Page 15 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

I should’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.

Whatever that day was… it matters. Enough to make her lower her voice. Enough to make him still as stone.

And now it matters to me.

Because secrets like that don’t stay buried—not forever.

And I’m very good at digging.

Too much time has passed, and I need to make my presence known before I get caught eavesdropping.

I pull the door back into place just enough to feign a proper knock—one-two, polite but firm—then swing it open with an air of professionalism so smooth it might as well be choreographed.

Corrine startles like she’s been caught red-handed in someone else’s jewelry box. She straightens instantly, turning toward me a bit too fast for someone with nothing to hide.

Grant looks guilty. Of what, I’m not sure.

Could be the day Corrine just mentioned.

Could be the fact she’s clearly up to something.

Or maybe it’s the shitstorm on the greens yesterday that’s still trickling through the tabloids.

Whatever it is, I won’t uncover it right now. What I can do is get rid of Corrine.

“Grant,” I say, offering the barest trace of a smile, “it’s time for our meeting.”

I wait, expectantly.

Corrine jumps in before he can speak, her voice syrupy with concern. “Maybe I should stay,” she says, leaning closer to him, like they’re about to share a secret. “I’d love some insight on the manner of your consultations, and Grant can sometimes be distracted around the anniversary.”

My gaze snaps to her.

Anniversary.

Maybe that was the day she meant earlier. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. Either way, the word is loaded—and she knows exactly what she’s doing.

What she doesn’t know is that I’ve had enough of her games for one morning.

“Corrine, I can manage.” Grant finds a piece of backbone, at least. I wish it were a bit firmer.

“And,” I say, calm but unwavering, “my contract has a firm nondisclosure clause exclusive to Grant and Dante. I’ll have to ask you to step out.”

Shock flickers across her face, quickly followed by irritation. She blinks at me like she’s trying to compute what just happened.

Then her eyes cut to Grant.

She’s expecting backup.

But he doesn’t give it.

He keeps his gaze on me for a beat longer than necessary. Then, with a quiet inhale, he stands. Rounding the desk slowly, he moves like a man making a decision in real time.

When he reaches Corrine’s side, he gestures toward the door—chivalrous, polished, impossible to argue with. “Eve’s right,” he says simply. “Give us the room, please.”

Corrine’s mouth tightens.

She doesn’t move at first. Just stares at him like he’s betrayed her, then turns that same scathing look on me—like I’m the piece of gum she just scraped off her heel.

Then she storms out, sharp heels clicking across the marble, the office door left wide open behind her like a final insult.

Grant doesn’t need a lecture.

He doesn’t need a mirror held up or a therapist’s tone of understanding.

What he needs is to come to terms—with Dante, and what he feels when Dante is near.

Maybe it’s his sexuality. Maybe it’s just him.

Maybe he’s spent his whole life shoving everything soft, everything vulnerable, into a locked box. Dante being the key he’s refused to acknowledge.

But I know better than to confront a man like Grant with his own truth.

If I ask him outright, he’ll shut down. Retreat behind that cold veneer and drag the conversation into a war of words I’ll never win—because Grant doesn’t lose battles of the mind.

No.

The trick isn’t to get him to admit it.

It’s to make him feel it.

To provoke a response he can’t explain away.

Something his mouth can lie about, but his body never could.

And when he’s standing on the edge of that precipice—aroused, conflicted, furious—I’ll push him just far enough to make him look down.

He won’t fall yet. But he’ll know the drop is there—and that he’s been standing at its edge far longer than he wants to admit.

I move toward the desk, waiting until the silence stretches just long enough to become uncomfortable before I speak.

“So,” I say, tone light. “Are we going to talk about Corrine, the tabloid, or the fact that you looked like you wanted to launch her through the window?”

Grant exhales, slow and sharp. “Corrine is... complicated.”

“That’s one word for her.”

His jaw flexes. “She’s been around a long time.”

“So has mold,” I murmur, crossing one leg over the other as I settle into the chair across from him. “Doesn’t mean you let it rot the foundation.”

He shoots me a look—equal parts warning and intrigue. “Careful.”

“No,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I don’t think I will be. Not with you.”

