblance of a smile that contains no warmth whatsoever. 

“The shipment was compromised. Three of my men were arrested. So either you are completely incompetent or you betrayed me. Neither of those situations ends well for you.”

“It wasn’t me!” The other man’s voice grows louder with panic. Someone must have talked, but I swear on my mother,” he holds up his hand dramatically, “it wasn’t me. I’ve been loyal to The Shadows for five years, Damien. You have to believe me.”

I continue snapping photos at an alarming rate, the sound of the shutter thunderous in my ears. But I can’t stop. 

Damien is beautiful. He moves with purpose and ease like an apex predator stalking its prey. The kind that you only see coming once it’s far too late. 

He takes a step closer to the nervous man. “And yet, evidence would suggest otherwise.”

The Shadows? I try to recall if I’ve heard the name, but it’s not ringing any bells. Even with my access to sources and a detective or two, that doesn’t sound like an organization or agency that has ever come across my desk.

Knox reaches inside his suit jacket to retrieve something, causing the shorter man to almost violently flinch. But when he pulls his hand back out, it’s just a phone. He checks the screen with casual indifference.

“You have twenty-four hours to prove your innocence, Roberts.” He slides the phone back into his pocket. He moves with predatory grace, circling the smaller man like a snake preparing to strike. There's something almost hypnotic in his movements, the way he seems to glide rather than walk, his body fluid yet coiled with potential violence. “If you fail this time, you’ll be answering to The Skull. And trust me, he won’t be as forgiving as I am.”

“But how?” The man is practically weeping at this point. “How do I prove it?”

“You’ll figure it out,” Damien says, and the lack of emotion in his voice is truly terrifying. “Just remember, The Skull enjoys it, Roberts.” He slips his sunglasses into place. “And he takes the phrase wipe you off the face of the earth very literally.”

He doesn’t wait for the man to respond before turning to walk back toward his car. A chill runs through me, despite the scarf wrapped around my neck. Nothing he said was incriminating enough, but the fear in that other man’s eyes told me loud and clear that Damien Knox has every intention of delivering on his threats. 

Standing beside his black car, he waits for the other man to leave. When he does, Knox turns slightly, taking a moment to glance over the pond. For one heart-stopping second, his eyes sweep right over my hiding spot. 

My heart thuds in my chest as I duck lower, clutching my camera against me. I close my eyes and hold my breath, as if that will conceal me better. Finally, after several long seconds, I crack one eye open and peer through the bush. Relief settles over me when he reaches for the handle of his Bentley and pulls it open. 

But just as he’s about to duck into the car, he pauses one last time, glancing over at the tree line again, only this time more deliberately. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s listening for something or senses something amiss.

I hold my breath, my heart thudding against my ribs so hard it hurts. I remain motionless, willing myself to blend in with the shadows and bushes. Just then, a soft breeze picks up, rustling the leaves around me and causing one to hit me perfectly in the eye. 

“Ow!” I jerk back instinctively, my hand darting up to cover my eye, which causes me to tumble backward. I scramble to my feet again, trying to duck back down, when my bright green scarf catches on a branch. 

“Shit!” I panic, tugging at it furiously, which only causes the bushes to rustle more. It snags, the tree’s grasp on it tight enough that I have no choice but to remove my camera from around my neck. I continue to frantically pull at the scarf as I try to right myself. 

Damien is turned toward me now, and he’s stepped away from his car, like he’s seconds away from coming over to inspect the commotion. I watch him, holding my camera and trying to untangle the scarf from the tree, but it’s no use. 

“No, no, no,” I say to myself, tears springing to my eyes as I watch the gift from my late mother flapping gently in the wind. I spin around, taking off before assessing my surroundings, and that’s when I tumble forward, twigs snapping beneath my feet. In my haste, I completely missed the exposed root my foot caught on. I fall hard, the camera tumbling from my hands. 

I don’t bother checking to make sure it’s okay. Instead, I grab it and run, not looking back until I reach my car, panting. My hands shake as I lift my keys to the ignition, a scrape on my palm already stinging. 

Pulling out of the forest preserve, I hit the gas, disappearing around the access road. I don’t bother checking my camera until I’m parked safely back in the garage at work. I hold my breath when I do, making sure she’s still in working condition. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any real damage other than a small scratch on the metal. 

