Page 19 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

“ R ight,” I say into my phone, twirling a pen between my fingers. “Private table, corner alcove. I want the first one seated by eleven forty-five. The second arrives ten minutes later.”

The ma?tre d’ on the other end is hurriedly scribbling notes.

I shift in my chair and glance down at the sheet I’ve been sketching placement notes on.

“Grant Harrow will take the booth facing the east windows.”

“And the second?”

“Dante Marchezi,” I say, tucking the corner of the paper under my laptop. “He gets the fireplace table, center left.”

“Noted.”

“Drinks waiting when they arrive,” I add, standing and stretching the stiffness from my neck. “Neat for one, sparkling water for the other. I’m not telling you which is which—you’ll figure it out when they walk in.”

The man laughs softly. “You always set a scene, Ms. Sterling.”

“Guilty,” I murmur, smiling. “And tell the servers—minimal interruption. These aren’t casual lunches. They’re conversations with stakes.”

I hang up and slide my phone into my clutch before heading straight to Frankie’s desk.

She’s mid-email, fingers flying across the keyboard, blonde hair pinned into a flawless twist. She’s rocking that bombshell-Betty vibe like she was born for it—hourglass dress, perfect lipstick, no time for anyone’s bullshit.

I like her. She’s direct, unflinching. No sugarcoating or fake niceties, just sharp efficiency with a side of sass. The kind of woman who’d survive any boardroom, battlefield, or back alley. And she doesn’t ask questions unless she actually wants the answer.

She looks up, brow arching. “You look like you just pulled off a quiet coup.”

I shrug. “Just lunch.”

She doesn’t buy it. “For both of them?”

“Mmhmm.” I hand her the schedule. “Back-to-back on paper, but overlapping in real time. Same club, different clients—no one needs to know but us.”

Frankie skims the paper, her lips twitching. “You’re putting them in the same building at the same time?”

“Same room,” I correct. “Just not close enough to touch.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “That’s either genius or petty.”

“Depends on the outcome,” I say, already turning away. “Block their calendars. I’ll explain it to them myself.”

I barely finish confirming Frankie’s calendar holds when Corrine materializes out of nowhere—smooth as a silk noose and twice as deliberate.

“Everything running well, I hope?” she asks, voice all polished civility, but the tension under every syllable is impossible to miss. There’s something performative about the smile she flashes—like a chess player disguising her checkmate behind a toast.

“Perfectly,” I say, not bothering to offer one back.

Her gaze flicks toward Frankie’s screen, where the blocked time still lingers. “I noticed the calendar holds,” she adds, tone light but eyes sharp. “Seems important. I assume I should be involved?”

I don’t flinch. “Not necessary. These clients were sourced through a private network. Their interests require discretion.”

Corrine’s smile tightens. “As CFO, I’m responsible for all high-stakes engagements. If something goes sideways with either of them, the board will expect answers—from me.”

Of course she plays the board card. Classic.

“Then you should trust that I’ve chosen the right assets to ensure nothing does,” I say smoothly. No need to raise my voice when confidence is sharper than volume.

Her veneer slips—just slightly. Enough to show she’s not used to hearing no without a concession attached. Her tone softens, but the words don’t.

“You know, Grant and I built this from the ground up,” she says, voice tipping toward something sentimental. “Every success, every loss. We protect each other. Always have.”

I meet her eyes. Cool. Direct. Unmoved.

“That’s admirable,” I offer. “But protecting someone doesn’t mean controlling them. However, I do note the side of the building reads Marchesi & Harrow. Not Harrow and Ashwood. ”

There’s a pause—brief, but weighted. A beat where she recalibrates. Swallows down the rage.

“I’ll still need the details for financial projections,” she says, re-centering herself. “These deals won’t be invisible on paper.”

I tilt my head just slightly. A smile plays on my lips—not sweet, not warm. Calculated. Measured. “And when the contracts are signed, you’ll have everything you need.”

My attention is no longer given to Corrine. I turn to Frankie, smoothly cutting out our newly arrived guest. As I bring up bullshit subjects, Corrine finally slinks back into her snake’s den.

“Marry me, Eve Sterling,” Frankie says, all glittery-eyed and smiling.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

She crosses her arms, deadpan. “I’m just saying. If you ever want to be the third Mrs. Lane, applications are open. Full benefits. Excellent dental. All we ask is a firm anti-Corrine stance and a tolerance for loud reality TV.”

I snort, half-laughing as I perch on the edge of her desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious. Wait till I tell my wife. She’s going to make me frame a photo of you after that line. ‘Protecting someone doesn’t mean controlling them’? Jesus. I want that on a tote bag.”

“If we’re making merch, I vote for ‘#AsCEO’ in Comic Sans.”

Frankie groans dramatically. “Ugh. Don’t bring her voice into this moment. It’s sacred.”

We both laugh—easy, unguarded. A balm after all that performative professionalism.

She swings her chair side to side, then glances up at me. “Lunch? I’m starving. And you’ve clearly earned a reward for surviving Corrine’s weaponized diplomacy.”

“My treat,” I say, standing and smoothing my skirt. “On one condition.”

Her brow lifts. “Name it.”

“You talk as much shit about Corrine as humanly possible.”

Frankie grins, wicked. “Deal. But fair warning—I’m clearing my whole afternoon.”

“Even better.”

We walk out together, plotting the lunch menu and the roast session with equal enthusiasm.