Page 100 of The Rival's Obsession

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He’s coming.

Right now.

Right here.

At this goddamn charity gala. In a ballroom full of power and performance and polished fucking reputations.

Even our fathers are here—seated at a different table across the room with the old-money fossils they play golf with.

And yet Dante sits there, going still as the euphoria slides through him.

I watch the tension bleed out of him, one vertebra at a time. Then a shift of fabric as I imagine he’s zipping himself up.

Jesus Christ. My cock is leaking in my fucking pants… Again.

And just as the lights begin to brighten again—signaling the end of the segment—he pulls a folded napkin from his lap.

And his phone.

With a smirk that sends a ripple straight through my core, Dante taps the screen a few times. Then darkens it.

Not two seconds later, my phone buzzes inside my jacket.

My heart punches the inside of my ribs.

No.

No way.

He didn’t.

Did he?

“Excuse me, everyone,” Dante says, voice low and polite as he pushes back from the table. “It’s been a wonderful evening.”

I track his every step as he crosses the ballroom, his gait loose now. Relaxed. He nears the exit, passing a waste bin. I watch—actually watch—as he drops the used napkin into it, like he’s tossing out a receipt.

And then he’s gone. His tall, muscled form walks out through the double-doors.

I swallow hard.

“I’m going to hit the restroom,” I say, already rising. My voice cracking on the last word.

I move quickly—grateful the direction is away from the lights, away from the crowd. Once I’m in the bathroom, I go straight for the last stall. The one farthest from the door. Quiet. Private.

I lock it behind me and press my back to the cold tile wall.

Heart pounding. Hands shaking.

I fish my earbuds from my pocket. Slip one in and pull out my phone.

There’s a text. The first text he’s sent me personally in years.

DANTE: I had fun tonight.

There’s a video attached.

Jesus.

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