Page 59 of The Rival's Obsession
What he needs is to come to terms—with Dante, and what he feels when Dante is near.
Maybe it’s his sexuality. Maybe it’s just him.
Maybe he’s spent his whole life shoving everything soft, everything vulnerable, into a locked box. Dante being the key he’s refused to acknowledge.
But I know better than to confront a man like Grant with his own truth.
If I ask him outright, he’ll shut down. Retreat behind that cold veneer and drag the conversation into a war of words I’ll never win—because Grant doesn’t lose battles of the mind.
No.
The trick isn’t to get him to admit it.
It’s to make him feel it.
To provoke a response he can’t explain away.
Something his mouth can lie about, but his body never could.
And when he’s standing on the edge of that precipice—aroused, conflicted, furious—I’ll push him just far enough to make him look down.
He won’t fall yet. But he’ll know the drop is there—and that he’s been standing at its edge far longer than he wants to admit.
I move toward the desk, waiting until the silence stretches just long enough to become uncomfortable before I speak.
“So,” I say, tone light. “Are we going to talk about Corrine, the tabloid, or the fact that you looked like you wanted to launch her through the window?”
Grant exhales, slow and sharp. “Corrine is... complicated.”
“That’s one word for her.”
His jaw flexes. “She’s been around a long time.”
“So has mold,” I murmur, crossing one leg over the other as I settle into the chair across from him. “Doesn’t mean you let it rot the foundation.”
He shoots me a look—equal parts warning and intrigue. “Careful.”
“No,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I don’t think I will be. Not with you.”
His fingers drum once against the arm of his chair before he folds them neatly. Controlled. Restrained. “You said you had a meeting agenda.”
“I do,” I nod. “But let’s not pretend we were going to discuss spreadsheets and synergy metrics.”
He doesn’t answer. That silence is just as telling.
I tilt my head, watching him. “You know, Grant... it’s fascinating.”
“What is?”
“The way you fight so hard to control the narrative. Your image. Your posture. Even your silence—it’s curated. Like you think if you hold it all tight enough, it’ll never crack.”
His throat bobs with a swallow. “You’re projecting.”
“Am I?” I rise slowly, taking the long path around the desk, stopping just beside his chair. “Because I think you’re terrified.”
“Of what?”
I lean in, lowering my voice so it wraps around him like silk. “Of wanting something you were never allowed to want.”
