Page 66 of The Rival's Obsession
“Thought so.”
I take a half step back—not enough to defuse the moment, just enough to let the tension simmer in the space betweenus. Grant stays rooted where he is, and for a second, he looks wrecked by it. His eyes are wide, pupils dark and dilated, his breath still catching like his body hasn’t gotten the message that the fight is over—or that it never really was a fight to begin with.
There’s something in his gaze now—something feral, something frustrated. And underneath all of that, something he’s tried to deny for far too long.
Then the sharp rap of knuckles against glass slices through the charge between us.
Fucking Corrine.
She pushes the door open without waiting for a response, all tailored confidence and calculated timing. There’s a practiced smile on her face, but the real expression is in her eyes—cool, assessing, and just a little too pleased with herself.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says lightly, her voice syrup-smooth as she glances between us. “Grant, we need to go over the budget revisions. You have a minute?”
That’s when Grant steps back.
Not just a shuffle or a shift, but a full, conscious retreat. More distance than I gave him, more space than either of us needed—and I see it for exactly what it is. A line being redrawn. A mask snapping back into place. His body trying to pretend it doesn’t remember what it just responded to.
“Yeah,” he says, his tone as controlled as the expression on his face, but it doesn’t fool me. There’s something else underneath it—something flickering at the edges, like a fuse sparking under tension.
I can’t help myself. The words come out before I even decide to say them.
“Run back to her,” I murmur, voice low and loaded. “Your safe-space of lies.”
Grant falters. A single hitch in his step, a fraction of hesitation he probably doesn’t think I’ll notice.
But I do.
Corrine pretends not to hear—or maybe she does and simply enjoys it. She glances back over her shoulder once as they walk out, her smile still in place but sharpened now, like a victory.
I stay where I am, watching the glass door click shut behind them.
My jaw ticks, a slow grind I don’t bother concealing. I should sit. I should move on. I should let it go.
I plant my hands on the edge of the model table, shoulders tense, chest heaving with frustration I can’t seem to swallow. The miniature skyline mocks me—precise, controlled, a perfect little world where everything goes exactly as planned.
Not like mine.
Not like this.
My fingers curl around the nearest model—a sleek acrylic tower I once obsessed over—and before I can stop myself, I hurl it across the room.
It explodes against the far wall, shattering into a hundred perfect pieces.
Islept like shit. Not that I’m willing to admit why.
The board’s looming vote is an easy scapegoat. So is the calendar mishap. The Wolfe of Manhattan breathing down our necks. Plenty of rational reasons to toss and turn all night.
None of them explain why my head wouldn’t shut off. Why I kept replaying yesterday’s argument on a loop—every word, every glance, every breath too close. And none of them explain why I checked my phone the second I woke up.
Why my shoulders dropped when there was nothing from Dante.
I left late last night. The kind of late where most of the building had already gone dark. But I know for a fact Dante and his team were still here. Lights on, voices tight, models being rearranged and reworked like salvation could be built out of foam core and reinforced glass.
I stepped in for a bit, helped one of the render teams in a corner conference room that had been half-commandeered intoa war zone of coffee cups, laptops, and tension. It was safe in there. Tucked away from Dante’s mood and Frankie’s no-bullshit perimeter defense.
But even in that room, I couldn’t escape him. He was everywhere. In the clean edges of the façade. In the light-mapping innovations his mind engineered. In the way the layout pulled function and form into something living.
His brilliance is annoying. Mostly because I admire it.
