Page 4 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

T he SUV hums through midtown, a quiet bubble of leather seats and tinted windows between me and the rest of Manhattan’s chaos.

Across from me, Frankie Lane is dressed like a retro ad for heartbreak and vengeance—red lips, winged liner sharp enough to slice a man open, and a pinstriped pencil skirt that somehow makes her fury more efficient.

She’s swiping through slides on her tablet like each one has personally offended her.

“This is a multibillion-dollar contract,” she says without looking up. “With the richest man in Manhattan. I swear to God, if you freelanced anything without telling Grant?—”

“Relax.”

Her gaze snaps to me. “Dante.”

I lean my head back, eyes half-closed behind my sunglasses. “You say my name like it’s a warning. It’s not working.”

“This is Damien Wolfe,” she bites. “Not some bored developer with a vanity project. He’s ruthless. Brilliant. The man built his empire from scaffolding and steel and zero family favors. He could buy and level half this city before lunch.”

“Which is why I made a few adjustments,” I say, stretching out my legs.

Frankie stills. “What adjustments?”

“I just reorganized the pitch deck,” I say. “Financials are tucked toward the back—where his investors will still get their fix. I expanded the sustainability section. Brought in some new renderings—off-grid cooling systems, solar-integrated glass, water reclamation. Wolfe’s going to love it.”

She narrows her eyes. “Did Grant approve the changes?”

I give her the kind of shrug that says not exactly .

“I’m sorry,” she says, deadpan. “Was that a yes, or was that one of your classic ‘fuck it, I know better’ shrugs?”

“It was a ‘Wolfe will see the value and no one else matters’ shrug.”

She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose with manicured fingers.

Before she can launch into another lecture, my phone buzzes.

I glance down.

A text.

KRIS: Thanks for this weekend. Still can’t feel my legs.

Come back to Vegas soon.

There’s a blurry photo attached. Kris’s tongue running up a hard, veined cock that I recognize as Sam’s. She’s got a crooked grin, looking far too satisfied for a Monday morning.

I smirk to myself. Type a quick reply: Next time I’m in town, we’re getting the weekend.

“Unbelievable,” Frankie mutters, yanking me back to the moment. “You’re sexting your weekend romp before the biggest pitch of your career.”

“It wasn’t a sext,” I reply, slipping the phone into my jacket. “It was a thank-you.”

“God, you’re infuriating.”

“I’m appreciated.”

Wolfe isn’t some silver-spoon legacy baby. He’s our age—early thirties—but he built his name the hard way. Construction. Development. Scale. Influence. Now he’s the city’s apex predator, and every firm in the country wants a seat at his table.

He’s been with Marchesi & Harrow for a decade. Back when our fathers still ran things and Wolfe was a rising name with a sharp mind and no patience for bullshit.

Now he is the table.

And this skyscraper—the one we’re pitching today—isn’t just another high-rise. It’s a fucking monument. A vertical legacy in the heart of Manhattan. Whoever designs it becomes a permanent part of the skyline.

I darken my phone and slide it into my jacket pocket. Finally meet Frankie’s stare head-on.

“We’ll land it,” I say quietly.

She crosses her arms. “You better hope so.”

The SUV slows, curbside just outside Wolfe Tower.

Time to find out.

Frankie drops me at the curb, and I walk for-fucking-ever to reach the entrance. Wolfe doesn’t do anything half-ass—especially not his own complex.

The building is sleek—an all-black design and a statement to the city that Wolfe Industries is here to stay.

It was the first project Grant and I ever worked on together.

First.

And last.

Still, it’s one of my favorites.

The elevator climbs too quickly. Smooth. You can barely feel the motion, save for the faint mechanical whirl as each floor races past.

Dead.

Weight.

Dead.

Weight.

Grant’s words from Friday echo in my head on a loop, and I squeeze my fist. Fucking asshole.

I know he didn’t realize his mic was on, but that doesn’t change what he said.

The truth.

The way Grant really sees me.

Bullshit. But I swallow it down like it doesn’t fucking destroy me inside.

The doors open with a soft ping—and speak of the fucking devil.

