Page 72 of The Rival's Obsession
Of course she plays the board card. Classic.
“Then you should trust that I’ve chosen the right assets to ensure nothing does,” I say smoothly. No need to raise my voice when confidence is sharper than volume.
Her veneer slips—just slightly. Enough to show she’s not used to hearingnowithout a concession attached. Her tone softens, but the words don’t.
“You know, Grant and I built this from the ground up,” she says, voice tipping toward something sentimental. “Every success, every loss. We protect each other. Always have.”
I meet her eyes. Cool. Direct. Unmoved.
“That’s admirable,” I offer. “But protecting someone doesn’t mean controlling them. However, I do note the side of the building readsMarchesi & Harrow.NotHarrow and Ashwood.”
There’s a pause—brief, but weighted. A beat where she recalibrates. Swallows down the rage.
“I’ll still need the details for financial projections,” she says, re-centering herself. “These deals won’t be invisible on paper.”
I tilt my head just slightly. A smile plays on my lips—not sweet, not warm. Calculated. Measured. “And when the contracts are signed, you’ll have everything you need.”
My attention is no longer given to Corrine. I turn to Frankie, smoothly cutting out our newly arrived guest. As I bring up bullshit subjects, Corrine finally slinks back into her snake’s den.
“Marry me, Eve Sterling,” Frankie says, all glittery-eyed and smiling.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
She crosses her arms, deadpan. “I’m just saying. If you ever want to be the third Mrs. Lane, applications are open. Full benefits. Excellent dental. All we ask is a firm anti-Corrine stance and a tolerance for loud reality TV.”
I snort, half-laughing as I perch on the edge of her desk. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. Wait till I tell my wife. She’s going to make me frame a photo of you after that line. ‘Protecting someone doesn’t mean controlling them’? Jesus. I want that on a tote bag.”
“If we’re making merch, I vote for ‘#AsCEO’ in Comic Sans.”
Frankie groans dramatically. “Ugh. Don’t bring her voice into this moment. It’s sacred.”
We both laugh—easy, unguarded. A balm after all that performative professionalism.
She swings her chair side to side, then glances up at me. “Lunch? I’m starving. And you’ve clearly earned a reward for surviving Corrine’s weaponized diplomacy.”
“My treat,” I say, standing and smoothing my skirt. “On one condition.”
Her brow lifts. “Name it.”
“You talk as much shit about Corrine as humanly possible.”
Frankie grins, wicked. “Deal. But fair warning—I’m clearing my whole afternoon.”
“Even better.”
We walk out together, plotting the lunch menu and the roast session with equal enthusiasm.
The maître d’ leads me through the private wing of the country club restaurant, where the lighting is soft, the linens are starch-crisp, and the price of silence is built into the bill. I spot my client already seated—she’s early, of course.
Blonde. Polished. Perfectly poised. The kind of woman whose heels never scuff, whose pearls are real, and whose bloodline probably owns more of Europe than it visits.
Isabelle Lévêque.
French banking heiress. Old money. The kind of client who knows exactly what she wants—and expects the world to rise to meet her.
“Mr. Harrow,” she says, stepping close.
