Page 57 of The Rival's Obsession
I hate when she does this.
Reaches for my mother’s memory like it belongs to her. Like she has the right to summon it as leverage—to wrap her voice around something sacred and wield it like a blade designed to cut through all my resistance.
But the truth is—Corrine doesn’t know who my mother saw when she looked at me.
No one knows that but me. The secret I’ll take to my grave because it sent my mother to hers.
That vision—whatever it was—died with her. And the man left standing in her place has never been sure if she would’ve loved him if she’d lived long enough to process what I had done.
It flashes then—quick, but sharp.
The intake of breath.
The way the door had slammed behind me, closing in what was about to happen.
The sound her body made when it hit the floor—softer than I expected.
The blood that spread across the marble like ink in water—slow, blooming, irreversible.
My jaw clenches, and I force the memory down, shoving it into the same dark corner I always do, where I keep the worst parts of myself out of reach. But it still hums beneath the surface, no matter how deep I bury it.
I glance toward the bookshelf like I’m looking for something to anchor me, and my eyes find the photo of her. My mother. Framed in silver, frozen in a moment that feels like another lifetime.
She’s smiling in the picture. Her eyes are soft, touched with warmth that’s almost maternal.
Almost.
Not like the last time I looked into them.
That final stare—wide, startled, not yet accepting the truth of what was happening—haunts me. I watched the light fade from her gaze, saw the exact moment her soul slipped away. And I’ve carried it with me every day since, like a bruise that never heals.
The anniversary is coming soon. It always makes the ghosts louder—more vivid—like they’ve been saving up their strength all year just to drag me back into the worst day of my life.
It was the day I stopped being a son.
The day I became the kind of man who knows exactly what blood feels like on his hands.
The kind of man who built his life on the memory of his mother’s last breath—and the secret I bury that took it.
Ishould’ve knocked.
I definitely shouldn’t still be standing here, holding the handle like I forgot how doors work.
But Corrine’s voice—low and deliberate—has me rooted in place.
Grant can’t see me. She’s standing just perfectly to block his view of the door, her posture just casual enough to hide how carefully she’s delivering her words.
“We’ve always protected each other, Grant. Ever since that day.”
That day.
The way she says it—weighted, like a code only the two of them understand—makes something tighten in my gut.
I don’t know what she’s referring to, but I know a veiled threat when I hear one. And I know leverage when I see it.
Whateverthat daywas… it matters. Enough to make her lower her voice. Enough to make him still as stone.
And now it matters to me.
