Page 17 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

“ T ell me how the fuck this happened,” I snap, slapping the folder onto the conference table. The loud thwack makes a few heads turn before they quickly look away.

Frankie stands opposite me with her arms crossed, chewing a piece of gum like she’s got all the time in the world. Red lips. Victory curls. Leopard-print heels that say fuck around and find out. Her expression doesn’t flinch. Not even a little.

“I don’t know how it happened,” she says. “You said the twenty-first. I had the twenty-first.”

“That’s what I said. So why the hell are we finding out today that the meeting is tomorrow?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Ask the client’s new assistant. Or maybe a hacker with a really boring agenda. I don’t know.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the table. “I don’t need sarcasm right now, Frankie.”

“I’m not being sarcastic,” she says. “I’m being calm. One of us has to be. Besides, I’ve already rescheduled your Thursday calls, bumped the weekly check-in, and ordered catering for tomorrow’s pitch. You’re welcome.”

People are passing through the office like shadows, avoiding eye contact, ducking into side rooms. No one wants to be caught in the crossfire of a Dante Marchesi meltdown.

My hand goes to my pocket automatically, fingers brushing the edge of the cigarette pack I haven’t opened. Not yet.

Frankie sees the movement. Her eyes narrow. “Tell me you’re not smoking again.”

I pause. “I’m not.”

She raises a brow. “Then empty your pockets.”

I glare. “Fuck off.”

“I will literally reach in there myself.”

I smirk. “What is it you’re really after, Frankie? The cigarettes or confirmation that the rumors about my generous proportions are true?”

She gives me a long, unimpressed look. “Dante, if I wanted to hear about your dick, I’d kill myself first.”

“You’ve been looking for an excuse to feel me up since your first day.”

She snorts. “Penises are cute on gay men. On anyone else? Disgusting.”

“I am gay.”

“Exactly. Which is why I let you live.”

I exhale through my nose, trying not to laugh. Frankie might be a pain in my ass, but she’s the only one in this office with the balls to throw it back at me. She’s also the only reason I haven’t torched the entire building yet.

She softens just a hair. “Look. It’s not ideal. But we can fix it. You know the material. The team’s prepped. We’ll run drills tonight and knock it out tomorrow. You’ve done more with less time.”

I shake my head. “The models are nowhere near ready.”

A pale shadow looms to my right.

Some intern—baby-faced and trembling—is hovering with a tablet clutched to his chest like it might shield him from incoming fire. His mouth opens once, then closes. He swallows. Opens it again.

I don’t even look at him when I say, “If you ask me a question, you’re fired.”

Frankie doesn’t miss a beat. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes,” I counter, dragging my gaze toward the poor bastard. “You are. Figure it out.”

The kid turns the color of chalk and disappears faster than he appeared. Smart.

And then Grant walks in.

Of course he fucking does.

He moves like he always does—slow, aware, a little too observant. Like he’s reading the energy in the room and cataloging it for later. His eyes scan the tense stillness, the scuttling team, the obvious explosion in progress. But when he speaks, his voice is infuriatingly neutral.

“What’s going on?”

I stare at him. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

His posture stays relaxed, but there’s a flicker in his throat. A tight swallow. Something brewing behind those eyes that isn’t just confusion or concern. It’s hotter than that. Sharper.

Well, looks like someone’s had their session with Eve already.

Frankie scoops her things into her arms like a woman halfway through an exit plan. I narrow my eyes at her.

“Now is when you decide to walk out?”

She lifts a brow. “I would rather give a Brazilian wax to a silverback gorilla than stay here and listen to you two circle each other like gladiators in tight suits.”

Before I can respond, she’s already at the door.

“Call me when you’re both done measuring dicks,” she says sweetly, and disappears.

Silence falls like a trap.

I glance around the glass box we call a conference room. Half the team is still pretending to look busy while eavesdropping through the walls. I’ve had enough.

“Everyone out,” I say. “Now.”

Chairs scrape. Pens drop. No one dares argue.

“I’ll have a revised directive in your inboxes within the hour,” I add coolly.

The door clicks shut behind the last one. And now it’s just me. And Grant.

The quiet thickens.

I’m still breathing hard, jaw tight, hands flexing and curling like they can’t decide whether to punch something or dig deeper. And he’s watching me.

Steady. Patient. That fucking psychologist face.

He steps closer.

“You’re unraveling,” he says, almost gently.

I look up. Meet his eyes.

“You’re enjoying it,” I reply.

“Did you come in here to exclusively scowl at me, Glowbug,” I bite, “or did you think this would help?”

“I’ve told you not to call me that.” Grant folds his arms, posture stiff. “I am helping. You just don’t like anyone pointing out when you’ve fucked something up.”

“Of course. Always my fault.”

His jaw ticks. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy letting Eve play therapist with nothing under her coat, you would’ve caught the calendar shift before it became a crisis.”

My laugh is sharp. Yeah, Eve definitely worked him up good. “Eve’s trying to help. Just like I am. The real question is—what the fuck are you doing?”

Grant doesn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, he tilts his head, eyes raking over me like he’s weighing the risk of saying what’s actually on his mind. Then:

“You still pretending you’re doing this for anyone but yourself?”

The words land somewhere beneath my ribs, raw and burning.

But I don’t flinch. I lean in instead. Close enough that his breath catches—close enough to feel the heat coming off him.

“Tell me this, bug,”—the air shifts—no longer charged with anger, but something darker. Needier—“how do you know she wears nothing beneath her coat?”

I inhale the scent of his cologne, and it makes my jaw tighten.

We’re close now. Too close. His breath fans against my cheek when he exhales, tight and sharp. His gaze flicks—down. Just for a second. Right to my mouth.

I make a point to look down. Leaning my head to the side, making the line of my sight clear before I flick my gaze back up to his.

My voice drops, velvet and dangerous. “You gonna keep pretending it’s her that’s got you hard?” It’s a whisper directly into his ear.

Grant’s nostrils flare. A small, involuntary reaction. His mouth opens like he might deny it, but no sound comes out.

“Thought so.”

I take a half step back—not enough to defuse the moment, just enough to let the tension simmer in the space between us.

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.