Page 43 of The Rival's Obsession
A clean, quiet claim on both of them.
“Pardon us,” I say smoothly. “We’ve been asked for a quick interview.”
Corrine’s brows lift. “No one mentioned that to me.”
I smile—warm, professional, untouchable. “No need. It’s exclusive. A favor from an old contact of mine.”
Should I let her know this contact pays me handsomely to peg him once a month?
Mmm, probably not.
Before she can find footing in the conversation again, I guide the men away with polite efficiency.
Grant moves with me without hesitation, my hand still on his arm, his other settling neatly into his pocket like we’ve walked this path before.
Behind us, Dante shifts fluidly to my other side.
When the crowd thickens and we’re forced to narrow our path, his hand drifts low across my back—steadying, sure.
I release Grant’s arm and slip my fingers into his instead.
He doesn’t hesitate to close his hand over mine.
And it doesn’t feel like it’s for the act or the press.
But because, for whatever reason, in this moment—it feels better than not holding it.
We step forward together.
And behind us, Dante lingers just a breath.
His hand still at my spine.
His smirk unreadable.
And for the first time since stepping into this political circus, I feel… good.
Like maybe these two men might not destroy each other after all.
Maybe they’ll let me be the gravity that holds them steady.
We nailed the interview.
I didn’t even prep them. My contact won’t publish a piece without me okaying it, and I wanted to see how they’d do on their own.
So I stood to the side like some glorified bookend while years of history snapped back into place. Reflexive. Effortless.
And now I’m watching it all unravel across manicured green.
Everyone’s changed into their golf attire—collared shirts and curated smiles. The tournament’s in full swing, with ahandpicked rotation of players meant to stack the odds in Grant and Dante’s favor.
But one off-script question sent things sideways. Dante fielded it fine. The problem came when Grant overreached with a joke that fell flat—more rust than rhythm.
That reflex between them? Gone.
I pulled them aside to regroup by the golf cart. Gave them space, adjusted my blouse, made a mental list of talking points for the next round. Grant was just heading back to the greens when Corrine arrived.
Correction—when Corrine was delivered.
