Page 41 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

N o one notices when I slip out of the conference room.

They’re too busy clapping Grant on the back, beaming with praise, drinking the Kool-Aid. The prodigal sons, returned and redeemed. All grins and glittering futures.

And meanwhile—I do what I’ve been trying to do for five years.

Save the damn firm.

My heels are soundless on the marble as I carefully approach Grant’s office.

It’s still dark inside, frosted glass casting soft light around its edges.

He always leaves it like that in the mornings—like he’s waiting for sunlight and worship before turning the fishbowl on.

Always so eager to make himself visible, transparent, open.

That’s what makes him easy to manipulate.

But not Dante.

No, Dante’s never been easy.

I’m not surprised to find him inside.

He’s bent low behind Grant’s desk, rummaging through drawers like a common thief. His sleeves are rolled, his back casually arched, like he belongs there. Like this office has always been his.

I pause in the doorway. Cross my arms. Let my weight shift against the frame, one brow arching just so.

“I always knew you were bad for him,” I say, smooth as silk. Triumphant.

He doesn’t startle.

Just straightens, slow and lazy, like a snake uncurling. Smirks at me—the kind of smirk that says I already won, and I didn’t even have to try. One hand slides into his pocket. The other reaches for the bottle of whiskey sitting on the desk—the one I brought Grant Friday night.

Dante uncaps it, sniffs it once, then lifts it slightly in my direction.

“From you, I take it?” he says.

I nod, stepping into the office. Carefully. Keeping the desk between us.

He glances at the label. “Always did have good taste,” he muses. “A drink?”

He already has one of the crystal tumblers from the silver tray in hand.

I decline. “A little early for me.”

His smile shifts. Not polite. Not charming. He makes a face like something sour just crossed his tongue—like me .

He pours himself a generous glass and throws it back like water, his eyes never leaving mine. Cold. Calculating. No pretense of civility between us anymore.

He sets the glass down with a soft clink. The sound of tension. Of lines being drawn.

I glance at my watch.

“I’ve always known you had something up your sleeve,” Dante says, voice low, casual. “I have to give you credit, though. I still don’t know what it is.”

His gaze is unreadable. But I see the twitch in his jaw. The awareness.

This is the match I’ve been preparing for.

It was always going to come down to me and Dante.

He’s lingered around Grant like a parasite from the beginning. A leech feeding off the Harrow legacy, riding on charm and smirks and backroom deals. But I’ve seen through him since day one.

“Looks like we’ve both been playing the same game,” I say coolly. “Though I have a pretty good idea of what you intend to get out of all this.”

His brow lifts, ever so slightly. “And what’s that?”

I motion around the room. Around the firm.

“All this, of course. Marchesi and Harrow stripped down to just the Marchesi name on the building. You, standing beside Grant like some conquering hero. And him? Too blind to see the knife you’re waiting to drive into his back.”

Dante’s smile turns slow. Dangerous. “Lacks creativity,” he says. “But not too far off.”

I step closer. One heel clicks. Then another. I hold his gaze like a challenge.

“Well,” I say, tilting my head. “We both know neither of us is going to be the first to back down. So how about a wager?”

His interest flickers, but he masks it well. “And here I thought you were a walking stick-up-the-ass.”

I laugh. It’s sharp. Humorless.

I reach for the bottle, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a second glass.

He watches me, intrigued now, his hand already moving to refill his own.

I raise my glass slightly. “To the best player.”

He lifts his own in response. “May the best man win.”

“Or woman,” I correct, voice soft but steel beneath it.

He drinks.

I don’t.

I lift the glass to my lips, hover, and then... set it down untouched.

His eyes track the motion.

A flicker. A subtle shift in his expression. The swallow a little slower this time.

I smile sweetly and let him wonder.

Because I am playing the long game. And he has no idea when the game actually started.

I watch him for a moment longer—Dante, still leaning against Grant’s desk like he owns the place—and the silence stretches between us, thick with challenge.

I tilt my head. “So? What were you doing rooting through Grant’s drawers?”

“Mm, not that easy.” He shrugs, casual. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

I glance at my watch again.

Almost time.

It can’t hurt anything now to be a little honest. It’s not like it will matter in a moment or two.

I pretend to think it over, tap a finger to my chin like I’m weighing the cost. “Sure. Why not.”

