Page 13 of The Rival's Obsession
I lean my head back, eyes half-closed behind my sunglasses. “You say my name like it’s a warning. It’s not working.”
“This is Damien Wolfe,” she bites. “Not some bored developer with a vanity project. He’s ruthless. Brilliant. The man built his empire from scaffolding and steel and zero family favors. He could buy and level half this city before lunch.”
“Which is why I made a few adjustments,” I say, stretching out my legs.
Frankie stills. “What adjustments?”
“I just reorganized the pitch deck,” I say. “Financials are tucked toward the back—where his investors will still get their fix. I expanded the sustainability section. Brought in some new renderings—off-grid cooling systems, solar-integrated glass, water reclamation. Wolfe’s going to love it.”
She narrows her eyes. “Did Grant approve the changes?”
I give her the kind of shrug that saysnot exactly.
“I’m sorry,” she says, deadpan. “Was that a yes, or was that one of your classic ‘fuck it, I know better’ shrugs?”
“It was a ‘Wolfe will see the value and no one else matters’ shrug.”
She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose with manicured fingers.
Before she can launch into another lecture, my phone buzzes.
I glance down.
A text.
KRIS: Thanks for this weekend. Still can’t feel my legs.
Come back to Vegas soon.
There’s a blurry photo attached. Kris’s tongue running up a hard, veined cock that I recognize as Sam’s. She’s got a crooked grin, looking far too satisfied for a Monday morning.
I smirk to myself. Type a quick reply:Next time I’m in town, we’re getting the weekend.
“Unbelievable,” Frankie mutters, yanking me back to the moment. “You’re sexting your weekend romp before the biggest pitch of your career.”
“It wasn’t a sext,” I reply, slipping the phone into my jacket. “It was a thank-you.”
“God, you’re infuriating.”
“I’m appreciated.”
Wolfe isn’t some silver-spoon legacy baby. He’s our age—early thirties—but he built his name the hard way. Construction. Development. Scale. Influence. Now he’s the city’s apex predator, and every firm in the country wants a seat at his table.
He’s been with Marchesi & Harrow for a decade. Back when our fathers still ran things and Wolfe was a rising name with a sharp mind and no patience for bullshit.
Now heisthe table.
And this skyscraper—the one we’re pitching today—isn’t just another high-rise. It’s a fucking monument. A vertical legacy in the heart of Manhattan. Whoever designs it becomes a permanent part of the skyline.
I darken my phone and slide it into my jacket pocket. Finally meet Frankie’s stare head-on.
“We’ll land it,” I say quietly.
She crosses her arms. “You better hope so.”
The SUV slows, curbside just outside Wolfe Tower.
Time to find out.
