Page 115 of The Rival's Obsession
“I’ve carried that, Grant. For years. And not because I had to—but because I chose to. Because I’ve always had your back. Even when it cost me.”
I say nothing. Just stare past her, past the glass, past the memory she’s trying to resurrect.
She sits back, calm and patient. Like the bomb she just dropped is a kindness.
Like she thinks she’s won.
But the only thing I feel right now is the slow rise of nausea curling behind my ribs.
Corrine watches me over the rim of her glass like she hasn’t just shifted the ground under my feet. Like she’s done me a favor.
Then, so casually it almost doesn’t register, she adds, “Of course… secrets like that aren’t easy to keep. One day, I might slip. Say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
My blood stops moving.
She’s not smiling. She’s not playing coy. She’s just… floating the possibility like it’s an accident waiting to happen. Like a weather forecast.
Something in me snaps.
I move without thinking. Cross the room in a single breath and grab her face in my hand—my fingers pressing into the sharp line of her jaw until her lips go tight, her eyes wide.
“You’re going to threaten me now?” I say, my voice so quiet it scrapes.
She flinches just a little. “Grant—no,” she mumbles, the words thick and warped through my grip. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“The fuck it isn’t.”
Her pupils flicker, but she doesn’t fight me. Doesn’t even try to pull away. She just stares up at me, stunned and silent, like she finally miscalculated.
“Please.” She whispers. Actual fear in her eyes. “You’re hurting me.”
I lean in closer, my voice razor-edged now. “You don’t ever speak of that day again. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
Her breath hitches.
Then I let go. Hard. Like her skin burns.
She exhales sharply, but still doesn’t move.
I turn my back on her. Walk straight to the office doors, the silence pressing in from all sides. I don’t look at the whiskey. I don’t look at her.
I just leave it all behind?—
The bottle.
The lies.
And the goddamn ghost of my mother at the bottom of the stairs.
The bell rings.
Dante sits low in the armchair across from me, one long leg draped over the other, the stem of a wineglass hanging loose from his fingers. His shirt is half unbuttoned, chest peeking out just enough to be distracting. His eyes, though—those obsidian pools—flick to the door, then to me.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to. Because we know who is here.
I rise slowly, smoothing the fitted lines of my black mini dress. Strapless. Tight. Strategic. My heels click over the hardwood as I walk to the front door and open it.
And there he is.
