Page 11 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

I stand 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.

Which we are.

Because they’re doing exactly what I told them.

No bickering. No distance.

Just proximity with purpose.

Still, something shifts.

Grant’s posture tightens almost imperceptibly. A subtle clench at the jaw. A stiffening of his spine that sends a silent alarm straight down my ribs.

I follow his gaze—and find the source of the disturbance.

Platinum-blonde bob. Crisp cream blazer. Confident stride.

Corrine.

She strikes me as the type who has can I speak to the manager down pat.

She doesn’t announce herself when she slips in beside Grant, doesn’t greet Dante, doesn’t acknowledge me at all until she absolutely has to.

“Corrine Ashwood,” she says smoothly, offering her hand without smile or warmth. “Chief financial officer at Marchezi and Harrow.”

Her tone adds: And who the hell are you?

“Eve Sterling.” I return the handshake, calm and pleasant. “Consultant.”

That catches her off guard. It flickers, barely—a millisecond stutter behind her eyes—but then she recovers, recalibrating with a grace honed by years of boardrooms and bloodsport.

“Oh, I didn’t realize we has a project in the consulting phase,” she says, turning to Grant, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “You brought on a consultant and didn’t tell me?”

He avoids Dante’s eyes and mine. Which is saying something—because Dante’s looking anywhere but here. His gaze is fixed on the far side of the tent like it contains the meaning of life.

Grant offers Corrine a tight-lipped smile. “I meant to fill you in.”

Dante talks over him at the same time. “I hired Eve.”

He looks at Grant, his stare holding a moment before moving back to Corrine. “Unlike my partner, I don’t need to run every decision through the finance office.”

“I see.” She turns her head back toward Grant, tone dropping again as if we aren’t supposed to hear. “I thought we were in this together.”

Ah. There it is.

Not a protest.

Not even an accusation.

Just a well-wrapped gift of guilt, sealed with professional concern. I thought we were in this together.

It lands with precision—soft enough not to raise suspicion, sharp enough to cut.

I see it for exactly what it is. A control tactic. But still, I want to know what ‘ this’ is.

I don’t know the full story between these three, but I’m not na?ve enough to believe this is just about financials or internal communication. Whatever happened between Grant and Dante fractured something bigger, and Corrine—well, she seems very interested in keeping them exactly where they are.

Which means I have to move.

Literally.

I step forward—just half a foot—into the little circle she was trying to form with Grant. It forces everyone to adjust their angles. Forces Corrine to step back—or get boxed out. The shift is subtle but deliberate.

She hates it.

I love it.

Her smile doesn’t budge, but her jaw ticks once, and I know there’s something brewing beneath the surface.

I want to see what’s underneath that mask.

“I’ve actually had quite a bit of success with corporate pairings,” I say easily, now addressing the group. “Two partners at odds, high-stakes positions. Like a walk in the park. These boys are in good hands with me.” I throw in a wink and let my hand rest comfortably on Grant’s shoulder.

Dante smothers a cough. Grant’s cheeks burn a subtle pink, but he doesn’t move away.

Corrine takes a long, slow look at me.

Down.

Then up.

Unapologetically. Dismissively.

She doesn’t even try to hide her disdain now.

Which is fine.

I’m used to the insecurities of other women. Comes with the job.

When it’s a client, they’re paying me to tear those insecurities down.

Then build them up. Reassure. Make them feel like the most beautiful person in the room.

But Corrine isn’t a client.

She’s just some bitch trying to wedge herself between the contract I’m here to protect.

And I don’t need her to like me.

I just need her to know she’s not the only one with sharp teeth.

Corrine pivots back to Grant with the kind of ease that only comes from years of emotional proximity.

She doesn’t touch him—but she doesn’t need to.

Her tone tilts just enough to imply closeness. Her body angles in like they’ve done this a hundred times.

She tries to re-center his attention—reestablish her orbit.

I catch it instantly, and I’m already moving to shut it down.