Grant’s standing there like he’s been waiting for me, the sun behind him casting a halo around his dirty-blond hair.

His light-gray suit and dark-blue shirt sharpen the storm in his eyes, and they land right on me.

He’s only out here to make it look like we arrived together.

Like we’re still a team.

It’s a goddamn joke.

“Let’s not fuck this up,” he says, putting his phone away, chin up, matching my pace.

I slip my hands into my pockets—cool, unbothered.

“You say the sweetest things, Bug.”

His jaw clenches—just enough to make it worth saying.

He’s never liked the nickname. Never asked why I call him that, and he never will.

Which only makes it better.

Damien Wolfe greets us just outside the glass doors, all effortless charm and quiet authority. He’s in his usual all-black suit—sharp, clean, tailored like sin—and flanked by his business partner, Marcus, who’s more smiles and handshakes, less looming-billionaire presence.

Damien gives Grant a brief nod before turning to me. “Big pitch. But you already know that.”

His tone is casual, but there’s steel beneath it.

“This one isn’t for me,” he adds, walking us toward the boardroom. “It’s for the investors. You want my vote? Show me you can sell it to them.”

We step inside, the room already filling with murmured conversation and glossy portfolios. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline like we’re already inside the tower we haven’t built yet.

“Got my notes?” Damien whispers to Grant.

“Reviewed and integrated,” Grant replies, crisp and sure. “They made it into the final deck.”

A flicker of doubt scratches at the edge of my mind—unsure if that was before or after my contributions.

Grant takes the lead as we begin. Damien and Marcus sit at the head of the table, flanked by five investors and two advisors. The click of the remote is the only sound as the first few slides go up.

Overview. Legacy. Vision.

But then he stumbles—right on the first change I made.

Grant pauses for a beat too long. Clears his throat as he looks over the slide.

I step in before the moment stretches any further.

“The next phase of the structure will incorporate a solar-integrated glass facade. Each panel is custom-engineered for passive light harvesting—no compromise to the aesthetic.”

One of the investors—O’Connor, I think, the one with the oil-refinery empire in Houston—leans forward, brow creased.

“Wait. You’re saying the facade itself is energy-generating? That’s… ambitious.”

He doesn’t sound impressed. He sounds threatened.

Of course he does. The man made his fortune off fossil fuels and political lobbying. Passive solar makes his portfolio nervous.

I open my mouth to respond, but Grant steps in first.

“It’s one of several options on the table,” he says smoothly. “We’re still evaluating which features will be most strategic for investor alignment.”

It’s a nice way of saying don’t worry, your outdated bullshit is safe .

He clicks forward. Supposed to be financials next.

Instead—my section.

I nod toward the screen and take the floor again.

“This is where we’re pushing the boundaries. The building will feature an off-grid cooling system—zero reliance on municipal electric—and we’ll recycle ninety percent of water on-site through our reclamation circuit. It’s sustainable, yes. But more than that—it’s resilient.”

Eyes track to the screen. I see the investors trying to do math in their heads, trying to reconcile the beauty of the tower with the systems beneath it.

Finally, Grant steps in again. “Let’s move to the numbers.”

He runs through the financials—sharp and efficient—but I can feel the shift in the room. The questions at the end are fine. Mostly surface level. Timeline. Budget. Tax credits.

But I can see it in their faces. They wanted the numbers first.

We buried the lede.

When the meeting adjourns, there’s a round of handshakes and polite nods. No fireworks. No buzz of excitement.

Not a disaster.

But not the home run it should’ve been.

They asked about ROI and bottom lines, not the systems that make this complex a showpiece.

They’re looking at the price tag.

Not the fucking crown jewel.

Damien doesn’t say a word as he walks out of the boardroom. He doesn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders says plenty.

We follow, and I trail behind the group, jaw tight.

His office is sleek and dark like the rest of Wolfe Industries, but the whiskey cart by the windows is the only thing I care about right now. Four crystal tumblers sit waiting—because Damien knew this wasn’t going to be a toast.

He pours without ceremony. No ice.

“Shut the door,” he says.

Grant does. And just like that, we’re locked in with one of the most powerful men in Manhattan—and I already know he’s about to hand us our asses.

