Page 67 of The Rival's Obsession
And when I was leaving, shoulders heavy with fatigue and frustration, I caught a glimpse of him across the floor. Just a flicker of eye contact. His face remained neutral—icy calm, like always—but his espresso eyes were burning. The kind of quiet storm no one else would notice unless they’d spent far too long looking for it.
I turned away first. That’s the part I can’t stop replaying. The burn of his stare I felt every step to the elevators.
Now it’s morning, and the pitch meeting with the client is set to begin in less than an hour. The entire firm is holding its breath—and so is the board. Everything is riding on this.
I send a text.
Just a short one. Professional. Cold, even. But it’s also the second one I’ve sent.
Still no response to the first.
I try not to look at my phone like a teenager waiting to be noticed. Try not to care that it’s unread. As the elevator rises, I focus on my reflection in the mirrored walls—tie straight, jaw tight. The version of me that doesn’t care is the one I wear today.
Hours pass.
Still nothing.
My irritation starts to rot at the edges, curling into something sharp and defensive. Sarcasm coats it. Makes it easier to carry.
It only gets worse when Corrine calls me into her office midmorning. Something about expense reports—some bullshitline item she could easily delegate. I’m not sure if she’s trying to bait me or distract me, but either way, I don’t have the patience.
She asks why I’m in such a mood.
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t want to explain that the person I’m irritated with isn’t even in this room—and that maybe I’m not irritated so much as... concerned. Not that I’d ever call it that out loud.
I excuse myself and head for Dante’s floor.
I’ve looked at my phone a hundred times already, but I check again as I cross the executive lobby. Still no update. Not even the dots of a pending reply.
Frankie’s behind her desk when I arrive, tapping away at her keyboard with a mug that says,World’s Best Assistant to the World’s Okayest Boss.
“Let me guess,” I mutter as I stop in front of her desk. “He’s passed out in a strip club somewhere. Champagne in one hand, misplaced ego in the other?”
Frankie doesn’t bite. No sarcastic jab, no eye roll. Just stillness.
Her posture is tight. One foot bouncing slightly, fingers flexing and unflexing in her lap. Frankie gives a damn, but more importantly—she’s used to Dante’s chaos. If she’s unnerved, something’s wrong.
“What is it?” Chills rush down my spine in a wave.
“I’ve texted, called. Nothing. Even when he’s drunk, furious, halfway to Milan—he picks up.”
I pull out my phone and hit dial on a number I’ve not called in years.
Two rings and it connects.
“St. Vincent’s Medical,” a woman answers. “Are you a relative of the patient?”
My pulse skips. “Dante Marchesi?”
“Yes. He was admitted early this morning. Are you a relative? We’re trying to locate his next of kin.”
That’s not good. That’s never good.
“Yes, I’m next of kin,” I say, already pushing toward the elevator. “I’m on his emergency contact. I need to know what happened.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t disclose any patient information over the phone.”
