Page 10 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

T he limo pulls through the gates of the Silverleaf Invitational—a charity golf tournament so drenched in old money and sports legacy it practically smells like polished wood and generational privilege.

It’s hosted annually at the Wexley Club, a country-club-meets-five-star-resort with rolling green hills, manicured fairways, and a press line long enough to make my jaw clench.

Flashbulbs go off before we’ve even parked. I can already see retired pros, billionaire donors, and influencers pretending they understand anything about golf—as long as there’s champagne.

“Fucking white carpet,” I mutter.

“Of course,” Eve replies smoothly from beside me. “This is Manhattan’s elite. They’ll wear white after Labor Day if there’s a camera involved.”

She’s calm. Relaxed. Like this is just another Tuesday—which it might be, for her.

I was surprised to see her at my penthouse this morning.

I’d just finished shaving when my housekeeper let her in. Wearing wide-leg cream slacks and a black halter-neck blouse that managed to be chic, commanding, and just androgynous enough to make it feel like she could seduce both the room and the boardroom at once.

She wanted to review the plan for today. Check my outfit. Adjust my tie. Make sure I didn’t look like I wanted to throw a driver at Dante’s head the minute we stepped onto the course.

She wanted me to switch to a navy suit, so I let her.

I may not disclose every secret of my past, but I also have no intention of sabotaging this.

But when she mentioned she’d already prepped Dante last night—that they’d talked strategy over dinner—I felt something shift in me.

Not jealousy.

Not irritation.

Just… something.

And I don’t have time to unpack what the hell it was.

The limo slows to a stop, and Eve turns toward me, all business now.

“This is our first joint appearance since the slap heard round Vegas,” she says. “The press is hungry for blood. Or unity. Either one will sell.”

I grunt. “So, let’s not give them the first one.”

“Exactly.”

She straightens the cuff of my blazer. Her fingers brush my wrist, cool and efficient, like it means nothing.

“You’ll be paired with him for the photo call,” she continues. “There’s a group moment on the green with the charity ambassador, and I’ve lined up a quick quote for Socials Magazine —feel-good PR about rivals putting the past behind them for a cause.”

I nod once, jaw tight.

She watches me a beat longer.

“I’ll be nearby if you need me,” she says. “Consulting in a professional capacity, of course. If anyone asks.” Her voice dips just slightly—mocking, warm, edged in mischief.

“Professional capacity?”

“It’s not a lie,” she adds, lips twitching. “I am consulting in a professional capacity.”

I glance at her—an unimpressed stare that does absolutely nothing to her.

So much so she actually winks at me.

“They just don’t know that part of that capacity could involve a blowjob.”

I snort, biting back a smirk. “Jesus, Eve.”

“What?” she says innocently, her hand resting on my thigh like we’ve already fucked each other. “It’s called multitasking.”

Eve’s parting comment still lingers when the limo eases to a stop.

It was calculated. Timed.

A not-so-subtle jab wrapped in a velvet glove—all to make sure I didn’t step out of this car looking like I was ready to put someone through a hedge.

The door opens. Her hand slides off me, and cameras flash before I’m fully upright.

I take my time, looking around as I button my suit jacket.

No rush. No grandstanding.

A simple nod to the first bank of press, then I turn back to the car—and stop.

Eve’s still seated inside, one leg crossed, her hand resting lightly beside her. The cream slacks, the black halter. The tailored elegance. It’s not just put together—it’s intentional. Every inch of her curated with the ease of someone who understands how to make people look twice.

And that smile.

Not the Ledger Companion smile.

This one’s relaxed. Alive. Real.

Like she’s saying, You’ve got this.

I reach out without thinking, and when she takes my hand, her skin is cool and certain. She lets me help her rise, like this is what people do for her. And of course they do. They pay well for her company… fuck. We’re paying well for her company.

And I’m starting to see why.

“Thanks,” I say under my breath. “For thinking ahead.”

She only nods, lips curving like she knew I’d say it eventually. “It’s what I’m here for.”

We walk the carpet together, smooth as glass.

