Page 6 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

I ’ve never been one to rush foreplay.

And make no mistake—what’s happening in this office? It’s foreplay.

Two men. Two egos. One ticking clock. And me, dropped into the middle like a match to dry kindling.

I cross one leg over the other, lean back in the leather chair, and watch the two men argue in the world’s loudest whisper.

It’s not subtle.

It’s not productive.

It is, however, entertaining as hell.

I was interested the second Dante Marchesi sat down in the Ledger’s lobby this afternoon.

Wolfe had already sent word to Lucian—something about a last-resort referral.

Two executives. Two weeks. Fix the tension or lose the company.

No details, no history—just the kind of vague urgency that usually means someone’s already made a mess of things.

I was about to input Dante’s info into the system, rush-approval flagged and ready, when his name lit up green.

Already a member.

Even easier.

I was looking over his bio and profile picture—Italian heritage, likely speaks it fluently, six feet and change, espresso eyes, tan skin, black hair that curls just slightly when it’s long enough—when he strolled in like he owned the damn place.

A toothpick dangled from the corner of his smirking mouth—casual to most, but I know a displacement tactic when I see one. He needs something to take his frustration out on.

Something—or someone.

And now, here we are.

Two weeks to save a company. No personal background. No therapy-style deep dives. Just a mandate: get them back on the same side of the table.

Even if Wolfe hadn’t tossed my name in the ring, I would’ve taken this contract the second I saw Dante Marchesi walk through the door. Not just because of the smirk or the swagger or the tailored suit hugging his shoulders.

But because of the way he looked at me.

Like he already knew I’d be a problem.

Like he wanted to know how much of a problem I’d let him be in return.

Now I just have to get the other half of this dynamic duo to look me in the eye instead of trying to incinerate Dante with his glare. Grant hasn’t said much—not to me, anyway—but the tension between them is… impressive.

I wonder how much of it is sexual.

Hell, maybe none. Maybe they just hate each other. Or maybe that’s the problem.

They don’t hate each other—and that’s the issue. Which is where I’m placing my bets.

I smile, fold my hands neatly in my lap, and wait for them to remember I’m still in the room.

It doesn’t take long.

Grant Harrow is the first to glance my way. Brief, controlled. A flick of his storm-gray eyes over me like a scan, not a greeting.

I’ve watched enough high-powered men to know when I’m being cataloged. He’s not checking me out—he’s assessing risk. And that makes me like him just a little bit more.

He’s not a Ledger client. I checked. No history in our database, no contract preferences, no kinks filed under an alias. Which means I get to dive in the old-fashioned way—research, surveillance, inference.

It’s practically a PI job, and I have to admit... I’m excited.

The man is layered like cold steel. Five eleven, broad-chested with a cut that says discipline, not vanity. Dirty-blond hair, neatly styled—though I’ve seen the strands at his temple twitch toward disorder every time Dante opens his mouth.

His suits whisper money. Tailored with intention. Not a single accessory out of place.

His voice is the most telling. Cool and low. Measured. Enunciated with a precision that says he doesn’t need to shout to command a room. It’s the kind of voice men listen to and women try to impress.

And still... he’s a mystery. A locked vault.

For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve watched him stand just stiff enough to suggest he’s never fully at ease. Not with Dante. Maybe not even with himself.

He’s playing his cards so close to his chest, I’m not convinced he knows what they are.

Dante, on the other hand?

Oh, Dante’s going to be difficult just because he can be. He’ll emote, posture, grandstand, distract—and every bit of it will be performative. The trick with him isn’t drawing him out.

It’s figuring out what’s real.

Grant’s reality is buried beneath a lifetime of control. Dante’s is buried under layers of charm and chaos.

Well, enough of this. It’s time to leash the dogs.

I rise from my chair and glide between them, heels silent on the polished floor as I insert myself into the no-man’s-land like I’ve owned it all along. They part just enough to let me in. Like instinct. Like gravity.