Damien passes around the drinks, then leans a hip against his desk, arms crossed.

“So…” He takes a slow sip. “What the fuck happened in there?”

He’s not angry. Not loud. But disappointment from Damien Wolfe lands harder than most men’s rage.

Marcus stands beside him—quiet but alert. Watching us like we’re two boys who brought home a failing report card.

“There’s no synergy,” Damien says, voice even. “You’re not working like partners. And don’t tell me it’s just a bad day.”

Grant clears his throat. “We had a few last-minute changes—some crossed wires, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”

“Next time,” Damien says mildly, “might be too late.” His eyes flick to mine. “This was supposed to be the jewel of the skyline. A legacy project. And you had them counting pennies over concept renderings.”

I feel the fire stir in my chest.

“And yet no one asked how those concepts are redefining sustainable vertical design. They asked about costs because that’s all they know how to measure.”

“They measure what matters to them,” Damien says, calm as ever. “And like it or not, that part matters too.”

We fall quiet.

I don’t look at Grant. I keep my gaze locked on the glass in my hand, then shift to the window—the skyline stretching wide and brilliant, just waiting for its next crown.

Then Damien sighs. “So.” He lets the word hang in the air. “Is this about Friday?”

My jaw clenches. I don’t look away from the view, but I feel both of their eyes on me.

Grant jumps in before I can answer. “I’m not going to lie. That was a trainwreck. I’ll give you that. But it’s over. And we’re not making excuses. The board made a few… comments. Nothing we can’t fix.”

Bullshit. He’s not telling him the whole truth.

Not that it matters.

Damien lifts a brow. “I already heard about the threat to pull the firm. And I’m not asking as your client. I’m asking as your friend.” He glances at Marcus, who nods once—quiet affirmation.

“We don’t always agree,” Damien continues. “Hell, we argue like bastards behind closed doors. But out there?” He gestures toward the conference room. “We’re a team. Always. And we sure as shit don’t bring our fights to the table.”

Grant exhales. “We’re working on it.”

Marcus huffs a laugh. “Yeah. That’s cute. But you two have been ‘working on it’ for what—three years? Four?”

“Five.” I saw too quickly. Too quietly.

The silence stretches. Tighter. Heavier.

“You need more than working on it ,” Marcus says, direct.

Damien doesn’t argue. He just reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a sleek, matte-black card holder, taking a card from the back.

He slides it across the desk like a challenge.

Grant doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t even look at it.

I do.

Of course I do. Because I’d know that logo anywhere—three words in gold foil that, in some circles, can open any door you need. Even one that leads straight to Hell.

The Black Ledger.

“Ask for Eve Sterling,” Damien says. “She’s not just a Companion. She fixes things—relationships, reputations, business disasters… whatever the fuck this is.” He motions between Grant and me.

Grant laughs under his breath—dry, cold—then finally looks at the card. “I know this is an elite escort agency to the rich and filthy rich. You want us to screw our problems away?”

“No,” Damien says. “I want you to stop dragging them into my boardroom. How you get there is your business. And if anyone can handle you two assholes, it’s her.”

Marcus leans back, arms folded. “You’re not the only firm in Manhattan. Just the one with the longest history with Wolfe. Don’t make it the shortest future.”

Grant rubs a hand over his face and mutters, “We’ll handle it.”

But I catch the flick of his eyes down to his phone screen. He reads a message. Doesn’t reply. Just locks it and slides it back into his pocket.

Corrine again.

Always fucking Corrine.

She’s a constant stick up his ass, and if it weren’t for Frankie, she’d try to pull her same shit on me. That’s one of the reasons I’ll never let Frankie work for anyone else but me.

She doesn’t just bust my balls—she busts Corrine’s too.

I turn slowly, taking my time. The card stays on the table. Untouched. Daring.

I give Damien a nod—polite enough to pass. “Thanks for the drink.”

Damien watches me with that sharp, knowing edge. “You know where to find her.”

I do.

And I will.

Because if the only way to beat Grant is to get him to stop playing by the rules?—

Then maybe it’s time I flip the goddamn board.