Page 19 of The Rival's Obsession
I shake my head. “Dante fucked it up, and he’s off licking his ego somewhere.”
She lifts a brow. “Want me to key his car?”
That gets a smile out of me. “Not yet.”
But maybe.
We sit in silence for a minute. The city hums outside. Her straw squeaks as she takes another drink, and I lean back in my chair, suddenly tired.
Not physically. Not even emotionally, really.
Just tired of carrying the weight of a partnership that feels more and more like a war.
She keeps holding her breath like she wants to say something but doesn’t.
Halfway through her milkshake, she changes the subject—but I know this is not what she really wants to talk about.
“Hey… do you know what those recurring charges under Dante’s codes are? Started showing up again this quarter—small line item but steady. Something about educational disbursement?”
“Yeah. That’s legitimate.” I set my cup down. “It’s for that intern, Collins, from last summer.”
Corrine looks off, as if remembering. “The one from the scholarship program?”
“Yeah.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Kid was sharp. Showed up every day, outworked half the team, and never asked for a damn thing. Dante’s been covering his tuition ever since. We tried to set up a board-managed trust, but they shot it down.”
Corrine nods slowly. “So, Dante just… paid for it himself.”
“Yeah. Quietly.”
She doesn’t say anything for a second. “Alright. I’ll bury it under consulting services. If the auditors ask, we loop it in with diversity initiatives and mentorship. No one needs to raise eyebrows.”
I meet her eyes. “Thanks.”
She offers a little shrug like it’s nothing, but her fingers tighten slightly around the foam cup. A few more deep breaths that pause at the beginning of a word she never says.
“Just spit it out, Corrine. What do you keep stalling to bring up?”
She snorts a laugh, looking at her straw like it’ll say the words for her. “You always could read me.”
“Yeah, which is why I know you’ve got something running through your mind—so spit it out.”
“Fine,” she says, dragging the word out a little too long. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something. Sort of… personal. But also… not.”
Corrine shifts in the chair, drawing a soft pop from the leather cushion. She plays with the milkshake’s straw, giving herself more time.
“The board’s two-week mandate. That clock’s ticking.”
I nod, dragging a hand down my face. “Yeah. I’m aware.”
“You know as well as I do that Dante is not going to help you fix this,” she says—not unkindly, just matter-of-fact.
She thins her lips, looking at me like she’s still debating this next part.
“Just spit it out.”
There is only one more second’s hesitation before she rushes through, “Maybe you don’t need him to.”
“What are you getting at?” Something in her tone makes me lean forward, brows pinched.
