Page 10 of The Rival's Obsession
Five years is up in two weeks.
Fourteen days, and the board would have had no power left to stop us.
But now?
Now they have video footage of a meltdown at the largest architecture convention in the country.
A hot mic and my voice calling Dante dead weight.
Let’s not forget the perfectly captured moment when he punched me onstage in front of hundreds of witnesses—and every major press outlet we invited.
Now they have cause.
And if they want to push us out—both of us—they can.
I exhale slowly, then rub my jaw out of habit. Not because it hurts—he didn’t hit that hard.
But because this morning, the weight of it is starting to feel permanent.
If Dante doesn’t show up soon, I’ll be walking into that room alone.
And I’ll be the one explaining to the board how everything we’ve worked for—everything our fathers built—came undone over one mic, a fist, and five years of slow, silent sabotage.
My mind is stewing over every possible scenario, trying to craft a plan for each and file them away so that no matter what the board says, I can be ready.
But I can’t stop fucking seeing his face when he heard the words come out of my mouth.
He lashed out with his fist—but it was pain I saw there.
A part of me knows I should apologize. The other part is satisfied he finally showed some fucking emotion toward this firm.
He walks in fifteen minutes late like time’s a suggestion and this meeting is some minor inconvenience. Just that usual air of detached arrogance—like he’s operating on a schedule no one else has access to.
Same suit from yesterday. Wrinkled. Charcoal gray. Still perfect on him.
He probably came straight from Vegas. Probably spent the flight getting his dick sucked by one of his favorite rotations, thinking he’d stroll in, flash a grin, and spin the whole thing into a joke.
I don’t bother hiding my irritation. “Nice of you to join us.”
He doesn’t even look at me.
Just shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair. Then he starts rolling up his sleeves, slow and unbothered.
His forearms are tan, dusted with dark hair, the muscle taut and easy to notice.
But it’s the ink that draws my eye—because it always does.
Ti aspetterò.
XXI•VI•MMIX
I only know the date—June 21, 2009—was the day he was sent to boarding school.
I remember it because it was the day after my mother’s accident.
That day still lives in my bones.
The curve of her legs at a wrong angle. The way her neck looked broken before I could even make sense of it. Those eyes—bright blue—wide, stunned, staring up at me, ready to tell my secret.
