Page 36 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

F uck.

He finally told me.

And it’s not even close to the story I imagined. Not even in the same stratosphere. I thought I knew what happened that day—thought I had all the pieces, just not the right order. But this? The way his voice cracks when he says, “I killed her”—it guts me.

He’s sitting on the edge of my bed, his shoulders curved forward, lounge pants low on his hips. His skin catches the amber light from my fireplace—the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is. Like it can’t possibly hold the weight of what he’s about to say.

“When my mom died,” he says slowly, “I didn’t just lose her. I lost the version of me I thought she saw.”

My chest tightens. But I stay quiet.

“I blamed myself. Still do.” He swallows hard. “Not because I pushed her. I didn’t. But... if she hadn’t seen me like that. If I’d just locked the fucking door. Or waited.”

He trails off. I watch his hands flex where they rest on his thighs.

“I’ll never forget her eyes. The way she looked at me.” His voice cracks. “Not angry. Just... confused. Like she didn’t recognize me at all.”

I want to pull him into me. I want to tell him she was wrong. That he didn’t do anything but exist in a way he wasn’t ready to show the world. But I don’t interrupt. Because there’s more. I can feel it.

He takes a long, shaky breath.

“And then,” he says, almost whispering now, “when Corrine walked in on us... it was like it was happening all over again.”

I frown. That moment being one of the darkest nights of my life.

“I didn’t see her, Dante. Not really. I saw my mom. Standing in that doorway again. Watching me.” His jaw clenches. “And I panicked.”

The pieces start falling together—slow, then all at once.

He looks at me now. Really looks. Eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “I need you to know... I didn’t even realize what she thought. What she accused you of. Not until the next day. She said it again, and I was already so messed up from what I saw—what I relived—I just... shut down.”

The breath he lets out trembles.

“I should’ve corrected her. I should’ve explained. But then you...” His voice softens. “You had girls with you. The men. All the time. And I thought you didn’t care.”

My chest tightens. “I did it to get to you.”

He blinks.

“I wanted you to hurt.” I say it simply, honestly.

“I wanted you to feel what I felt when you looked through me like I didn’t matter.

Like I hadn’t mattered that night. So I flaunted them—every damn one of them.

And the more you acted like it didn’t bother you.

..” I swallow hard. “I’ve been going fucking insane. ”

“It did bother me. Every time.” His voice is quieter now, wrecked in that way only truth can be. “I couldn’t stand seeing you with anyone else. I just thought I deserved the punishment.”

I look at him—really look at him—and I realize I can’t wait anymore.

I can’t go another second letting him think he deserves anything less than the world.

Because he’s here, in my room, in my life again—and if I don’t say this now, I’ll never forgive myself.

He just told me the worst day of his life. And all I want to do is pull him out of it.

Not with logic or reassurance.

But with something real—something that’s been buried beneath the wreckage of us for so many goddamn years.

I shift closer on the bed, resting one hand lightly against his thigh. He’s trembling—still somewhere in that memory.

“Hey,” I say softly, “do you want to know why I call you glowbug?”

His eyes flick up to mine. And for a second, he doesn’t speak.

But I see the curiosity he never admitted. The frustration in the name he never understood. The way he always flinched like it carried more weight than it should’ve.

He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have to.

“I know you hate it,” I say, “and part of the reason is because you don’t remember where it came from.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. Still quiet.

“The day your mom died,” I continue, “my dad brought you to our house. Your father was being questioned by the police, and my parents didn’t want you left alone in your home.”

Something shifts in his face. A flicker. A shadow of recognition like light catching on glass.

He remembers.

“The glowbugs,” he says under his breath.

I nod.

We sat under the willow tree in my backyard—two boys side by side, your grief a living thing between us. And then, all at once, the field lit up around us like the universe was trying to say, You’re not alone .

“They were everywhere,” I whisper. “Thousands of them. Like they were drawn to you.”

His lips part slightly. He’s somewhere between memory and disbelief.

“I wanted to tell you that night,” I say. “I looked at you—and I swear to God, Grant, you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Sitting there with your eyes red from crying, wrapped in the gold of the setting sun, surrounded by light.” My voice dips, reverent. “You looked like magic.”

He blinks hard. A tear slips free.

“I was going to kiss you. I was going to say it—I even started. I said your name.”

He nods slowly. “You did.”

