Woke Up Engaged To My Rival

She had no idea that the war she was preparing for was nothing compared to the devastation waiting for her at dinner.

Eve Franks woke up gasping, her lungs seizing as if she had just surfaced from deep, freezing water.

She sat up in the dark, clutching the silk sheets of her king-sized bed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Cold sweat slicked her forehead, matting her hairline. The sensation of the dream was still there, physically imprinted on her skin-a phantom pressure on her lips, a heavy hand on her waist, the smell of expensive scotch and cold ambition.

She pressed her palm to her chest, trying to regulate her breathing. In, out. In, out.

It was just a nightmare.

But the taste in her mouth wasn't fear. It was something heavier, darker. In the dream, the man kissing her hadn't been Andre. The man pinning her against the wall with that terrifying, consuming intensity had been Charls Wiley.

Eve gagged. A wave of physiological nausea rolled through her stomach. She scrambled out of bed, grabbing a pillow and hurling it with all her strength against the opposite wall. It hit the plaster with a dull thud and slid to the floor, lifeless.

"Disgusting," she hissed into the silence of the townhouse.

She stumbled into the master bathroom, her legs shaking. She twisted the faucet of the shower to a scalding setting and stepped in, not waiting for the water to stabilize. The steaming spray hit her skin, shocking her system, washing away the phantom sensation of Charls's hands. She scrubbed her skin until it turned pink, trying to erase the memory of his eyes-those cold, calculating grey eyes that, in her dream, had looked at her with a hunger that made her knees weak.

It was stress. Just stress. The merger talks, the board pressure, the constant, exhausting rivalry with Wiley Capital. That was all.

She stepped out, wrapping herself in a plush towel. Her reflection in the fogged mirror looked pale, eyes wide and haunted. She wiped the glass with her hand, forcing herself to look at the woman she had built. Strong. Unshakeable. Not someone who had wet dreams about her business nemesis.

Her phone buzzed on the marble vanity.

Eve flinched, then looked at the screen. The caller ID read: My Star.

The tension in her shoulders instantly evaporated. A soft, involuntary smile broke through her hard expression, changing her entire face. The nausea was replaced by a warm, fluttering sensation in her belly.

Andre.

Today was the day. Seven years. Seven years of watching him from the sidelines, of supporting his art discreetly, of waiting for him to finally be ready to acknowledge their relationship publicly.

She walked into her walk-in closet, bypassing the row of sharp, black Armani suits she usually wore like armor. Her fingers trailed over the fabrics until they stopped at a garment bag in the back. She unzipped it, revealing a champagne-colored silk dress. It was soft, feminine, vulnerable.

It was a risk.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Ms. Franks? Your coffee."

"Come in," Eve called out, her voice regaining its usual steel.

Her housekeeper set a cup of black coffee on the island in the center of the closet. "And you have the video conference with the Tokyo team in forty minutes."

Eve took a sip. The bitterness was grounding. It sharpened her edges. "I know. Thank you."

Her phone buzzed again, this time a video call request from Silas. She tapped the green button, propping the phone against a jewelry box.

"You look... different," Silas said, his face filling the screen. The background behind him was a blur of a noisy cafe. "Softer. Did you finally fire that incompetent VP?"

"Shut up, Silas," Eve said, but there was no bite in her tone. She checked her reflection, smoothing the silk of the dress against her hip. "I have plans tonight."

Silas raised an eyebrow. "Big plans? The 'change your life' kind of plans?"

"Maybe." Eve felt a flush rise to her cheeks. She turned away from the camera, opening a drawer to check on the velvet box tucked inside. The platinum cufflinks she had custom-ordered for Andre. "I'm approving your budget request for the renovation, by the way. Don't make me regret it."

"Who are you and what have you done with my sister?" Silas laughed. "Good luck tonight, Eve. Go get him."

Eve ended the call. She took a deep breath, picking up the velvet box and slipping it into her purse.

Downstairs, the heavy door of the townhouse opened, and the city noise rushed in. Her driver, Thomas, held the door of the Maybach open. Eve slid into the leather seat, the scent of the car's interior mixing with her perfume.

"The office, Ms. Franks?"

"Yes."

The car merged into the aggressive morning traffic of Manhattan. Eve watched the skyline pass by, the steel and glass monuments to capitalism blocking out the sun. As they passed the imposing, obsidian-glass structure of the Wiley Tower, Eve's jaw tightened. She glared at the building as if it were a person.

Charls Wiley. The man was a machine. A soulless, arrogant, shark of a human being. The memory of the dream flashed again-his aggression, his heat.

She shook her head violently. No.

She pulled out her phone and opened her messages with Andre.

My Star: See you tonight. I have something important to tell you.

She typed back, her thumbs flying over the glass screen.

Eve: I can't wait. I have something to tell you, too.

She hit send. Staring at the Delivered status, her palms began to sweat. This was it. Tonight, she would step out of the shadows. Tonight, she would be happy.

When she arrived at Franks Enterprises, her secretary, Lena, was waiting with a tablet.

"Wiley Capital just undercut our bid on the Hudson Yards project," Lena said, her voice tight. "By two percent. It was surgical."

Eve's face hardened. The soft woman in the champagne dress vanished, replaced by the CEO.

"Get the legal team," Eve said, her voice dropping an octave. "And get me the file on Wiley's zoning permits. If he wants a war, I'll burn his whole empire down."

She signed the counter-attack orders with a flourish, cursing Charls Wiley under her breath. But beneath the anger, beneath the business strategy, her heart was still racing for a completely different reason.

The interior of Le Coucou was a masterpiece of warm lighting and hushed exclusivity. Eve sat at a corner table, shielded by a high partition of lush greenery. It was the most private spot in the restaurant, chosen specifically for this moment.

