Page 14 of The Rival's Obsession
Frankie drops me at the curb, and I walk for-fucking-ever to reach the entrance. Wolfe doesn’t do anything half-ass—especially not his own complex.
The building is sleek—an all-black design and a statement to the city that Wolfe Industries is here to stay.
It was the first project Grant and I ever worked on together.
First.
And last.
Still, it’s one of my favorites.
The elevator climbs too quickly. Smooth. You can barely feel the motion, save for the faint mechanical whirl as each floor races past.
Dead.
Weight.
Dead.
Weight.
Grant’s words from Friday echo in my head on a loop, and I squeeze my fist. Fucking asshole.
I know he didn’t realize his mic was on, but that doesn’t change what he said.
The truth.
The way Grant really sees me.
Bullshit. But I swallow it down like it doesn’t fucking destroy me inside.
The doors open with a soft ping—and speak of the fucking devil.
Grant’s standing there like he’s been waiting for me, the sun behind him casting a halo around his dirty-blond hair.
His light-gray suit and dark-blue shirt sharpen the storm in his eyes, and they land right on me.
He’s only out here to make it look like we arrived together.
Like we’re still a team.
It’s a goddamn joke.
“Let’s not fuck this up,” he says, putting his phone away, chin up, matching my pace.
I slip my hands into my pockets—cool, unbothered.
“You say the sweetest things, Bug.”
His jaw clenches—just enough to make it worth saying.
He’s never liked the nickname. Never asked why I call him that, and he never will.
Which only makes it better.
Damien Wolfe greets us just outside the glass doors, all effortless charm and quiet authority. He’s in his usual all-black suit—sharp, clean, tailored like sin—and flanked by his business partner, Marcus, who’s more smiles and handshakes, less looming-billionaire presence.
Damien gives Grant a brief nod before turning to me. “Big pitch. But you already know that.”