“But then my dad came out and called you inside.” I smile, bitter and aching. “And you turned around, still glowing, and said, ‘You’ll tell me when I get back?’”

His breath shudders. “You said?—”

“‘I will wait for you.’” I say it again now. Steady. Sure.

I rub the inside of my forearm where the ink lives—my one permanent truth. The moment I tattooed on my skin to never let myself forget.

“I found out that night my parents were sending me to the UK,” I say. “They didn’t tell me because they knew I wouldn’t go. They knew I wouldn’t leave you. My mother was worried I would put you before my future. The firm. So they sent me away.”

The ache breaks through in my voice. I let it.

It took me a long time to forgive them. But as soon as I got back and saw Grant that first time, I knew nothing had changed.

“I tattooed the day I left and my promise, right here.” I thumb the dark ink on my forearm.

I shift off the bed, drop down to one knee in front of him, and take his hands in mine.

He looks down at me like I’ve turned to light myself.

So I say what I should’ve said five years ago.

“Grant Harrow,” I breathe. “I love you.”

And then I give him everything.

“I’ve tried to burn it out of me. With other people. With time. With anger.” I laugh, quiet and broken. “God, I tried so fucking hard. But it never worked. Nothing erased you.”

He looks like he’s holding his breath. Like if he exhales, he might fall apart.

“You live in my ribs, Grant. You haunt my skin. You’re the voice in my head and the ache in my chest and the only thing that ever made me believe in something like fate.

” I shake my head. “And it’s not just love.

It’s ruin. I would burn down the world if it ever touched you wrong.

I’d go to war with God himself if He asked me to live without you again. ”

My voice drops, fierce and reverent.

“I would die for you. Gladly. But more than that—I’d live for you. Every day. I’d fight like hell to be the man you deserve, because loving you isn’t hard, Grant. Losing you was.”

He still hasn’t moved. So I lean in, press my forehead to his, and close my eyes.

“I love you,” I whisper. “I love you so much it makes me stupid. Makes me cruel. And if all you ever let me do is love you from here—if this is all we get—then it’s enough.”

Tears stream down his cheeks now. But he’s smiling through them.

“I don’t care what’s behind us. I just want whatever’s next. As long as it’s you.”

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just looks at me. Like he’s trying to memorize my face—or maybe find the pieces of himself I shattered five years ago. His lips part, but no sound comes. His throat works like the words are there—just stuck in grief or fear or disbelief.

And then, softly—barely more than breath—he says, “I tried to stop too.”

That’s it. Five little words, but I feel them like they’re carved into my spine.

He’s not looking at me anymore. He’s looking down, fingers twisting together in his lap, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he says too much too fast.

“I tried to stop loving you too,” he continues. “Tried to hate you. Tried to replace you.”

My heart doesn’t just beat—it rages.

“But you were still everywhere,” he says, voice unraveling. “In everything. In everyone.”

He looks up at me again, and fuck, I’ve never seen him like this. Open. Raw. Eyes glassy, red-rimmed, like he’s been holding this back for so long it got tangled in his bones.

“I’ve loved you since before I even knew what love really was,” he says, both hands reaching out to cup my jaw. “And I never stopped. Not for a second.”

I can’t breathe.

“I thought I broke us,” he goes on, quieter now. “And then you went and broke me right back.”

A broken laugh. A half-sob.

“But you’re still it for me. You’ve always been it.”

He leans in, forehead pressed to mine again, like he’s trying to tether himself to something real.

And then he whispers the only words I’ve needed since the day I lost him:

“I love you, Dante. I love you so goddamn much it ruined me.”

My eyes slam shut. I feel it everywhere—in my blood, in my teeth, in the ache behind my ribs.

And just like that, the war is over.

No more pain. No more lies. No more pretending we didn’t belong to each other this whole fucking time.

I smile, just a little, as I whisper back, “Good.”

Then I kiss him.

Not like the first time.

Not like the last.

This kiss is like none we’ve had before.

I’m still on my knees.

He’s still perched on the edge of my bed, chest rising like he can’t catch his breath. Like I knocked the air from his lungs with my mouth alone.

I pull back just far enough to look at him.

We’re both breathing hard. Both of us wrecked—and starving for more.

I smirk, still tasting him. “I have a question, though, Lucciolina.”

For the first time, he grins at the name. A real one. Not embarrassed. Not scowling. Just... Grant. And fuck, it makes me grin too.

“Why eight inches?” I ask.