I slide my arm through the crook of Grant’s elbow, anchoring myself to his side. His posture shifts just slightly—shoulders squaring, chin lifting.

Dante tips back the last of his champagne, but he doesn’t look at me when I press a soft, intentional squeeze to his bicep.

I keep my eyes on Corrine.

My touch is measured. My expression, unreadable.

But my body language?

A clean, quiet claim on both of them.

“Pardon us,” I say smoothly. “We’ve been asked for a quick interview.”

Corrine’s brows lift. “No one mentioned that to me.”

I smile—warm, professional, untouchable. “No need. It’s exclusive. A favor from an old contact of mine.”

Should I let her know this contact pays me handsomely to peg him once a month?

Mmm, probably not.

Before she can find footing in the conversation again, I guide the men away with polite efficiency.

Grant moves with me without hesitation, my hand still on his arm, his other settling neatly into his pocket like we’ve walked this path before.

Behind us, Dante shifts fluidly to my other side.

When the crowd thickens and we’re forced to narrow our path, his hand drifts low across my back—steadying, sure.

I release Grant’s arm and slip my fingers into his instead.

He doesn’t hesitate to close his hand over mine.

And it doesn’t feel like it’s for the act or the press.

But because, for whatever reason, in this moment—it feels better than not holding it.

We step forward together.

And behind us, Dante lingers just a breath.

His hand still at my spine.

His smirk unreadable.

And for the first time since stepping into this political circus, I feel… good.

Like maybe these two men might not destroy each other after all.

Maybe they’ll let me be the gravity that holds them steady.

W e nailed the interview.

I didn’t even prep them. My contact won’t publish a piece without me okaying it, and I wanted to see how they’d do on their own.

So I stood to the side like some glorified bookend while years of history snapped back into place. Reflexive. Effortless.

And now I’m watching it all unravel across manicured green.

Everyone’s changed into their golf attire—collared shirts and curated smiles. The tournament’s in full swing, with a handpicked rotation of players meant to stack the odds in Grant and Dante’s favor.

But one off-script question sent things sideways. Dante fielded it fine. The problem came when Grant overreached with a joke that fell flat—more rust than rhythm.

That reflex between them? Gone.

I pulled them aside to regroup by the golf cart. Gave them space, adjusted my blouse, made a mental list of talking points for the next round. Grant was just heading back to the greens when Corrine arrived.

Correction—when Corrine was delivered.

A club-branded golf cart dropped her and her plus-one at our feet, then peeled off like a yellow cab.

The man beside her is a press leech. Tabloids, by the look of him—smug expression, mirrored sunglasses, tan like he paid for it. Which he probably did.

“Mind if we ride with you for the next round, Grant?” Corrine asks sweetly, gesturing between her and the bloodsucker before she looks between Dante and me. “I’m sure you two can catch another cart?”

Translation: You two—go fuck off somewhere else.

My smile is all teeth. “Afraid not.”

I loop my arm through Grant’s like we’ve been paired this way from birth. “I’ve been the good-luck charm all day. Boys are up on strokes. Can’t risk shaking up the energy now.”

I toss a look toward one of the other players, a high-ranking city official—flirty, but clean. “Especially since I’ve got ten grand riding on this.”

He chuckles, tipping his hat. “Then here’s hoping they do lose their luck charm. I’m not looking to cough up ten K.”

We move on before she can recover, Dante and Grant flanking me again as we head toward the next tee.

Dante leans in, voice low and silk-smooth against my ear.

“If you keep handling her like that, piccolo , I’m going to need a cold shower before the next hole.”

Grant doesn’t look at him—just keeps his eyes on the path ahead as he mutters under his breath, “Let’s just focus on the game.”

Calm. Controlled. But I hear the edge beneath it.

And I’m not the only one.

Dante chuckles low, clearly entertained.

“Relax, bug , no need to get jealous. I’m only admiring the strategy.”

Grant’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.

I slide a step between them, voice light but firm.

“Boys.”

I give them a look—sharp enough to slice tension but smooth enough to pass for charm.