“If I get stabbed walking between you two, I’m charging hazard pay,” I murmur, voice light and laced with something wry. “But since I like my heels blood-free, how about we stop posturing and get to work?”

Dante’s grin blooms instantly, all teeth and heat.

“I don’t know,” he drawls, eyes dragging down my frame like a slow caress. “Depends where you want the blood, sweetheart. I can think of a few places that?—”

“Jesus Christ,” Grant snaps, throwing his hands up as he stalks to the windows. “This isn’t a fucking game, Dante. This is our legacy. Our company. Not a goddamn locker room.”

“I was just having a little fun,” Dante replies, smirking—but it tightens around the edges, like he’s getting tired of being the one always blamed for making things worse.

I sigh, loud enough to interrupt whatever verbal grenade Grant’s about to lob next.

“Right now,” I say coolly, “neither of you are fuckable. You’re liabilities.”

That gets their attention. Dante blinks. Grant turns slightly from the window, his jaw tight.

“If you keep measuring your dicks in boardrooms, neither of you will have one left. Let me fix that.”

Grant’s gaze flicks to Dante. Not with rage. Not with that same sharp bitterness he’s been throwing around like knives. It’s something quieter. Deeper. Not desire. Not quite.

Just . . . memory.

I let that settle before I step back, businesslike now. “Here’s how this works. Two weeks. Full access. No lies. I’m not your therapist—I’m your mirror. You don’t like what you see? Fix it.”

Dante lifts a brow, arms folding lazily across his chest. “Does this mirror include sex?”

I tilt my head, lips curving. “Only if you earn it.”

He smirks. “Darling, I always do.”

I glance at Grant. “He’s going to be exhausting, isn’t he?”

Grant doesn’t answer right away—too busy letting his eyes drag over my legs. He catches himself a second too late and clears his throat. “He already is.”

Dante leans in just enough to drop his voice. “I’d be happy to show you how exhausted I can help you get.”

Grant can’t hold back anymore and snaps. “Fucking Christ, Dante. This is completely?—”

“Oh my God,” Dante groans, rolling his eyes and cutting him off. “Would you stop? Just for once, stop fucking fighting everything. At least I’m doing something, Grant. At least I’m showing up. To fix this. Can you fucking admit that? It’s a start. Which is more than we’ve had in years.”

That lands.

Grant doesn’t respond or look at him.

Just goes back to the skyline—brooding and quiet.

I let the silence settle. Let the weight of Dante’s words and Grant’s reaction fill the room like smoke—thick, choking, unresolved.

Then I cut through it.

“I don’t need you two to hold hands and sing campfire songs,” I say, voice calm but firm. “But if you didn’t want this to work, you wouldn’t be here.”

Grant doesn’t look at me, but he’s listening now. I can see it in the way his jaw ticks, in the way his hand curls against the edge of the window frame like it’s the only thing holding him up.

“You don’t owe me anything, Grant,” I continue, stepping closer. “But you owe it to yourself to try. One hour. If it’s a waste of your time, I’ll walk.”

Still nothing. No answer.

So I lean in, just slightly, and drop my voice.

“But something tells me this matters more than you’re letting on.”

Grant finally turns—just enough to meet my gaze.

“Fine,” he says. Low. Gritted. But it’s a yes.

I smile, already pivoting to Dante. “Great. That means you can go.”

Dante laughs, not offended in the slightest. “Kicking me out already? That’s cold, baby.”

“You’ll survive,” I shoot back. “I want to talk to Grant without a backseat driver, thank you.”

Dante moves to the door, pausing just long enough to toss Grant a look over his shoulder. “Try not to be too charming without me, Lucciolina ? * .”

Then to me: “Don’t get too comfortable, sweetheart. You’re not the only one who knows how to play games.”

He leaves with a grin that says checkmate .

And somehow . . . I think he means it.

Hm. We’ll see about that— sweetheart .

* ? Little glowbug / firefly