My heart still thuds loudly in my chest, and even with the sound of rushing water starting to fill my ears, I can still hear it. I can’t comprehend what I heard today . . . if those were merely idle threats from a power-hungry billionaire or . . . no, there’s no way they were empty threats. Not with the look on that poor man’s face and the way his hands shook almost uncontrollably. There’s something here—something I don’t think Damien Knox would want me or anyone else to know. 

I pull out my phone and open the Notes app, typing out the words I remember hearing. 

“The Shadows, The Skull, shipment, Roberts.” I chew on my bottom lip as my knee begins to bounce nervously. I have that feeling in my stomach again—the same one I had when I started to dig into my parents’ death. The same one that still emerges every so often when I see an injustice that goes unpunished. 

Two years ago, I stumbled across another one of those injustices. 

Marianne Jeffries, a nursing home aide who reported medication theft at her workplace. Three weeks later, she was found dead in her apartment, an apparent suicide. When her obituary came across my desk, another generic summary of a life reduced to four inches of newsprint, I had that feeling.

Something about it nagged at me. The timeline, the circumstances. The fact that her brother insisted she wasn't suicidal when I called to verify details. I started asking questions. Requested police reports. Tracked down colleagues. Found irregularities in the investigation.

The detective laughed when I brought him my findings. "You write obituaries, right? Not crime reports?" His dismissal burned, but I kept digging. Three months later, I had enough evidence to force the department to reopen the case. The facility administrator was eventually charged, not with murder, but with fraud and negligence that contributed to her death.

It wasn't complete justice, but it was something. A validation that my instincts were right. That pursuing truth matters, even when the systems designed to protect it fail.

I review the photos on my camera, none of them particularly damning. As far as anyone would assume, Damien Knox was merely taking a business meeting in the park. I squint, focusing on the man he called Roberts, trying to see if I recognize him, but I’m drawing a blank. I flip through a few more, the last one sending a chill through me. 

It’s a close-up of Damien and his cold, predatory smile. It’s nothing like the ones he wears in press photos. I roll my eyes, turning my camera off and snapping on the lens cover before placing it back in my bag. My mind races as I try to make sense of what I saw, landing somewhere between “I’m completely making all this up and it means nothing” and “I might have just captured one of the biggest stories of the century.”

I should delete them. This is stupid. Walk away, just forget it.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up just thinking about what this could mean. Damien Knox, a man whose net worth exceeds that of most countries, is involved in things far more sinister than anyone probably realizes.

This is bigger than trying to convince the police to look into a murder victim whose obituary I wrote, which sent me down a long, dark trail of police involvement and a cover-up. 

This is bigger than trying to get justice for my old neighbor, Lucinda, whose ex continued to assault her, finally putting her in the hospital. His punishment? Probation. 

This is even bigger than what happened to my parents. 

“Eve? You okay?” The rapping of Ingrid’s knuckles against my window startles me so thoroughly, I actually clutch my chest. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, laughing. 

I look at my watch again before throwing open my car door.

“Shit, I didn’t realize the time.” I hold my camera bag against my body tightly as I rush to the elevator. I’m more than twenty minutes late back from lunch, and my editor is going to tear my ass a new one. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ingrid asks again as we ride the elevator up to our floor. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m good.” I smile weakly. “I promise, just busy.” I rush through the doors before they’re fully open and sneak back to my desk, making sure to stay out of my boss’ eye line. 

For the rest of the day, I keep my head down, too distracted by the thoughts swirling in my head to attempt small talk about what I’ll be doing this coming weekend. 

All I want to do is go home, lock my door and spend the entire night researching everything I can find on Damien Knox and The Shadows. Then tomorrow I’ll decide what to do with what I find and what I saw today. 

As much as I want this to be my big break—my chance to make a difference and pursue justice—I can’t shake that practical voice in my head, the one that sounds suspiciously like my mother, warning me to let this go. 

But for the first time, another voice speaks louder. It’s my father, and I can still picture him, camera in hand, showing me how to capture the right angles and lighting. But he was teaching me something far more valuable than I realized at the time. 

“The best photos, Eve, are the ones that capture moments nobody else thinks are significant—moments that change history, moments that tell a story nobody else would believe unless there was photographic evidence to prove it.”

“Thorne!” Brian’s voice cuts through my thoughts the moment I think I’m in the clear for returning late. “My office. Now.”

