Page 40 of The Rival's Obsession
I nod politely.
A familiar burst of warm, melodic Italian curls behind me like cigar smoke—comforting if I weren’t choking on it.
“Ciao, come stai, vecchio amico?”
?*Dante’s voice. Effortlessly smooth. Directed at some silver-haired relic from Florence who beams like he’s been waiting all year to hear it.
Give them a few moments and they’ll be trading secrets over wine and stories no one else remembers.
I force my attention back to the senator, whose pitch remains on the accomplishments of his very eligible daughters. But the words are filtered through static. I hear him, but my brain’s refusing to absorb it.
Because Dante’s voice is too close. His scent—some expensive blend of bergamot and something darker—threads almost too perfectly with Eve’s perfume. Together, it’s an intoxicating blend. Clean. Sharp. Slightly sweet.
Distracting as hell.
I sense a shift the second Dante leaves the old man’s side.
His voice dips—not in volume, but in intent. A private register meant for one person.
“You look lovely today,” he says, low and warm. “Piccola.”
Piccola.
Eve.
The familiarity grates more than I expect. A name spoken like a habit. Like history.
I remind myself—this is a professional engagement. A staged partnership. A game with real stakes. She’s here under contract, and Dante flirting with her in public—at this event—is reckless.
Unprofessional.
And that’s the reason it bothers me.
Of course it is.
I don’t have time to dwell on it. Not when Corrine steps into the tent from the side entrance, moving like she owns the breeze itself.
Her eyes sweep the crowd as a hand reaches for a passing platter of champagne flutes.
She’s looking for me.
Always does. She’s not a fan of these kinds of things and usually sticks close to me. But today, a chill prickles down my back.
I don’t need to turn around to know she’s spotted me and is making a move to join me.
I square my shoulders and offer the senator a tighter smile, letting him drone on, while each of Corrine’s steps feels like a drum against my chest.
I glance sideways at Eve—still tucked just behind me—because in this moment, it hits me.
Corrine has no idea Dante brought in someone from the outside.
But she’s about to.
And when she does, she won’t take it lightly.
* “Hello, how are you, old friend?”
Istand between them—Grant on my left, Dante on my right—just far enough apart to keep the space neutral. To anyone else, we look polished. Strategic. Like a unit with a plan.
