Page 12 of Ruled By Rivalry

Camila and Oliver were still arguing. I could hear them as I leaned against the wall of the conference room they’d just left.

“Hard to believe they’re married, right?”

My eyes shot open, immediately connecting with the blue of his. It wasn’t his voice or the rasp in his throat or the quirk in his lips that made it impossible to look away, though. It was me, unable to compute what he’d just said. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t do that.” Shrugging, he crossed his arms. “They met here. Camila was his boss at the time, so there better not have been any quid pro quo . . .” He raised his brows suggestively.

Unbelievable. In college, my ability to read a room had been described as something close to precognition, and now I couldn’t even pick up on a marriage between my bosses when I was sitting in the same room as them both. I knew it wasn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but my head fell back with a groan regardless, and I let my hands wash over my face.

“Hey.” He laughed, a note of concern in the sound. “Don’t worry. If you’re into older men, I wouldn’t recommend Oliver regardless. He’s a pain in the ass. Let Camila deal with him.”

“That’s not—” But I groaned again before I could finish my own sentence. “I’m not into him. I’m just—” Confused about why New York seems so much harder to navigate than campus.

The only thing that would make this worse was opening up to Elliot Ashwood, though. That much I could still tell. If I didn’t want to talk to him about work, I definitely shouldn’t talk to him about my feelings.

I changed the subject. “Is he really a pain in the ass, though? Or are you just one in his?”

“Okay, ouch.” He clutched his chest but didn’t seem very wounded by my words. Amused, maybe. Surprised, definitely. At least I wasn’t the only one anymore.

“I’m just saying.” I shrugged. Considered. Decided, Fuck it. “After that video, I’m not sure you’ll find a single person walking these halls who does like you.”

His huff was no longer amused, and his eye roll didn’t feel playful. He stalked over to the table and maneuvered himself on top of it, like he was readying himself for a conversation that might take a while. I wasn’t interested in that, just wanted to let him know that I knew.

“That video.” He hummed, just vague enough that it made me wonder whether we were talking about the same one. “And the articles that followed and the paparazzi who couldn’t wait to get a scandalous shot of me in the weeks following it—”

“Can you blame them?”

He didn’t have to think about it. “Very much so. They ruin lives, Maeve.”

“I mean, you’re an Ashwood shitting on your own company. What did you think was gonna happen?”

Elliot laughed, the sound dry. I’d wondered how long a conversation like this might stay civil, and I think we’d just reached the breaking point. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to push past it yet. “I was a stupid, drunk, seventeen-year-old boy who didn’t know he was being recorded. I didn’t think anything was going to happen. I certainly didn’t think it would get leaked five years down the line, making it such a big deal that leaving the house without being swarmed was impossible. I’m not particularly fond of paparazzi or the crowd of people they usually come with.”

My lips parted. He was faster.

“But I’m sure things, people, and situations in my life are far more complex than yours at Hall Beck University. Or Thornfield High. I don’t expect you to understand.”

And just like that, I’d lost the upper hand. To a cruel smirk and lazy drawl, his head tilted like he was begging me to take the bait. I was damn close to snatching it out of his grasp and vigorously shaking it, just because he was so confident in his superiority.

I don’t expect you to understand.

Well, fuck you, Elliot Ashwood. I barely managed to swallow the insult, but I couldn’t hold my tongue twice in the span of three seconds. I knew it was hypocritical when I said, “You need to stop reading about me.”

“Only if you do the same.” My silence confirmed his guess. “You know, I think it’s my new favorite pastime. How are your grandparents back in Texas, Maeve?”

Something in my gut twisted. Nerves or anxiety—outright fear, maybe. Because if he knew this much about me already—college, school, Mimi and Pops at home—Elliot had another advantage in all of this.

Sure, I’d combed through dozens of articles about him, too. But half of the information inside of them was probably accidentally false or purposely misleading. Nowhere had it said he was seventeen in that video, for example. He’d looked younger, sure, but not underage. It wasn’t an excuse, but it sure as hell made it more understandable. And while I was force-feeding myself fake news, his sources of information about me were personal.

My CV, cover letter, portfolio, probably. Things I’d written and created. Things I’d handed him on a silver platter when I’d applied to Adeline Ashwood.

I didn’t think Elliot cared much about privacy laws.

I swallowed thickly, glad for the distance between us. “I’m sure you have better things to do than google me.”

If I could trust my ability to read people right now, I’d say the words made him uncomfortable, worried, anxious. But I couldn’t even interpret my own feelings, so I didn’t try with his.

“Probably.” The word lingered between us, and I’d expected some follow-up. Nothing, though. He just jumped off the table and took a few steps toward me instead of leaving, the way he should’ve. “You didn’t have to do that, by the way.”