Page 27 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

T he end is days away.

Five years of jockeying for position.

Five years of high-stakes moves and veiled threats and nights where I barely slept because the next day could be the one that changes everything.

The board vote looms like a guillotine. Clean cut. No appeals. Just legacy—split clean down the center. Or burned to ash.

But that’s not what’s got me twisted up inside.

Not anymore.

It should be.

Hell, it used to be.

Everything about this firm—about our fathers, their blood, their names—it’s been drilled into me like gospel.

But now?

Now it’s him.

Grant fucking Harrow.

The man who’s haunted my nightmares and filled my dreams in equal measure.

The man I’ve hated more thoroughly than I’ve loved anyone else.

The man who—God help me—I never stopped wanting.

Something snapped this weekend.

At the gala. At that table. Beneath the watchful eyes of the city’s elite, while legacy dripped from the ceilings and money soaked the wine.

I watched him break.

Just a crack.

Barely visible to anyone else. But I know him too well. I feel him too well.

And I saw it—the moment the wall began to crumble.

The moment denial lost its grip and he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

That’s what this has always been, isn’t it?

Not business. Not rivalry. Not ambition.

It’s been the lie.

The thing Grant refuses to say. Refuses to name.

The thing he’s been running from for years, even when it’s bled into every boardroom, every contract, every fucking look he gives me.

I’ve played my part.

I’ve pushed him.

Cornered him.

Tempted him until I could feel the moment he forgot to hate me.

But I can’t finish this.

Not this part.

He has to be the one to come the rest of the way.

To face what happened.

To face me.

To stop hiding behind fury and fatherhood and grief and finally admit what he’s done.

Because until then, this will stay unfinished.

And I’ll keep walking around with my chest split open, pretending I don’t care when I’m dying for him to look me in the eye and say it.

Not sorry.

Not I love you.

Just the truth.

And if he does—if he finally fucking does—then maybe we stop fighting.

Maybe we stop bleeding each other out just to prove we’re still alive.

Maybe we begin.

But if he doesn’t?

Then I was wrong.

And we were never going to survive this anyway.

The elevator rises like a slow climb toward a fall I can’t stop bracing for.

I check my phone again.

For the hundredth time since Saturday night—but still nothing.

No call. No text.

Not that we’ve ever been a phone call kind of… whatever this is.

But a text? That would’ve made sense.

An olive branch. A simple, “We need to talk.”

But all I get is silence.

Maybe I pushed him too far.

Maybe sending that video—stroking my cock under a million-dollar table while the city’s elite clapped for auction bids—was a line too far.

But God, the way he looked at me.

The way he walked out of that bathroom like his spine was made of glass and I was the one who cracked it.

The way I know he got off to it.

I run a hand through my hair and exhale through my nose, fingers twitching near the pack of cigarettes inside my inner jacket pocket. I’m not going to smoke one, but fuck—I might.

The ding of my phone cuts through my thoughts like a blade.

My pulse kicks.

It’s stupid that I still half-hope it’s him.

But it’s not.

Meeting Invite: CONF. B – 8:30 a.m. (Internal: Board Transition Review)

From: Corrine Ashwood

Sent: 8:31 a.m.

Fucking hell.

I roll my eyes and resist the urge to throw my phone across the elevator.

Last-minute invite. No subject context. Scheduled right now. Probably sent to everyone else a week ago.

Classic Corrine—make me look disorganized, unprepared, always two steps behind.

Grant pretends it’s not personal, but it is.

It always has been.

I snap a screenshot of the invite and fire off a text to Grant:

DANTE: Care to tell me what the hell this is?

Or are we still pretending Corrine doesn’t do this shit on purpose?

The elevator slows.

The doors open to the executive floor, glass and steel gleaming around me like we’re all trying to convince ourselves this place is modern, untouchable, invincible.

But all I feel is the weight of legacy. Of war. Of whatever Grant and I are.

I slip my phone into my jacket as I walk.

Two minutes late. No prep. No agenda.

Exactly how she wanted it.

I reach the conference room, fix my cuffs, and push open the door. Corrine’s already seated at the head of the table when I walk in, handing out pristine white folders like she’s hosting a fucking awards ceremony.

Seven board members. All eyes flick to me as I enter. No one speaks.