I don’t speak unless prompted, and she doesn’t over-direct. Just a soft glance here, a light brush of her fingers on my sleeve there.

At one stop, she greets a publicist by name and offers a polite kiss on each cheek. Says something I can’t hear. Then gestures toward me, her smile professional, but her body language reading watch this one.

The press does as they’re told. Cameras click.

She’s not just easing the tension—she’s shaping the story.

And for once, I don’t feel the need to plot out every next step or align things into order. I let her lead.

As we move forward again, a tall woman in a white suit glides past us—broad, athletic shoulders, cropped hair, unmistakable presence. WNBA. I recognize her from a sports equity panel last fall.

She gives Eve a nod and a quiet, knowing smile. Familiar. Intimate.

My brow lifts. I lean in just enough so only she hears me. “Client of yours?”

Eve doesn’t miss a beat. Doesn’t confirm. Doesn’t deny.

Just murmurs back, low and smooth, “I never kiss and tell.”

Then she glances at me, then my lips.

And for just a second… I wonder if that was more than a witty reply.

A promise, maybe.

Or an invitation.

Should I ever want to test it—it would be our secret.

My gaze lingers a second too long, like I’m already answering her back.

It’s been five years since I’ve even thought about sex in any real way. Not in passing. Not in the quiet of night. Not even during those rare stretches of boredom or loneliness that might tempt lesser men.

Desire is a distraction. And I’ve had more important things to rebuild.

But now—here she is.

Eve, in her tailored pants and wicked mouth, smoothing down my lapel like she owns the right. Tossing glances that feel like they’re testing the temperature.

And Dante’s question yesterday—if sex was on the table?—

It shouldn’t matter.

Except it does.

Because now, I can’t stop wondering if it is .

The crowd gathers under the main event tent—one of those massive temporary structures lined with fresh florals, chilled champagne, and enough money to make it feel casual.

Laughter hums like background music. Crystal glasses clink against manicured nails. People greet each other with air kisses and firm handshakes, dressed in designer golfwear they’ll likely never sweat in.

I know most of them.

Not well.

Old acquaintances. Business associates. Friends of my father’s who see me and offer the same strained smile that says, I remember you in short pants.

No one here is real. No one here is safe.

Just sharks circling until someone bleeds.

Eve hangs back, close enough to be noticed but far enough not to intrude. She’s perfected the art of proximity—close enough to be accessible, detached enough to be mysterious.

It works.

She checks her phone discreetly, then steps forward and lightly tugs at the crook of my arm. Barely a touch, but enough to cut through the senator’s latest pitch about the tech corridor bill and—more irritatingly—his daughter.

“Grant,” she says quietly, so only I hear. “Dante’s arriving.”

I nod once.

She’d already briefed me on how we’re to play this. Not too far, not too close. A visual dance. Partners orbiting each other. Space to breathe, to watch. A slow thaw the press can track over the course of the day.

It’s smart.

I take a slow inhale through my nose.

Can’t tell if it’s to ease the pressure building in my chest—or if it’s the way her perfume drifts between us. Cool. Subtle. Clean. It doesn’t announce itself. It lingers.

Probably both.

There’s a commotion at the edge of the carpet. Not loud. Just a hum of attention sharpening. Cameras click before they even see him.

Dante always did know how to arrive.

He steps into the tent like he belongs on a goddamn movie poster—light gray suit tailored to his frame, top two buttons of his shirt undone like he’s allergic to formality.

The sun cuts a glint off the compass tattoo inked on his chest, just barely visible as he lifts a hand in a wave to someone behind me.

His smile is wide. Bright. Performative.

I’ve seen that smile used to charm CEOs, disarm investors, and publicly pretend he didn’t just verbally annihilate someone ten seconds earlier.

But then his eyes find mine and there’s a shift.

So slight most people wouldn’t notice it.

But I do.

His mouth doesn’t falter. But something in his gaze—adjusts. A knowing behind the facade.

I look away before I feel it too deeply. Back to the senator, who’s now talking about the second of his daughters, conveniently also single.

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?”