No one notices.
No one except Corrine and she narrows her eyes like I stabbed her in the back.
Dante steps away, all smooth swagger and lazy power, but he tosses the final dagger over his shoulder as he crosses the threshold:
“My office. Ten minutes?”
I nod, a small grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. It feels good—earned.
“Need to make a call first,” he adds, and then he’s gone.
The doors shut behind him, and the room begins to clear.
Corrine just stands there—on the outside. Looking in.
And for the first time… I think she understands.
This isn’t just the end of her control. It’s the beginning of something new.
Something she’s not going to be a part of.
Not anymore.
No 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 saysI 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?”
