Page 20 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

T he ma?tre d’ leads me through the private wing of the country club restaurant, where the lighting is soft, the linens are starch-crisp, and the price of silence is built into the bill. I spot my client already seated—she’s early, of course.

Blonde. Polished. Perfectly poised. The kind of woman whose heels never scuff, whose pearls are real, and whose bloodline probably owns more of Europe than it visits.

Isabelle Lévêque.

French banking heiress. Old money. The kind of client who knows exactly what she wants—and expects the world to rise to meet her.

“Mr. Harrow,” she says, stepping close.

We greet in that familiar European style—a kiss to each cheek. Her perfume is soft but expensive. Her skin glows. She’s beautiful. The sort of woman I might’ve been drawn to in another life. Before I became CEO. Before—well—just, before.

“I’ve admired your firm’s work for years,” she says in perfect English, with just enough accent to make it elegant. “I’m bringing a piece of provincial France to Manhattan. A full renovation of my grandfather’s building on the Upper East Side. I want light, elegance… but with bones.”

Her eyes narrow on mine. “Your portfolio suggests you understand history. And restraint.”

“I like to think so,” I say, offering a composed smile. “Marchesi and Harrow specializes in honoring legacy without compromising innovation.”

Before I can flag a server, two crystal flutes of sparkling water arrive—lime wedge balanced just so. The waitress disappears with practiced ease.

Isabelle lifts her glass. “Then let’s see if we’re a match, Mr. Harrow.”

The door opens again, and I don’t see him at first. But I feel him.

A shift in the atmosphere—like gravity adjusting around a new axis. Every hair on my arm lifts before I even look up to see Dante.

Two days ago, he was in a hospital bed. Bruised, battered, a cocktail of machines keeping him monitored. My hand had been on his thigh. Then—then absolutely nowhere at all.

Now he’s walking into this restaurant like the devil wears linen and good cologne.

He’s dressed in a cream suit with a pale blue shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at skin. His hair’s styled like it wasn’t—effortless and infuriating. He’s laughing softly with the hostess, hand resting on her lower back as she gestures toward his table.

And that’s when I see who he’s meeting with.

Matheus da Costa.

Brazilian football legend. World-renowned. Fast, charismatic, and so absurdly gifted he makes gravity look optional. He’s only a few years out from retirement but already positioning himself as a power player off the field—tech investments, real estate, fashion ventures. A global brand all his own.

He stands when he sees Dante. Broad smile. Hand extended.

They clasp forearms, pulling into one of those firm, one-armed hugs. Familiar but respectful. Close. Comfortable. The kind of closeness that makes my jaw clench.

They speak in low tones—Portuguese or Italian, I can’t tell. Matheus says something that makes Dante laugh, all warm and relaxed in a way that sets my teeth on edge.

They don’t sit yet. They linger. Dante leans in to say something, and Matheus claps him on the shoulder, laughing again like they’re old friends or newly in cahoots.

I can’t hear a damn thing.

And I hate how much I want to.

He’s seated by the ma?tre d’ across the room—far enough that we’re clearly here for different meetings, but close enough to see every line of his smirk when he turns and spots me.

He stills. Just slightly.

One hand, in the process of unbuttoning his jacket, pauses on the second button. Our eyes lock. I watch the surprise flicker in his expression—real and unguarded—before he schools it down to something cooler. Smoother.

Then he finishes unbuttoning, slides into his seat with a fluid, deliberate ease, and smiles like he’s just been dealt a winning hand.

I swallow the knot in my throat and try not to visibly react.

This has Eve written all over it.

Dante didn’t know I’d be here. I’m almost certain. That flash of surprise—he’s too good of an actor to fake it that well. Which means neither of us was expecting the other, and Eve orchestrated this.

Strategically.

Calculatingly.

Two luncheons. One location. Power players on either side. Matching times, mirrored placements. I’m seated with my back to the wall, full view of the restaurant. And him—directly opposite me. Every glance from either table now a game of discretion. Or provocation.

It’s not subtle.

And it’s not an accident.

