Page 37 of The Rival's Obsession
I may not disclose every secret of my past, but I also have no intention of sabotaging this.
But when she mentioned she’d already prepped Dante last night—that they’d talked strategy over dinner—I felt something shift in me.
Not jealousy.
Not irritation.
Just… something.
And I don’t have time to unpack what the hell it was.
The limo slows to a stop, and Eve turns toward me, all business now.
“This is our first joint appearance since the slap heard round Vegas,” she says. “The press is hungry for blood. Or unity. Either one will sell.”
I grunt. “So, let’s not give them the first one.”
“Exactly.”
She straightens the cuff of my blazer. Her fingers brush my wrist, cool and efficient, like it means nothing.
“You’ll be paired with him for the photo call,” she continues. “There’s a group moment on the green with the charity ambassador, and I’ve lined up a quick quote forSocials Magazine—feel-good PR about rivals putting the past behind them for a cause.”
I nod once, jaw tight.
She watches me a beat longer.
“I’ll be nearby if you need me,” she says. “Consulting in a professional capacity, of course. If anyone asks.” Her voice dips just slightly—mocking, warm, edged in mischief.
“Professional capacity?”
“It’s not a lie,” she adds, lips twitching. “Iamconsulting in a professional capacity.”
I glance at her—an unimpressed stare that does absolutely nothing to her.
So much so she actually winks at me.
“They just don’t know that part of that capacity could involve a blowjob.”
I snort, biting back a smirk. “Jesus, Eve.”
“What?” she says innocently, her hand resting on my thigh like we’ve already fucked each other. “It’s called multitasking.”
Eve’s parting comment still lingers when the limo eases to a stop.
It was calculated. Timed.
A not-so-subtle jab wrapped in a velvet glove—all to make sure I didn’t step out of this car looking like I was ready to put someone through a hedge.
The door opens. Her hand slides off me, and cameras flash before I’m fully upright.
I take my time, looking around as I button my suit jacket.
No rush. No grandstanding.
A simple nod to the first bank of press, then I turn back to the car—and stop.
Eve’s still seated inside, one leg crossed, her hand resting lightly beside her. The cream slacks, the black halter. The tailored elegance. It’s not just put together—it’s intentional. Every inch of her curated with the ease of someone who understands how to make people look twice.