“I’m also going for the firm,” I say lightly. “I know. A little anticlimactic, right?”

He narrows his eyes but stays quiet. Watching.

“But you know,” I continue, picking up the bottle and walking toward the bar, “it’s the journey, not the destination. That’s where all the fascinating things happen.”

Dante blinks, clearly confused now.

I sigh, smiling. “I suppose I don’t have to talk in riddles. You won’t tell anyone anyway.”

He coughs once, as if he didn’t anticipate it. “Putting a lot of faith in my ability to keep a secret.”

I flash him a smile—wide, wicked, absolutely sincere.

“Dead men tend to keep the best secrets.”

His face falters and turns white as the grave.

I dump the contents casually down the sink, letting the glug of the liquor—and the poison it holds—disappear down the drain.

“You know,” I say cheerfully, “it took me a trial or two to really perfect the dosing. But I was always excellent in chemistry.”

I walk the room slowly, hands trailing along the bookshelves, the edge of the credenza, the back of Grant’s chair. And all the while, Dante just stands there—watching me like he’s starting to piece together a puzzle far too late.

“I poisoned them at the same time, you know,” I say, like we’re sharing secrets over coffee. “My parents. Slipped it into their wine. One right after the other.”

“My father fell like a brick.”

I sigh.

“Too quickly. Not dead yet, but gone. It was disappointing to think he didn’t suffer.”

Dante starts to cough.

Subtle, at first.

Then sharper. Harder.

“I wanted it to draw out a little. As you are experiencing right now,” I continue, circling the room like I’m giving a TED Talk. “So I lowered the dose for Mom—but that backfired. It was a little too low and she vomited most of it. Even got out a call to 911 before she started seizing.”

I wipe my finger along the bookshelf, as if there would be dust to collect, and pause on the picture of Grant’s mother.

“I had to improvise and got the satisfaction I was looking for when I bashed my father’s head in.

My mother was right there. She got soaked in his blood while she went mindless.

It was cathartic to watch. Then there was my acting—slamming my head against the wall and the my-mother-tried-to-kill-me sob story.

I had to get out of there before the police arrived. ”

I chuckle, thinking back on the reactions when I first started reciting what had happened. No one ever questioned it.

“You know the rest of that story. She lived. If you can call it that.”

“Now she sits in an asylum—slumped, drooling, blinking once every thirty seconds. They say she’s still in there. Knows what’s happening around her.”

I tilt my head.

“That gives me some satisfaction. I visit her every week. I remind her who I am. What I did. I want her to see me. Her daughter. The one who almost killed her.”

Dante stumbles back.

His glass drops from his hand and shatters against the floor.

He gasps—mouth open, sucking at the air like it’s been stolen.

I keep going.

“But plans change over time. So I had to adapt.”

He drops to a knee.

One hand clutching his chest as foam touches the corner of his mouth.

“I needed to be seen here at the firm. Elevated. And the old CFO was past his prime anyhow. He should have retired ages ago, but he was also a horny bastard. Just perching on his desk, showing a little leg, and he’d drink anything you gave him. Then die, nice and quietly.”

Dante is quickly becoming a mess. It really is gross to watch, so I look away—out at the city skyline.

“When I came running to Grant’s—fake tears and all—I didn’t plan on walking in on the two of you seconds from fucking, though. It was too good. I didn’t even have to lie. Just gasped, loud and wounded, and watched Grant unravel. He’s always so predictable.”

“All I had to do was be patient after that. Keep driving the wedge. Keep feeding the doubt. And wait.”

I take a seat in Grant’s chair, fingers steepled, watching the show and trying not to listen to the sounds of suffocation. “Oh, lord. You’re foaming.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I keep going with my little confessional. It really is a cathartic moment to let it all out to someone.

“As I was saying—you made things difficult. Always hovering around Grant, whispering poison in his ear. I worked hard to drive that wedge between you two. The Vegas hot mic. The staged photo leaks. All necessary escalations. But cutting your brakes?” I grin.

“That one was just for fun. Too bad you didn’t die in that wreck like you were supposed to. ”

He collapses fully now—spasming. Seizing. Eyes bulging in panic. Muscles twitching as he suffocates on nothing.