Except her.

“Nice of you to join us. Even late.”

I don’t take the bait. Not really.

“Nice of you to include me,” I reply smoothly, taking the one empty seat opposite her. “After the meeting has started. Shall we get on with it?”

She offers a saccharine smile and gestures to the stack of folders. “By all means.”

I open mine.

Pages of statements and itemized ledgers. At first, it looks like standard firm accounting—a quarterly breakdown or financial audit—but then I catch the highlighted charges.

Recurring. Bimonthly. Labeled as Consulting Services.

My brows furrow.

Wait. I know this.

“This is nothing,” I start, waving the page like I’m bored. “You’re wasting everyone’s time.”

Corrine folds her hands like a queen ready to sentence someone to death. “Before you lie, Dante, let me spare you the embarrassment. I already know what they are.”

I freeze for a fraction of a second, confused what she is playing at.

She sees it. Smiles.

“If you’re willing to admit it now,” she purrs, “we can perhaps avoid a formal inquiry and come to a resolution the board will find... reasonable.”

I lean back in my chair, voice low and sharp. “If you know what they are, Corrine, then do enlighten me. Go ahead. Make your case.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“You’ve been funneling firm money to sex workers,” she says, dropping the words like poison into the center of the room. “Paying them monthly under fabricated job titles. ‘Consulting services.’ Like no one would put it together.”

The room goes dead silent.

A beat.

Then I laugh. Sharp, surprised, genuine.

“That’s your play?” I shake my head. “You think I’m stupid enough to do something that reckless?”

But then I flip the page.

And my laughter dies.

Because the next page isn’t a payment log.

It’s a profile.

A site I recognize immediately—one of those platforms where people host explicit content, post their own videos, pictures, offer private sessions behind paywalls. And there’s no mistaking the man in the previews.

Teddy.

Shirtless in one. Pantsless in another. On his knees in a third.

My jaw tightens. Somehow I know exactly where this is going to go.

Corrine’s voice slithers in. “As you can see, Mr. Marchesi has been funding this young man for nearly a year. Tuition by day. Sexual favors by night.”

I close the folder calmly. “So what? The kid’s making money in a way you don’t approve of. Doesn’t mean he’s not worthy of a college degree.”

“Dante,” she sighs like she pities me. “You’ve been paying him for sexual gratification—on company funds. That’s embezzlement. Prostitution. Pick one.”

I stand. “You don’t get to stand on a soapbox and moralize, Corrine. You’ve spent your entire career stepping on the backs of better people.”

Her eyes narrow, but just as I open my mouth to continue, the door opens.

And Grant walks in.

“What is this?” he asks, eyes scanning the table, then the folders, then me.

Corrine straightens in her seat too quickly, her expression cracking just enough. She didn’t expect him. Didn’t want him here.

Which makes it all the more satisfying.

“Well, since you’re here,” I say, voice sharp, “I’ll spare you the spin.

I pay for the kid’s college. Directly. Through the university’s finance office.

He never sees a dollar of firm money in his account.

Whatever he does to pay for the rest of his life—his rent, his groceries, hell, his dignity—isn’t mine to control and certainly not yours to judge. ”

Grant picks up one of the folders, flipping through slowly, deliberately. I watch his brow furrow. Then he closes it.

“Corrine,” he says quietly, “we talked about this.”

And something in me fractures.

I turn to him, sharp. “You knew about this?”

The hurt escapes before I can choke it down.

He doesn’t get a chance to answer.

“Grant,” Corrine interrupts, tone dipped in false sympathy, “it’s understandable you’d be fooled by Dante’s lies too. We all have been.”

“Bullshit,” I snap. “You’ve been trying to shove me out of this chair since the day you took the CFO’s seat.”

She lets out a dry laugh. “So paranoid.”

“You didn’t even wait until his wife was told,” I hiss, “that her husband had a heart attack at his fucking desk before you started making calls about his replacement.”

“Enough,” Grant cuts in, voice tight. “This isn’t helping anyone.”

Of course.

Of fucking course.

There it is again—him stepping between us. Not to defend me. Never to defend me. Just to calm the storm. To keep Corrine clean. Polished. Untouched.

While I stand here with blood in my mouth.

Corrine can’t fucking help herself.

