Page 23 of The Rival's Obsession
“Right now,” I say coolly, “neither of you are fuckable. You’re liabilities.”
That gets their attention. Dante blinks. Grant turns slightly from the window, his jaw tight.
“If you keep measuring your dicks in boardrooms, neither of you will have one left. Let me fix that.”
Grant’s gaze flicks to Dante. Not with rage. Not with that same sharp bitterness he’s been throwing around like knives. It’s something quieter. Deeper. Not desire. Not quite.
Just . . . memory.
I let that settle before I step back, businesslike now. “Here’s how this works. Two weeks. Full access. No lies. I’m not your therapist—I’m your mirror. You don’t like what you see? Fix it.”
Dante lifts a brow, arms folding lazily across his chest. “Does this mirror include sex?”
I tilt my head, lips curving. “Only if you earn it.”
He smirks. “Darling, I always do.”
I glance at Grant. “He’s going to be exhausting, isn’t he?”
Grant doesn’t answer right away—too busy letting his eyes drag over my legs. He catches himself a second too late and clears his throat. “He already is.”
Dante leans in just enough to drop his voice. “I’d be happy to show you how exhausted I can help you get.”
Grant can’t hold back anymore and snaps. “Fucking Christ, Dante. This is completely?—”
“Oh my God,” Dante groans, rolling his eyes and cutting him off. “Would you stop? Just for once, stop fucking fighting everything. At least I’m doing something, Grant. At least I’m showing up. To fix this. Can you fucking admit that? It’s a start. Which is more than we’ve had in years.”
That lands.
Grant doesn’t respond or look at him.
Just goes back to the skyline—brooding and quiet.
I let the silence settle. Let the weight of Dante’s words and Grant’s reaction fill the room like smoke—thick, choking, unresolved.
Then I cut through it.
“I don’t need you two to hold hands and sing campfire songs,” I say, voice calm but firm. “But if you didn’t want this to work, you wouldn’t be here.”
Grant doesn’t look at me, but he’s listening now. I can see it in the way his jaw ticks, in the way his hand curls against the edge of the window frame like it’s the only thing holding him up.
“You don’t owe me anything, Grant,” I continue, stepping closer. “But you owe it to yourself to try. One hour. If it’s a waste of your time, I’ll walk.”
Still nothing. No answer.
So I lean in, just slightly, and drop my voice.
“But something tells me this matters more than you’re letting on.”
Grant finally turns—just enough to meet my gaze.
“Fine,” he says. Low. Gritted. But it’s a yes.
I smile, already pivoting to Dante. “Great. That means you can go.”
Dante laughs, not offended in the slightest. “Kicking me out already? That’s cold, baby.”
“You’ll survive,” I shoot back. “I want to talk to Grant without a backseat driver, thank you.”
