Page 110 of The Rival's Obsession
I grunt, stepping aside to let her in. “So, definitely a bribe.”
“I figured you haven’t eaten. And judging by your face, probably haven’t slept either.”
She’s not wrong.
She moves like she’s done this before—uncorks the wine, sets out two mismatched glasses from my cabinet without asking, opens the takeout, and starts plating it with the casual confidence of someone who has never cooked a day in her life.
“I’ll warn you now,” I say, exchanging the odd cups for proper stemware, “if this is some kind of come-to-Jesus dinner, I’m walking out of my own damn penthouse.”
Eve rolls her eyes and sits across from me. “Relax. I’m not here to fix your feelings.”
“So what are you here for?” I ask, standing at the counter, arms crossed, pretending like I haven’t already taken three deep inhales of whatever magic came out of that takeout bag.
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she calmly plates everything with the kind of patience that makes me irrationally twitchy, and pours another glass of wine like she owns the place. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak again until she’s sitting at the table with her fork in hand and the steam curling up from real-deal pasta.
Only when I finally give in and sit down across from her does she look up.
“You had every opportunity to tell me what happened between you and Grant when you brought me in. When you laid out the contract.”
I swirl the wine, watching the deep red catch the dim light. “I wanted you to figure things out on your own.”
Her brows lift. “And?”
“And what?”
“Have I?” she asks, stabbing a piece of rigatoni like it insulted her.
I set the wine down and lean back in my chair. “You tell me.”
Eve narrows her eyes. “There’s a hole in the story. I’ve connected a lot of dots, but there’s still something missing—and I want you to fill it.”
I give a slow, amused smile. “And what do you think it is?”
She sets her fork down with a quiet clink. “Grant’s mother.”
That makes me pause—just for a breath—but I recover with a sip of wine, giving her nothing.
She watches me.
Waits.
“Something happened,” she says, voice low but steady. “Something between Grant and his father. Something no one talks about. And whatever it was, you were sent away the very next day. Because you knew. Or you saw it.”
I scoff. “That’s your theory? That I witnessed a murder, and the family shipped me off before I could squeal?”
She shrugs. “I wouldn’t put anything past the filthy rich.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Well, if I’m being suspected of homicide, I should probably call my lawyer before I incriminate myself.”
“Don’t deflect,” she says. “I know what I’m asking. I know it’s ugly. But I’ve already seen the rot under the floorboards, Dante. You dragged me into this for a reason. I’m not leaving until I know what the hell I’m standing in.”
For a moment, all I can do is look at her and tap a finger on the edge of my plate. “That’s not it.”
“No?”
“Not even close.”