“And while we’re on the subject of questionable expenditures,” she says, voice silky with malice, “I have reason to believe Dante has recently hired a prostitute—Eve Sterling—and has been parading her around this office for the last week under the guise of a consultant. I suspect sexually inappropriate behavior within these walls. Including in his own office.”

The floor drops out beneath me and I see red.

Not just anger—but a pulsing, blinding fury that settles beneath my skin like fire.

“You want to put me on the chopping block,” I say, my voice low and dangerous, “then do it with actual fucking proof. Show me the deposit trail. Show me the payment receipts.”

I glance around the table, at the board members shifting in their seats. Faces unreadable. Predictably silent.

But I don’t look at Grant. I can’t.

Because if he had anything to do with dragging Eve into this, with making her collateral damage in this stupid war?—

“I’m warning you,” I continue, forcing every syllable through clenched teeth, “you leave innocent people out of this.”

Corrine doesn’t flinch. Even that fake-ass smile remains plastered on her manipulative face like she knows she’s won.

I smooth my jacket. Breathe through the rage before I say something I’ll regret.

“You’ve got four more days,” I say, eyes locking on hers. “Four more days until the board vote. If you want me out, bring something better than this weak-ass slander next time.”

I walk out of the room and leave the doors open behind me.

Let them sit in it.

Let them stew in the tension they created.

I head straight for the elevators, vision tunneling, chest tight. My hand smashes the call button harder than necessary—like the force could burn off some of the rage simmering just beneath my skin. I need air. I need out. I need a fucking cigarette and a wall to punch.

Then I hear Grant’s voice.

Firm. Authoritative. And… something else.

Something I’ve never heard from him when it comes to Corrine.

Anger.

“If you ever pull something like this again,” he snaps, “I’ll have your resignation before you can finish your first accusation.”

My head turns slightly, not enough to look back, but enough to feel the impact.

He’s defending me. Protecting me.

That’s new.

“You don’t meet with my partner without me,” Grant continues, each word clipped, deliberate. “I told you those charges were for the kid’s tuition. And you go on a witch hunt?”

For a beat, my chest fucking opens. My partner.

For a second, I let myself believe this isn’t all an elaborate setup.

That he’s not on her side.

But the elevator dings.

The doors open, silver jaws inviting me in. I step inside, throat tight, tongue bitter.

My hand slams the Lobby button. I don’t care where I’m going—just that it’s away.

The doors start to close, sealing me into silence but just before they shut, a hand slices through the gap.

The doors jolt, then reopen and Grant steps inside.

The moment the doors seal shut, I snap.

I don’t give him a chance to speak.

Don’t give myself time to second-guess.

I grab the lapels of his suit jacket and pull him toward me—hard.

Our mouths crash. A collision of years. Of silence. Of everything we never fucking said.

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s a storm we’ve both pretended didn’t exist.

I feel his breath stutter, his lips tense—surprised for a second?—

Then he kisses me back.

Fuck, he kisses me back.

It’s the kind of kiss that rewrites timelines.

That makes a man believe in every god he’s ever cursed.

His mouth is molten, desperate, his hands threading into my hair like he’s drowning and I’m the only goddamn thing keeping him afloat.

I groan against him, walking him back until his shoulders hit the elevator wall.

He doesn’t resist.

Our hands are everywhere—gripping, clawing, tugging.

He fists the fabric of my shirt, and I swear he wants to tear it off me.

I press my thigh between his legs and he ruts against it like he can’t help himself.

It’s messy. It’s brutal. It’s everything.

I don’t want to stop.

I want the whole fucking building to know.

I want them to look at him and see he’s mine.

But just as the elevator starts to slow, just as the ding sounds?—

He pulls back.

Not gently.

He bites my lip—hard enough to make me taste blood—and shoves at my chest until I take the step back.

The doors open.

The lobby is empty as we stand there like we’ve just survived a fucking war.

Grant straightens his jacket. Won’t meet my eyes. His chest heaves, his jaw tight.

I lick the sting from my bottom lip. Taste copper.

“Come find me,” I say, voice low, raw, wrecked, “when you’re ready to stop hiding.”

And I walk without glancing back. Without another argument or plea for the truth.

Just the echo of the best fucking kiss of my life burning on my lips.