Page 39 of The Rival's Obsession
It shouldn’t matter.
Except it does.
Because now, I can’t stop wondering if itis.
The crowd gathers under the main event tent—one of those massive temporary structures lined with fresh florals, chilled champagne, and enough money to make it feel casual.
Laughter hums like background music. Crystal glasses clink against manicured nails. People greet each other with air kisses and firm handshakes, dressed in designer golfwear they’ll likely never sweat in.
I know most of them.
Not well.
Old acquaintances. Business associates. Friends of my father’s who see me and offer the same strained smile that says,I remember you in short pants.
No one here is real. No one here is safe.
Just sharks circling until someone bleeds.
Eve hangs back, close enough to be noticed but far enough not to intrude. She’s perfected the art of proximity—close enough to be accessible, detached enough to be mysterious.
It works.
She checks her phone discreetly, then steps forward and lightly tugs at the crook of my arm. Barely a touch, but enough to cut through the senator’s latest pitch about the tech corridor bill and—more irritatingly—his daughter.
“Grant,” she says quietly, so only I hear. “Dante’s arriving.”
I nod once.
She’d already briefed me on how we’re to play this. Not too far, not too close. A visual dance. Partners orbiting each other. Space to breathe, to watch. A slow thaw the press can track over the course of the day.
It’s smart.
I take a slow inhale through my nose.
Can’t tell if it’s to ease the pressure building in my chest—or if it’s the way her perfume drifts between us. Cool. Subtle. Clean. It doesn’t announce itself. It lingers.
Probably both.
There’s a commotion at the edge of the carpet. Not loud. Just a hum of attention sharpening. Cameras click before they even see him.
Dante always did know how to arrive.
He steps into the tent like he belongs on a goddamn movie poster—light gray suit tailored to his frame, top two buttons of his shirt undone like he’s allergic to formality. The sun cuts aglint off the compass tattoo inked on his chest, just barely visible as he lifts a hand in a wave to someone behind me.
His smile is wide. Bright. Performative.
I’ve seen that smile used to charm CEOs, disarm investors, and publicly pretend he didn’t just verbally annihilate someone ten seconds earlier.
But then his eyes find mine and there’s a shift.
So slight most people wouldn’t notice it.
But I do.
His mouth doesn’t falter. But something in his gaze—adjusts. A knowing behind the façade.
I look away before I feel it too deeply. Back to the senator, who’s now talking about the second of his daughters, conveniently also single.