“You’re both pretty. Now let’s not blow the lead just because our egos can’t share a golf cart.”

That earns a smirk from Dante. Even Grant’s mouth twitches—almost a smile—but he covers it with an eye roll.

And I’ve got my boys back on track.

At least—I did.

Corrine hasn’t shut up since we teed off.

She’s holding court with the press leech like he’s Pulitzer-adjacent, hanging on his every word and throwing out industry gossip like confetti—loud enough to make sure everyone hears her.

I tune her out, redirecting my focus toward the cluster of players I curated for today. The real guests who matter. Every line I drop is intentional—an opening designed to shine a light on Grant and Dante’s strengths, a soft pitch they can knock out of the park.

And they were doing so well. Until now.

Corrine raises her voice again—on purpose, I’m sure.

“Grant’s father,” Corrine says to the reporter with a wistful little smile, “was the true cornerstone of this firm. Tireless. Focused. The kind of man who didn’t need the spotlight—he just built empires quietly while others talked.”

She touches the reporter’s forearm like she’s letting him in on a secret.

“And Grant’s the same. First one in, last one out. Carries the firm on his back, just like his father always did. That kind of dedication is rare these days.”

A perfectly timed pause. Then, with a laugh so light it stings:

“Of course, not everyone has the stomach for that kind of grind. Some people think a quick smile and a night at a club can replace actual leadership.”

The jab is razor-edged and aimed with precision.

“And Vegas?” she goes on, with a dismissive wave. “I’m sure you heard about that.”

She cuts her eyes to me.

“Grant handled that like it was nothing more than a little boardroom miscommunication. All cleared up now, thank God.”

My stomach knots.

Dante’s knuckles whiten around the grip of his club.

Grant speaks up—finally—but not where it counts.

“My father is a wonderful man, and I’m proud of the foundation he built,” he says, tone smooth, polished. “I wouldn’t be where I am without him. He laid the groundwork for everything I’m trying to preserve.”

It’s a beautiful deflection.

And a brutal omission.

No mention of Dante’s father. No recognition of the equal partnership that shaped the firm. Just Grant, standing tall in his father’s shadow, using it like a shield.

Dante doesn’t say a word.

He just turns, stalks to the cart, and slams his club into the bag hard enough that heads turn.

I move to follow, but Grant steps in. “Dante,” he says under his breath, “keep it together.”

Jesus, Grant. Wrong move.

Dante spins, fury simmering just below the surface.

“I could—if you ever acted like a partner. If you defended me for once instead of always kissing your princess’s ass and pretending that bleach job of hers makes her qualified to open her mouth.”

We’re far enough away the others can’t hear—but that won’t last long at this rate.

“Okay,” I snap, stepping between them. “We’re done for the day.”

“Gladly,” Dante mutters, already storming down the path toward the clubhouse, tension trailing behind him like smoke from a fuse that never fully extinguished.

I hesitate, torn—until Corrine beats me to it.

“Grant? I’ve got the charity organizer waiting at the next hole for a photo op,” she purrs, turning her calculated stare at me, knowing she’s won. “Old family friend. I’m sure you understand.”

Grant shoots me a look—apologetic, guilty.

“I’ll be right there.”

I step in close enough for only him to hear.

“I’m going after Dante. But don’t think for a second that you’ve dodged the fallout.”

He frowns. “Eve?—”

“No. You listen now,” I cut in, voice low, steady. “Today mattered. This was your first public appearance together since Vegas, and we were building something real. Something clean. Don’t blow it because you can’t find your spine when she’s around.”

His eyes flick to Corrine, then back to me. “It’s not like tha?—”

I lean in one inch closer.

“You’re sitting on the fence between two people right now. But that fence won’t hold forever. Eventually, you’ll have to pick a side.”

My eyes harden.

“And you’d better be ready to live with the consequences—whichever way you land.”

I leave him standing there, Corrine still waiting for him to join her.

And I go after the man who deserved defending.