A few of my coworkers flash me teasing glances as I make my way toward his office. It’s only now that I realize I still have my camera bag slung over my shoulder, my hand clutching the strap tightly. 

“Care to explain why you’re allowed to take 90-minute lunches and the rest of us only get an hour?” 

He peers over his half-moon glasses, an unamused expression on his face. Brian Morris is a mediocre boss who only got the job because his father was once the editor-in-chief at the Tribune and took the job very seriously. His son, not so much. 

“I’m so sorry, sir, I got caught up in something, but I’ll have my deadlines met by the end of the day.” I slide into the chair across from his desk. 

“I know you will,” he says with a stern look. “Caught up in what?” He picks up a sheet of paper from his desk and glances over it. “Another one of your expeditions?” He gestures toward my camera bag, his tone mocking. 

It’s not enough that he continually ignores my requests to take on any of the freelance photography jobs at work, but he’s also made it a point to frequently remind me that any investigative activities on my part are not welcome. 

“Actually,” I pause, contemplating whether I should even say anything about what I saw, but surely he’ll have to recognize that this time, it really is something significant. “I feel like I might have stumbled onto something pretty big.”

Brian sighs, removing his glasses so he can pinch the bridge of his nose. “Eve, we’ve been through this. You’re not a reporter. You’re an obituary writer. If I wanted you investigating shit, I’d have hired you as a journalist.”

“But I could be,” I counter, leaning forward in my seat. “I have the skills, Brian, you know I do.”

“What you have,” he says, pointing at me with his glasses, “is a real skill for being a pain in my ass. Why can’t you have the skills and passion to do your job, hmm?” He picks up a folder and plops it down in front of me. “Three more deaths. Need them for tomorrow’s print.”

I sigh, reaching for the folder—that hopeless dread starting to settle over me. But I decide to give it one last shot. 

“I think Damien Knox is into some seriously shady business deals,” I blurt out. “I don’t know exactly what he’s doing, but it seems highly illegal and suspicious.”

“You’re serious?” he says before bursting into laughter, my excitement deflating immediately. “Damien Knox? The billionaire who just added a new wing to the Children’s Hospital downtown? The one who funds half of the charitable foundations in this city and owns this newspaper?”

“Yes, but—” My stomach somersaults. “Wait, he owns this paper?”

“Jesus Christ, Eve.” Brian rolls his eyes and tosses his hands in the air. He unceremoniously flops down in his chair and puts his glasses back on, effectively signaling that this conversation is over. “I need those obits by six.” 

I sit for another second before reaching for the folder in defeat. It’s pointless to beat this dead horse, that much is clear. As I turn to leave, Brian lets out a dramatic sigh. 

“Look, Eve,” he says, his voice softening a little, “I get it. You want to be Lois Lane, out there solving crimes and helping people, but you are helping people, and you’re good at it. You’re giving them dignity in death. So don’t go throwing it all away by chasing down some wild fantasy, looking for trouble where there isn’t any.”

I nod, smiling politely before exiting his office and returning to my desk, completely unconvinced when it comes to stopping my investigation. Nothing Brian has said to me before has ever deterred me from investigating when I know damn well that something isn’t right. 

Before removing my camera bag from my body, I take out the SD card and quietly slip it into my pocket. I glance around to find my coworkers completely lost in their own worlds, so I take the chance to type “Damien Knox + The Shadows” into my search engine. 

It’s a long shot and I don’t expect anything to actually show up. That would be too easy. As suspected, nothing relevant populates—just several articles about Damien Knox’s business achievements and his many charitable donations. I type in a few more options. 

“Damien Knox + The Skull.” Nothing.

“The Skull + The Shadows.” Nothing.

“Damien Knox + Criminal.” Nothing.

“The Skull + Chicago.” Nothing. 

I try at least a dozen other combinations, each one leading to a complete dead end. I’m still scrolling through images, my face almost plastered to the screen to catch any clues, when a chat notification pops up from Ingrid. 

Ingrid: Brian keeps staring at you. Might want to at least pretend to be writing those obits. 

Minimizing my search engine, I pull up the obituary template and reach for the folder from Brian. I can feel his eyes burning a hole through my back, but even still, I cannot seem to focus on the dead. 

