Page 34 of Ruled By Rivalry

The dreaded knock came, and I acted without thinking first.

My hands shot to his shirt. I fussed with its button and ignored what my knuckles brushing his skin did to me. My fingers were shaking just slightly.

“Mr. Ashwood?” came from outside.

Elliot was unconcerned with whatever was happening beyond those doors. One glance, and he was grinning down at me, watching as if my hands against his chest were normal. Appreciated, even. “Need any help with that?” he murmured when I struggled.

The mockery in his whispered words gave me that necessary push.

The button finally closed, and I immediately took two steps back so my body would stop humming his name, asking to take a step closer instead.

A second later, the door was hesitantly pushed open, and with forty seconds on the timer, Elliot was ushered away.

“Some tumultuous weeks for Elliot Ashwood, huh?”

Steven Stewart was one of Late Night’s greatest. He was known for no-bullshit questions and segmented interviews conducted in hot-air balloons or while skydiving. Twenty years ago, he’d taken Felix Pressley ice bathing in Antarctica, and the entire female population had thanked him for those shirtless shots.

“You insult your family’s legacy, go on an apology tour, and disappear off the face of the earth. Next, we hear you’re a working man—an intern at the exact legacy company you insulted!” Steven gasped, giving the audience and cameras a look of disbelief. “And then Allegra Amato is back . . .”

Elliot exaggerated his sigh. “Quite the few weeks indeed, Steven. For my grandfather, I’d just like to clarify that I didn’t besmudge his legacy again. We’re talking about the last time—five years ago, by the way,” he said. Steven laughed, and so did the audience.

Watching him joke about his relationship with his grandfather—and how he couldn’t blame the poor man for it—from the front row, not only did I still see that earlier version of him in Central Park, asking me what a normal relationship with my grandparents felt like, but the greenroom version, anxiously pacing, then shamelessly . . . flirting? I think?

I shouldn’t read anything into it, and I wasn’t, but flashes of that conversation still jumped at me whenever he laughed or I noticed that he’d undone the button I’d closed just seconds before he’d been ushered away. He fiddled with it, looked at the audience, and I hated that my stomach hollowed out when, for a second, I could’ve sworn he was looking right at me.

Just like any of the girls around me probably swore the same thing.

Somewhere between winks at the camera, bad jokes, and laughter the two shared on stage, Steven sobered. It seemed he was about to usher in the serious part of their conversation, ready to wrap things up. “And now you’re at Adeline Ashwood . . .” He trailed off, let his words linger.

Elliot swallowed thickly, nodded. “I am.”

“What’s that like?” His head tilted in pity before he’d even said anything. “I mean, we all know you were close to your grandmother. Gosh, that photo of you on her shoulders! Just adorable.”

It appeared on the screen behind them, but Elliot didn’t turn around. His blond hair was almost white, and his smile was bigger. More genuine, carefree. His little legs dangled from his grandmother’s shoulders, her hands securing him tightly at the ankles.

Adeline’s gray hair was styled in a bob, with large sunglasses covering her eyes. Her suit was probably an Adeline Ashwood Original, perfectly tailored to her measurements. She wasn’t smiling, but you could tell she was happy.

“Bless her soul,” Elliot said, his voice tinged with sadness. Worry coiled in the pit of my stomach, fluttered with nerves and . . . no. Was I starting to feel bad for him?

I tried to remember all the reasons why that shouldn’t be happening.

Billionaire. Privileged. Arrogant and cocky. Trying to steal the job that I’d worked years to get just because of a PR mishap.

It was hard, though, when right now he just looked like a boy who missed his grandmother, and maybe working at Adeline Ashwood made her feel a little closer.

“You were obviously very close,” Steven repeated, nodding understandingly, gesturing toward the photo. “And now you work in the business named after her.”

“It’s strange,” Elliot started. If he was acting, he might have to consider a career switch. The slow blink, the low, strained voice. The way his eyes anxiously flicked through the crowd until they definitely landed on me. Finally stilled.

This performance was giving Ryan Quinn a run for his money, and Elliot hadn’t said much yet. My heart had dropped into the pit of my stomach as soon as we’d made eye contact.

“She’s always . . . here, you know?” He tapped his chest, right above his heart. “But at the office, she just feels closer. There. Like I might accidentally run into her rounding a corner too fast. The funny thing is, she was never at the atelier. Adeline preferred spending her time at country clubs or with her demonic grandsons.” A sad chuckle from the audience that Elliot matched with a strained smile. “She watched people, she didn’t participate. Just like she loved watching Hunter nurture that company. But she never worked there.”

Steven took a deep breath and let his guest’s words linger. “But now you do. What’s that like? What do you do?”

“Whatever I’m told. Which is weird.” Some of the gloomy mood lightened as Elliot comically raised his brows. “Usually, I do the telling.”

Steven winked at the camera. “Oh, I’m sure.”