Page 159 of The Rival's Obsession
The Harrow name will be mine.
Exactly as it always should have been.
The door slams open with the force of a tidal wave.
Eve. Grant. Frankie.
They barrel in like the walls themselves are crumbling, and for a second—I actually think they might be.
I snap to my feet, heart hammering in my chest.
“He—I think he’s dead—I just found him—” I gasp, voice shaking. Just enough. Wide eyes, trembling lip. Years of performance, rehearsed panic, all summoned in a single breath.
But Eve doesn’t even flinch. Her voice cuts like a scalpel as she heads to Grant’s desk and removes something from its underside.
“Stop being dramatic. He’s not dead.”
What?
Behind me, Dante chuckles first, then opens his eyes. Sits up, wiping his mouth on his shirt.
No.
“You could’ve let me ride it out a little longer,” he mutters with a lazy smirk. “It was sensational acting.”
No. No, no, no—this isn’t right. He should be dead.
“Did you take a seltzer to foam at the mouth?” Frankie shakes her head in disbelief. “Method acting. I respect it.”
“Why, thank you.” He actually bows his head as mine implodes. “I thought it was an authentic touch. Thanks to Eve for discovering the poison.”
My body feels locked. The air around me warps. I don’t move. I can’t. My thoughts scream at me to run, but my limbs won’t obey. Every second stretches wide and horrible, the floor tilting underneath me like a broken carousel.
Eve holds out a slim black recorder, held aloft in her palm like a gavel.
“We recorded you,” she says, voice laced with quiet triumph. “Confessing to murder. Several of them, actually. Attempted murder. Poisoning. Fraud.”
No.
Dante stands fully now, brushing imaginary dust from his pants.
“That’s twice now you’ve tried to kill me,” he says, then clucks his tongue. “And during Pride Month? That’s just mean. Honestly? Feels a little homophobic.”
No. That fucking asshole. No!
I lunge. Everything inside me snapping into motion. I need to leave.
If I can just reach the door—if I can just make it to the elevator—I can disappear. I can still fix this. I always fix it.
But I don’t make it.
Eve’s foot shoots out, tripping me. My head smacks the marble floor, blood blooming on my tongue. I scream, half fury, half disbelief.
This is not how it’s supposed to happen.
Grant grabs me—ruthless, unflinching. My arm is bent behind me, my face pushed down onto the floor. Cool marble against hot skin. The taste of copper floods my mouth.
The room explodes in noise. Shouts. Footsteps. Cuffs. But it’s Grant’s voice that cuts through everything. Quiet. Deadly.