Instead, I keep seeing Knox’s cruel smile. I keep hearing his cold, empty words and the threat that The Skull would wipe Roberts off the face of the earth. My stomach churns at the threat, a slow burn rising to my throat. Squeezing my eyes closed for a few seconds, I push the thoughts aside, reminding myself that I have all night to research. 

By six o’clock, I’ve finally managed to finish the obituaries and get them over to Brian, relief allowing my shoulders to finally relax a little as I hurry down to the parking garage and head home. 

***

My apartment greets me with the familiar silence that follows me home every night. I like my place. It’s small, and even that is being generous, but it works for me. I keep it pretty plain—with just photos I’ve taken lining the walls.

I drop my things by the front door, walking the few steps to my fridge and retrieving a bottle of wine I had planned to save for a special occasion. Witnessing a potential criminal threat by one of the most famous and powerful men in the country feels like it qualifies. 

Bottle in hand, I pop the cork and take a drink, not bothering with a glass. Then I pull the SD card from my pocket and plug it into my personal laptop. I sit at my kitchen island, clicking through the photos. I pause again on the last one—the one that still makes me feel uneasy even in the safety of my own apartment. 

I stare at his face, trying to reconcile this image with the images that litter the internet. The ones that paint him as the hero this city never knew it needed. I click back to an image of him with the mayor. His eyes seem bright and inviting, his smile causing crinkles around his eyes that give his face life.

This is not the same man I saw today. The man I saw today looked like a dangerous animal that had caged itself—a man who practiced the art of self-control and discipline until it defined him. 

The wine on an empty stomach makes my head swirl after only a few swallows. But I keep drinking, considering my options. Clearly, Brian isn’t interested in hearing more and I can’t risk bringing it up to him again. I could go to the police, but what exactly would I be reporting? A suspicious meeting in the park? A vague threat that’s only hearsay? The mention of an organization that has zero digital footprint and would most likely make me look even crazier? Even if I called up my contact at the station, he wouldn’t even give me the time of day with this shred of evidence . . . if you can even call it that. 

What about Ingrid?

I consider the thought. She’s a legitimate journalist, after all, and has more of a leg to stand on than I do in that office. But even that carries with it some risks that I wouldn’t want to push onto her. Newsroom politics are brutal, and judging by the way Brian reacted at the mention of Damien’s name, he would know I asked her to look into it for me, which would probably end in my termination. 

“Shit,” I groan, taking another large gulp of wine, talking myself out of all viable options at this point. Which means . . . there’s only one left . . . the only option that keeps circling my brain, even if it is the most reckless and risky option.

Direct confrontation. 

The wine is clearly working overtime, because that thought doesn’t scare me nearly as much as it should. 

“This is insane,” I say the words out loud as I frantically type on my laptop, pulling up the Contact Us section of Knox Industries’ website. Hoping for a direct email address listed on the website was a long shot, but there is a standard form to send a general email. I can’t imagine that sending an inquiry about seeing Damien Knox threatening someone in the forest preserve would get me very far.

I switch back to the photos again, studying the way he carries himself. That’s another trick of the trade my dad taught me.

“You can get to know a lot about someone from behind a camera lens.”

Everything about him is calculated, that’s evident. Men like him thrive on control; it feeds their ego. I imagine that a man like him isn’t often caught off guard, if ever. Something about that thought creates a small sizzle of excitement in my belly. Maybe that’s the only way a man like Damien Knox would ever take me seriously. 

After a few more hours of research, I’m more convinced than ever that this is the only way to handle this. He needs someone bold enough to confront him directly. 

“What’s he going to do . . . kill me in his downtown office in front of everyone?” I snort, rolling my eyes, the wine doing its job of lowering my inhibitions a little too well. 

The plan falls into place in my head with alarming clarity. I’ll go to his office tomorrow, posing as a journalist on a feature story. It’s not technically a lie. If I do find anything worth reporting, it will certainly be front page news on every single publication out there.

It’s reckless and dangerous, and for the first time in eight years, it’s the only thing that’s made me feel alive. 

I close my laptop and move to the small window in my living room and look out over my neighborhood, the bright lights of the Chicago skyline off in the distance. Somewhere out there, Damien Knox is going about his evening having no idea what I know about him. 

At this moment, that knowledge feels like power, but I know that in the morning, it’s going to feel like a thousand tons pressing down on me. 

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