Page 102 of The Rival's Obsession

---

This isn’t a power game anymore. It’s a collision course.

And I know what it’s going to make me face.

The pressure in my chest tightens—too fast, too sharp. My stomach turns.

My mother.

The smell of blood and lilies. The icy numbness of guilt I never seem to shake.

Not now. Not here.

I splash cold water on my face. Let it run down the back of my neck. Try to force the memory out. Then I exhale, fix my bowtie and open the door.

And stop.

Because there he is not even ten feet away.

Dante leans against the wall like he owns it, bourbon glass in hand, blazer unbuttoned, smirk in full, unbothered amusement.

He knows.

He fucking knows what I just did.

What I just came to.

That I was in there, fucking my hand, watching him send me over the edge with a goddamn napkin in his lap and a smirk on his lips.

“Just wanted to say goodnight, Lucciolina.” he says, voice low and smooth like the bourbon he sips.

Lucciolina. It’s Italian for little glowbug. I looked it up. The name he always calls me that I have no fucking clue why. But tonight, it’s not an insult. It’s a caress.

He doesn’t wait for a reply.

Just finishes his drink, pushes off the wall, and strolls down the hallway with a lazy, arrogant grace that says checkmate.

And I stand there, heart thudding in my throat, and realize?—

This whole time, I thought we were circling the ring, both of us throwing punches.

But Dante?

He’s been playing chess.

I didn’t even know the board was set.

And now?

Now I’m losing.

Not just to him—but to the truth I’ve spent years burying.

The denial.

The lie.

The end is days away.

Five years of jockeying for position.

---