His fingers drum once against the arm of his chair before he folds them neatly. Controlled. Restrained. “You said you had a meeting agenda.”

“I do,” I nod. “But let’s not pretend we were going to discuss spreadsheets and synergy metrics.”

He doesn’t answer. That silence is just as telling.

I tilt my head, watching him. “You know, Grant... it’s fascinating.”

“What is?”

“The way you fight so hard to control the narrative. Your image. Your posture. Even your silence—it’s curated. Like you think if you hold it all tight enough, it’ll never crack.”

His throat bobs with a swallow. “You’re projecting.”

“Am I?” I rise slowly, taking the long path around the desk, stopping just beside his chair. “Because I think you’re terrified.”

“Of what?”

I lean in, lowering my voice so it wraps around him like silk. “Of wanting something you were never allowed to want.”

His knuckles go white around the armrests.

Bingo.

I don’t bring up Dante. I don’t need to.

This is about control. About the way Grant holds it like a lifeline. The way it’s killing him.

But before I can say anything more, a flicker of movement catches my eye.

Corrine stalks past the outer corridor, not even pretending to be subtle. Her gaze cuts toward the office like a hawk in stilettos. The floor-to-ceiling glass makes the space feel open—vulnerable. And judging by the smug set of her lips, she likes it that way.

I lean in just enough to draw Grant’s eyes to mine, softening my voice until it’s almost a purr. “Is there a way to get a little more privacy in here?”

He nods slightly. “The windows fog. There’s a switch near the door.”

He starts to rise, ever the gentleman, ever in control—but I lay a light touch on his forearm. Just enough pressure to still him.

“I’ve got it,” I say gently. “Let me.”

His eyes drop to my hand. His throat works around a slow swallow.

I smile and pull away, crossing the room in deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not coy. Just present. Owned.

I glance over my shoulder once, then again as I reach the door. Temptation in motion. An offer wrapped in silk.

Then—with a click, the world outside the windows fades in a breath. Glass shifts to clouds, the clear view replaced by frosted walls of fog. No one can see in.

We can’t see out.

Much better.

I motion toward the sitting area—two leather chairs angled toward each other across a low, round table. “Why don’t we get comfortable while we talk?”

Grant hesitates for a beat, then nods. Always so polite. Always so careful.

I reach for the crystal water set arranged like a still-life centerpiece. The glass is heavy in my hand, cool. I pour a clean stream into one of the tumblers, turn, and offer it to him.

He looks at it, then at me. “No, thank you.”

I set it down anyway—just beside his armrest. “In case you change your mind.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes stay on mine as I take the seat across from him, crossing one leg slowly over the other.

“I wanted to talk about something today,” I begin, folding my hands loosely in my lap. “Something personal.”

He arches a brow, teasing. “Well, never expected that.”

I smile softly. “Sex.”

The temperature in the room shifts. Not much—but I feel it.

He leans back slightly, jaw ticking. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Frustration. Tension,” I say smoothly. “They’re often the result of repression. Or a lack of release. And nothing releases pressure like a satisfying, consistent sex life.”

Grant gives a humorless huff. “Not all problems are solved by sticking your cock into something.”

“No,” I agree, tilting my head. “But some are eased. Or at least clarified.”

“I work. I run. I spend time with my father,” he says flatly, like a checklist he’s used before. “That’s how I decompress.”

I nod. “Good relationship with your dad, then?”

Something in him eases. He nods, shifting his arm on the chair. “Yes. I admire him. He built everything we have. Taught me discipline, work ethic. Loyalty.”

I wait a beat, then ask quietly, “And your mother?”

The air shifts again—this time sharper. He stiffens, just enough for me to feel it.

“She died,” he says simply.

“I’m sorry,” I offer, and I mean it.

He brushes it off with a wave of his fingers. “It was nearly sixteen years ago.”

Still, it’s recent in the lines around his eyes. The silence that follows tells me everything his words won’t.

The weight of her isn’t gone.

Just buried.

I let the quiet linger a moment longer. Let the weight of her absence settle into the corners of the room like dust. Then I smooth my voice into something softer—silkier—as I guide us back.

“Let’s go back to sex,” I murmur. “What you like. What you want.”

Grant gives a faint frown. “What I want?”