Page 55 of The Rival's Obsession
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to quell the pressure building behind my eyes.
On my laptop screen, Eve’s media contact has delivered a masterpiece.
And it’s fucking glowing.
The piece looks like it belongs inForbesorFortune—clean, compelling, curated to within an inch of its life. Pictures of Dante and me standing shoulder to shoulder on the white carpet she staged in the gallery. The lighting makes us look golden. Polished. Powerful.
Exactly what we’re supposed to be.
Partner CEOs. Aligned and unshakable.
Which would be easier to believe if my phone screen didn’t currently show the exact opposite.
I glance down at the tabloid still open in my other hand, jaw clenching. That prick Corrine let hang around the charity golf event—some influencer with an orange spray tan and teeth too white to be real—the one hiding paparazzi in the damn trees.
The result is grainy, unflattering shots of Dante looking like he’s about to murder someone. Or fuck someone. Or both. And none of it screamsstable corporate executive.
I exhale hard and scan the headline again:
“CEO or Savage in a Suit? Dante Marchesi Rage Stroke on the Greens.”
Fucking perfect.
My thumb hovers over Dante’s name, brushing the edge of the screen like it might summon the courage I don’t seem to have this morning. The call I should’ve made last night. Or the night before.
Movement outside my office draws my eye.
The glass double doors open, and he walks in escorting Eve with a hand at the small of her back. A guiding touch that should be polite. Should be professional.
But it isn’t.
Not when that hand drifts lower—inch by inch—sliding down until he’s nearly cupping the curve of her ass like he fucking owns it.
She lets him.
Eve struts in six-inch heels like she invented gravity, the curve of her pencil skirt a goddamn weapon. As she passes in front of him, she runs a pointed fingernail down the center of his tie, eyes flashing like a dare.
She looks like sin.
And they fucked.
They absolutely fucked.
It’s written in every languid movement, every teasing glance, every subconscious brush of skin against skin. My jaw ticks as the image forms without my permission—Dante’s body glistening with sweat as it moves over hers. His mouth, his hands, his control.
Eve’s face, blissed out and unrepentant.
My pulse surges—and suddenly I’m there. Not watching.
Participating.
Right next to him.
My hand sliding down the smooth skin of his back. Gripping his ass as we both?—
I blink. Once. Twice. Like it’ll clear the static.
When my vision refocuses, I catch movement again—Corrine, standing across the bullpen, watching them too. But then she turns, catching me in the act of catching them.
