She touches the reporter’s forearm like she’s letting him in on a secret.
“And Grant’s the same. First one in, last one out. Carries the firm on his back, just like his father always did. That kind of dedication is rare these days.”
A perfectly timed pause. Then, with a laugh so light it stings:
“Of course, not everyone has the stomach for that kind of grind. Some people think a quick smile and a night at a club can replace actual leadership.”
The jab is razor-edged and aimed with precision.
“And Vegas?” she goes on, with a dismissive wave. “I’m sure you heard about that.”
She cuts her eyes to me.
“Grant handled that like it was nothing more than a little boardroom miscommunication. All cleared up now, thank God.”
My stomach knots.
Dante’s knuckles whiten around the grip of his club.
Grant speaks up—finally—but not where it counts.
“My father is a wonderful man, and I’m proud of the foundation he built,” he says, tone smooth, polished. “I wouldn’t be where I am without him. He laid the groundwork for everything I’m trying to preserve.”
It’s a beautiful deflection.
And a brutal omission.
No mention of Dante’s father. No recognition of the equal partnership that shaped the firm. Just Grant, standing tall in his father’s shadow, using it like a shield.
Dante doesn’t say a word.
He just turns, stalks to the cart, and slams his club into the bag hard enough that heads turn.
I move to follow, but Grant steps in. “Dante,” he says under his breath, “keep it together.”
Jesus, Grant.Wrong move.
Dante spins, fury simmering just below the surface.
“I could—if you ever acted like a partner. If you defended me for once instead of always kissing your princess’s ass and pretending that bleach job of hers makes her qualified to open her mouth.”
We’re far enough away the others can’t hear—but that won’t last long at this rate.
“Okay,” I snap, stepping between them. “We’re done for the day.”
“Gladly,” Dante mutters, already storming down the path toward the clubhouse, tension trailing behind him like smoke from a fuse that never fully extinguished.
I hesitate, torn—until Corrine beats me to it.
“Grant? I’ve got the charity organizer waiting at the next hole for a photo op,” she purrs, turning her calculated stare at me, knowing she’s won. “Old family friend. I’m sure you understand.”
Grant shoots me a look—apologetic, guilty.
“I’ll be right there.”
I step in close enough for only him to hear.
“I’m going after Dante. But don’t think for a second that you’ve dodged the fallout.”