I pick up my water, sipping slowly while Dante settles in, already charming Matheus. Dante leans in just a bit when he speaks. His smile is easy. Natural. His eyes spark when Matheus laughs—and maybe it’s innocent. Maybe it’s strategy.

But all I can see is his hand on my wrist. That burning look in his eyes.

His fingers pressing mine against the hard line of his cock as he exhales.

I shift in my seat, force my focus back to my client. Because whatever game this is, it’s already started, and I have no idea what the rules are.

Or who’s supposed to win.

Isabelle is elegance incarnate. Poised and immaculate in a crisp cream blouse that probably costs more than most people’s rent. She leans back in her chair with graceful confidence, long fingers circling the stem of her wineglass.

“I want it to feel like Avignon,” she says, her French accent soft but deliberate. “Not just in design, but in rhythm. A space that invites people to slow down. No sterile glass towers or overly industrial facades. Stone. Wood. Texture. Light.” She smiles. “Charm.”

It should be an easy pitch. This is what I do—translate vision into form.

I’ve taken abstract aspirations and turned them into award-winning architecture.

Marchesi & Harrow doesn’t just build structures—we craft identity.

I’ve walked clients like Isabelle through every phase from site selection to skyline.

But right now?

Right now, I can’t even remember the name of the zoning consultant we’re meant to loop in.

“Absolutely,” I say, swallowing the tightness in my throat.

“There’s a historic block near Gramercy we’ve been tracking—quiet, residential-adjacent, and flexible enough for a mixed-use renovation.

Our firm would oversee the full restoration.

We’d source reclaimed materials locally but style it to echo Provence—stonework, terracotta, soft arches. Manhattan meets the C?te d’Azur.”

She tilts her head, visibly intrigued. “And your funding partners?”

I blink.

My mouth opens—but nothing comes out. My brain stutters, locked somewhere between the sparkle of Dante’s fucking laugh and the memory of his hips shifting under my palm.

My tongue feels like sandpaper. I blink once, twice, trying to shove the answer forward from wherever it’s stuck in my brain, but it’s drowned beneath linen suits and Mediterranean cheek kisses.

Because across the room, Dante Marchesi is fucking glowing.

His head is tilted just enough to show off the clean line of his jaw.

He’s laughing—like, genuinely laughing—and his hand is resting lightly on the table beside the football star, fingers barely brushing the stem of his glass.

Matheus is practically swooning. And why wouldn’t he?

Dante’s charming. Relaxed. Confident in a way that never feels like performance.

It’s infuriating.

I drag my eyes back to Isabelle, clear my throat.

“Sorry,” I say, adjusting my cuffs. “Long week.”

She chuckles. “No worries, darling. Are you all right? You look—flushed.”

Flushed is a fucking understatement.

Try two days of adrenaline, arousal, and the memory of Dante’s thigh under my hands. His skin hot, his cock thick and hard and straining under the covers. The sound he made when I touched him—fuck.

“We can always move this meeting to dinner. Then—perhaps—something private.”

Isabelle raises one pointed brow, and it looks like she’s giving herself credit for my state.

I shift in my seat, adjusting the pressure against my slacks.

Big mistake.

Across the room, Dante lifts his glass to his lips. His eyes are on me—have been, I realize.

How long has he been watching?

His expression is unreadable. Perfectly neutral. But his gaze? Heavy. Intentionally so.

Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. Like he’s daring me to keep going.

My jaw tightens.

Eve’s words echo in my head, low and taunting: “...when you admit who you want to come for.”

I swallow hard, grip my napkin tighter than necessary.

“Please, excuse me a moment,” I say, already pushing back from the table.

“Of course.” Isabelle sits back and takes a drink of her white wine.

I nod, mutter thanks, and make a beeline for the hallway. My hands shake as I shove the door open to the marble-lined bathroom—cool and echoing.

I lean over the sink. Breathe.

My pulse is a snare drum. My throat is dry.

And my cock is a fucking brick in my slacks like I’m some hormonal intern who can’t keep it together over one look.

One look.

I splash cold water on my face, press my palms to the porcelain, and stare at myself in the mirror.

This is not just about Eve’s little game.

This is about Dante. What happened. What almost happened.

And the part of me that’s still furious I stopped it.