Page 22 of The Rival's Obsession
Like he already knew I’d be a problem.
Like he wanted to know how much of a problem I’d let him be in return.
Now I just have to get the other half of this dynamic duo to look me in the eye instead of trying to incinerate Dante with his glare. Grant hasn’t said much—not to me, anyway—but the tension between them is… impressive.
I wonder how much of it is sexual.
Hell, maybe none. Maybe they just hate each other. Or maybe that’s the problem.
They don’t hate each other—and that’s the issue. Which is where I’m placing my bets.
I smile, fold my hands neatly in my lap, and wait for them to remember I’m still in the room.
It doesn’t take long.
Grant Harrow is the first to glance my way. Brief, controlled. A flick of his storm-gray eyes over me like a scan, not a greeting.
I’ve watched enough high-powered men to know when I’m being cataloged. He’s not checking me out—he’s assessing risk. And that makes me like him just a little bit more.
He’s not a Ledger client. I checked. No history in our database, no contract preferences, no kinks filed under an alias. Which means I get to dive in the old-fashioned way—research, surveillance, inference.
It’s practically a PI job, and I have to admit... I’m excited.
The man is layered like cold steel. Five eleven, broad-chested with a cut that says discipline, not vanity. Dirty-blond hair, neatly styled—though I’ve seen the strands at his temple twitch toward disorder every time Dante opens his mouth.
His suits whisper money. Tailored with intention. Not a single accessory out of place.
His voice is the most telling. Cool and low. Measured. Enunciated with a precision that says he doesn’t need to shout to command a room. It’s the kind of voice men listen to and women try to impress.
And still... he’s a mystery. A locked vault.
For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve watched him stand just stiff enough to suggest he’s never fully at ease. Not with Dante. Maybe not even with himself.
He’s playing his cards so close to his chest, I’m not convinced he knows what they are.
Dante, on the other hand?
Oh, Dante’s going to be difficult just because he can be. He’ll emote, posture, grandstand, distract—and every bit of it will be performative. The trick with him isn’t drawing him out.
It’s figuring out what’s real.
Grant’s reality is buried beneath a lifetime of control. Dante’s is buried under layers of charm and chaos.
Well, enough of this. It’s time to leash the dogs.
I rise from my chair and glide between them, heels silent on the polished floor as I insert myself into the no-man’s-land like I’ve owned it all along. They part just enough to let me in. Like instinct. Like gravity.
“If I get stabbed walking between you two, I’m charging hazard pay,” I murmur, voice light and laced with something wry. “But since I like my heels blood-free, how about we stop posturing and get to work?”
Dante’s grin blooms instantly, all teeth and heat.
“I don’t know,” he drawls, eyes dragging down my frame like a slow caress. “Depends where you want the blood, sweetheart. I can think of a few places that?—”
“Jesus Christ,” Grant snaps, throwing his hands up as he stalks to the windows. “This isn’t a fucking game, Dante. This is our legacy. Our company. Not a goddamn locker room.”
“I was just having a little fun,” Dante replies, smirking—but it tightens around the edges, like he’s getting tired of being the one always blamed for making things worse.
I sigh, loud enough to interrupt whatever verbal grenade Grant’s about to lob next.
