Page 151 of The Rival's Obsession
I exhale through my nose, rolling my shoulders once. The knot in my stomach pulls tighter.
“Five years,” I say, quieter this time. “Everything our fathers built. Everything we’ve done to try and honor it. All comes down to one hour.”
Dante doesn’t shift. Just pulls the pack of cigarettes from his jacket—his usual tell—and turns it over in his hand. For a second, I think he’s going to light one. But then, without ceremony, he crushes the pack and tosses it into the nearby trash can.
“They’ll either side with us,” he says, brushing his palms together, “or we’ll kick them out. Either way, they’ll have to pry this firm from our cold, dead hands.”
The elevator dings.
I glance toward it, throat dry.
Dante steps closer.
Without a word, he takes my hand—right there in the open—and rubs his thumb across my knuckles. Slow. Steady. Grounding.
I look at him.
He’s not nervous. And maybe that’s what makes this moment work. Because I’ve spent my whole life trying to prepare for every worst-case scenario... and he’s always been the one who walks in like we’ve already won.
Today, we’re doing both.
The elevator doors slide open.
We step inside—side by side.
Not just partners in the company now.
Partners in everything.
Dante reaches across me and pushes the button for the fiftieth floor, and before the elevator doors close, he’s moving in on me, his hungry eyes fixed on my mouth.
“We have a tradition to uphold in elevators now, so give me those lips and kiss me, bug.”
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and I instinctively wipe my bottom lip with my thumb.
Frankie’s already waiting in the atrium, leaning against the reception desk in a black pencil skirt, navy blouse, and her signature pin-up glam that makes her look like she just walked off a vintageVoguecover. She's popping a piece of gum, bored and beautiful.
“Disgusto,” she says, not even blinking. “You better sanitize that elevator if you plan to defile it every time you’re in there.”
Dante grins.
I don’t bother replying.
Eve rounds the corner a second later, a vision in her Ledger-red pencil dress, an armful of black folders and a smile sharp enough to slice through steel.
“Morning, boys,” she says brightly. “Glad to see you both look freshly fucked today.”
Frankie gags dramatically. “I just vomited in my mouth a little.”
She pivots on her heel and starts toward the large conference room like she owns the place—which, to be fair, she kind of doesin her own way. Eve falls into step beside her, and Dante and I follow.
The hallway’s already buzzing with early arrivals. A few board members mill about, murmuring and sipping coffee, their gazes sharpening as we pass.
“Morning,” I offer with a nod, polite but not warm.
One of them lifts a brow. “Any hints on the room switch, Marchesi?”
Dante doesn’t miss a beat. “We had some last-minute changes to today’s agenda.”
