Page 73 of The Rival's Obsession
We greet in that familiar European style—a kiss to each cheek. Her perfume is soft but expensive. Her skin glows. She’s beautiful. The sort of woman I might’ve been drawn to in another life. Before I became CEO. Before—well—just, before.
“I’ve admired your firm’s work for years,” she says in perfect English, with just enough accent to make it elegant. “I’m bringing a piece of provincial France to Manhattan. A full renovation of my grandfather’s building on the Upper East Side. I want light, elegance… but with bones.”
Her eyes narrow on mine. “Your portfolio suggests you understand history. And restraint.”
“I like to think so,” I say, offering a composed smile. “Marchesi and Harrow specializes in honoring legacy without compromising innovation.”
Before I can flag a server, two crystal flutes of sparkling water arrive—lime wedge balanced just so. The waitress disappears with practiced ease.
Isabelle lifts her glass. “Then let’s see if we’re a match, Mr. Harrow.”
The door opens again, and I don’t see him at first. But I feel him.
A shift in the atmosphere—like gravity adjusting around a new axis. Every hair on my arm lifts before I even look up to see Dante.
Two days ago, he was in a hospital bed. Bruised, battered, a cocktail of machines keeping him monitored. My hand had been on his thigh. Then—then absolutely nowhere at all.
Now he’s walking into this restaurant like the devil wears linen and good cologne.
He’s dressed in a cream suit with a pale blue shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at skin. His hair’s styled like it wasn’t—effortless and infuriating. He’s laughing softly with the hostess, hand resting on her lower back as she gestures toward his table.
And that’s when I see who he’s meeting with.
Matheus da Costa.
Brazilian football legend. World-renowned. Fast, charismatic, and so absurdly gifted he makes gravity look optional. He’s only a few years out from retirement but already positioning himself as a power player off the field—tech investments, real estate, fashion ventures. A global brand all his own.
He stands when he sees Dante. Broad smile. Hand extended.
They clasp forearms, pulling into one of those firm, one-armed hugs. Familiar but respectful. Close. Comfortable. The kind of closeness that makes my jaw clench.
They speak in low tones—Portuguese or Italian, I can’t tell. Matheus says something that makes Dante laugh, all warm and relaxed in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
They don’t sit yet. They linger. Dante leans in to say something, and Matheus claps him on the shoulder, laughing again like they’re old friends or newly in cahoots.
I can’t hear a damn thing.
And I hate how much I want to.
He’s seated by the maître d’ across the room—far enough that we’re clearly here for different meetings, but close enough to see every line of his smirk when he turns and spots me.
He stills. Just slightly.
One hand, in the process of unbuttoning his jacket, pauses on the second button. Our eyes lock. I watch the surprise flicker in his expression—real and unguarded—before he schools it down to something cooler. Smoother.
Then he finishes unbuttoning, slides into his seat with a fluid, deliberate ease, and smiles like he’s just been dealt a winning hand.
I swallow the knot in my throat and try not to visibly react.
This has Eve written all over it.
Dante didn’t know I’d be here. I’m almost certain. That flash of surprise—he’s too good of an actor to fake it that well.Which means neither of us was expecting the other, and Eve orchestrated this.
Strategically.
Calculatingly.
Two luncheons. One location. Power players on either side. Matching times, mirrored placements. I’m seated with my back to the wall, full view of the restaurant. And him—directly opposite me. Every glance from either table now a game of discretion. Or provocation.
