Page 21 of The Rival's Obsession
Not just because of the way she carries herself—like a secret with legs—but because I’ve seen the uniform before. Red dress, sleek and unmistakable. Worn like armor by the women who work forThe Black Ledger.
Dante’s had plenty of them. Paraded through events, meetings, after-hours functions like they’re accessories. Men too, in their all-black ensembles—every one of them polished, trained, contract-bound.
This isn’t new.
Whatisnew is him bringing one here.
To our office.
To me.
Dante’s grin widens like he’s been waiting for me to put it together.
“Grant,” he says, tone overly polite and fucking annoying, “this is Eve Sterling.”
She extends a hand with effortless grace. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Harrow. I understand you’re the rational one.”
Of course he did it. Of course he went around me, took Wolfe’s advice, and made a move while I sat here doing nothing but thinking.
He’s got a plan.
And I have nothing.
I’ve never been one to rush foreplay.
And make no mistake—what’s happening in this office? It’s foreplay.
Two men. Two egos. One ticking clock. And me, dropped into the middle like a match to dry kindling.
I cross one leg over the other, lean back in the leather chair, and watch the two men argue in the world’s loudest whisper.
It’s not subtle.
It’s not productive.
It is, however, entertaining as hell.
I was interested the second Dante Marchesi sat down in the Ledger’s lobby this afternoon. Wolfe had already sent word to Lucian—something about a last-resort referral. Two executives. Two weeks. Fix the tension or lose the company. No details, no history—just the kind of vague urgency that usually means someone’s already made a mess of things.
I was about to input Dante’s info into the system, rush-approval flagged and ready, when his name lit up green.
Already a member.
Even easier.
I was looking over his bio and profile picture—Italian heritage, likely speaks it fluently, six feet and change, espresso eyes, tan skin, black hair that curls just slightly when it’s long enough—when he strolled in like he owned the damn place.
A toothpick dangled from the corner of his smirking mouth—casual to most, but I know a displacement tactic when I see one. He needs something to take his frustration out on.
Something—or someone.
And now, here we are.
Two weeks to save a company. No personal background. No therapy-style deep dives. Just a mandate: get them back on the same side of the table.
Even if Wolfe hadn’t tossed my name in the ring, I would’ve taken this contract the second I saw Dante Marchesi walk through the door. Not just because of the smirk or the swagger or the tailored suit hugging his shoulders.
But because of the way he looked at me.