“Now you’re going to die in agony. And that’s your punishment. A fitting one, if I may.”

His limbs jerk once—twice—then still.

Silence falls.

I take a breath and walk toward him, my heels careful on the tile. I kneel beside him and brush a lock of hair back from his damp forehead.

“Fucking finally,” I whisper, looking over the corpse.

With Dante out of the way, Grant will come back to me—just like he always does. He’ll lean on me in his grief, seek comfort in the one person who’s never truly left his side. He’ll marry me, trust me, give me everything without even realizing it’s already mine.

And then, in time, he’ll meet his own unfortunate end.

I’ll be the devastated widow, of course. The sole benefactor of his estate.

The firm. The wealth. The mansion.

The Harrow name will be mine.

Exactly as it always should have been.

The door slams open with the force of a tidal wave.

Eve. Grant. Frankie.

They barrel in like the walls themselves are crumbling, and for a second—I actually think they might be.

I snap to my feet, heart hammering in my chest.

“He—I think he’s dead—I just found him—” I gasp, voice shaking. Just enough. Wide eyes, trembling lip. Years of performance, rehearsed panic, all summoned in a single breath.

But Eve doesn’t even flinch. Her voice cuts like a scalpel as she heads to Grant’s desk and removes something from its underside.

“Stop being dramatic. He’s not dead.”

What?

Behind me, Dante chuckles first, then opens his eyes. Sits up, wiping his mouth on his shirt.

No.

“You could’ve let me ride it out a little longer,” he mutters with a lazy smirk. “It was sensational acting.”

No. No, no, no—this isn’t right. He should be dead.

“Did you take a seltzer to foam at the mouth?” Frankie shakes her head in disbelief. “Method acting. I respect it.”

“Why, thank you.” He actually bows his head as mine implodes. “I thought it was an authentic touch. Thanks to Eve for discovering the poison.”

My body feels locked. The air around me warps. I don’t move. I can’t. My thoughts scream at me to run, but my limbs won’t obey. Every second stretches wide and horrible, the floor tilting underneath me like a broken carousel.

Eve holds out a slim black recorder, held aloft in her palm like a gavel.

“We recorded you,” she says, voice laced with quiet triumph. “Confessing to murder. Several of them, actually. Attempted murder. Poisoning. Fraud.”

No.

Dante stands fully now, brushing imaginary dust from his pants.

“That’s twice now you’ve tried to kill me,” he says, then clucks his tongue. “And during Pride Month? That’s just mean. Honestly? Feels a little homophobic.”

No. That fucking asshole. No!

I lunge. Everything inside me snapping into motion. I need to leave.

If I can just reach the door—if I can just make it to the elevator—I can disappear. I can still fix this. I always fix it.

But I don’t make it.

Eve’s foot shoots out, tripping me. My head smacks the marble floor, blood blooming on my tongue. I scream, half fury, half disbelief.

This is not how it’s supposed to happen.

Grant grabs me—ruthless, unflinching. My arm is bent behind me, my face pushed down onto the floor. Cool marble against hot skin. The taste of copper floods my mouth.

The room explodes in noise. Shouts. Footsteps. Cuffs. But it’s Grant’s voice that cuts through everything. Quiet. Deadly.

“Game’s over, Corrine. And you lost.”

No.

Officers take over, their hands replacing Grant’s as metal snaps tight around my wrists.

No.

This wasn’t how it ends.

I feel the fury coiling in my gut, sticky and black. Police officers pull me up, and I’m upright on two feet. Warm, thick blood drips down my chin, and I watch it splat on the white marble at my feet.

“Why us?” Grant asks.

His voice is rough. Breaking. Like it costs him to ask.

“Why, Corrine?”

I look at him, swallowing the blood in my mouth.

And I smile.

Because he wants to know.

There is a reason.

There’s always a reason.

Something old. Sharp. Sacred. Something I wrapped in silk and buried deep.

And if I gave it to him—if I handed it over like some desperate confession—he’d get to make sense of it all. Find closure. Heal.

No.

He doesn’t get that.

I can still win this.

This one, final thing.

So, I smile wider.

Let the blood coat my teeth like war paint. Let the moment stretch, linger, choke.

And I say nothing.

Because torment makes a lovely inheritance.

And he can live with it.

Rot without ever knowing.