She checked her Cartier watch. Andre was twelve minutes late.

She took a sip of water, the ice clinking softly against the crystal. It was fine. He was an artist. Time was a fluid concept to him, something to be bent rather than obeyed. She touched the velvet box in her purse again, grounding herself.

Her phone lit up on the white tablecloth. A notification from a celebrity gossip app she usually ignored.

BREAKING: The Reclusive Artist Returns. Famed Artist Andre Wilcox spotted at JFK with an old flame.

Eve's breath hitched. Her finger hovered over the screen, trembling slightly.

She tapped the notification.

The photo was grainy, taken with a long lens, but undeniable. It was Andre. He was walking through the arrivals terminal, looking tan and rugged. But he wasn't alone. Tucked under his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, was a woman with distinctive red hair.

Cinda Nixon. His ex-girlfriend.

Eve felt the blood drain from her face. Her stomach dropped, a physical sensation of falling. Why was Cinda with him? Why hadn't he mentioned she was coming back?

"Right this way, Monsieur."

The maitre d's voice drifted from the other side of the greenery partition. Eve froze.

"This is perfect, thank you," a voice said.

Andre's voice.

Eve's heart slammed against her ribs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She sat paralyzed, listening as two people slid into the booth directly behind her, separated only by the decorative plants.

"I missed this city," a female voice purred. Cinda. "But I missed you more."

There was the sound of fabric rustling, hands touching.

"I told you I'd come back for you," Andre said. His tone was low, intimate-a tone Eve had heard in her head a thousand times, but never directed at her.

"What about her?" Cinda asked. Her voice carried a mocking lilt. "Is that Franks heiress still obsessed with you? The one who bought all your early paintings?"

Eve gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles turned bone-white. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for him to defend her. Praying for him to say they were friends, partners, anything respectful.

Andre let out a short, dismissive laugh.

"Don't talk about her," he said. "It kills the mood."

"Come on," Cinda pressed. "She's rich. Did you sleep with her?"

"God, no," Andre said. The disgust in his voice was casual, easy. "She's... intense. Suffocating. She's a burden, always has been. Besides, look at her. She's just a checkbook with legs. She was a useful stand-in while I got established, Cinda. A placeholder. Every time I looked at her, I was just wishing she was you."

The words hit Eve like a physical blow to the chest.

A stand-in.

A placeholder.

A high-pitched ringing started in Eve's ears, drowning out the ambient noise of the restaurant. The room tilted. The air felt too thin. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob that was clawing its way up her throat.

Seven years. The sneaking around to avoid the press, the secret funding of his gallery shows, the late-night calls where she listened to his insecurities. It was all a lie. She wasn't the love of his life. She was his ATM.

She looked down at her champagne silk dress. She looked pathetic.

Anger, hot and blinding, flared in her chest, but it was quickly extinguished by a crushing wave of humiliation. She couldn't confront them. If she stood up now, if she screamed, she would be the crazy, desperate heiress. She would be the joke.

She wouldn't give them that satisfaction.

Eve stood up. Her legs felt like they were made of lead. She moved silently, like a ghost, leaving the unopened menu and the glass of water on the table. She slipped out the side exit, bypassing the maitre d'.

The cold night air of Soho hit her face, stinging the tears that had finally spilled over.

She pulled out her phone. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped it. She found Andre's contact. My Star.

She deleted the nickname. Then she blocked the number.

She opened Instagram. Blocked. Twitter. Blocked.

With every tap, a piece of her heart fractured. It was a digital amputation.

Thomas pulled the car up to the curb, seeing her distress immediately. He hurried out. "Ms. Franks? Is everything alright? The dinner hasn't even started."

"Get in the car," Eve choked out. Her voice was unrecognizable-raw, broken.

"Where to? Home?"

"No," Eve practically screamed, the control finally snapping. "Not home. Everything there reminds me of him. Take me to The Apex Club."

Thomas hesitated, his hand on the door. "Ma'am, you have the board meeting tomorrow morning at eight..."

"Drive!" Eve slammed the door shut, sinking into the darkness of the backseat. "I want the strongest drink they have. Drive the car!"

The Maybach peeled away from the curb, leaving behind the restaurant, the cufflinks in her purse, and the shattered remains of Eve Franks's dignity.

The bass at The Apex Club was a physical force, vibrating through the floorboards and rattling Eve's teeth. The air was thick with smoke, expensive cologne, and bad decisions.

Eve sat at the VIP bar, three empty martini glasses lined up in front of her like soldiers who had died in battle. She stared at the amber liquid in her fourth glass. Her vision was starting to tunnel, the edges of the world blurring into a soft, fuzzy gray.

"Ma'am, maybe you should slow down," the bartender said, eyeing her black card nervously.

"Shut up," Eve slurred. She slapped the card on the counter. "Pour."

The alcohol was burning through her system, stripping away her inhibitions, melting the icy composure she had worn for twenty-six years. She wanted to numb the voice in her head that kept repeating Andre's words. Placeholder. Stand-in. Burden.

To her right, the heavy velvet ropes of the ultra-VIP section parted. A group of men in bespoke suits walked out, radiating power and arrogance.

Leading them was Charls Wiley.

He looked irritated. He had just spent three hours negotiating a hostile takeover of a tech startup, and the celebratory drinks were giving him a headache. He adjusted his cufflinks, his expression one of bored disdain as he scanned the chaotic club. He wanted to go home, drink a glass of water, and sleep in his soundproof penthouse.

His gaze swept over the bar and stopped.

He frowned. That woman... slumped over the counter in a dress that looked like liquid gold... was that Eve Franks?

It couldn't be. Eve Franks didn't get drunk in public. Eve Franks didn't have a hair out of place. This woman looked like a beautiful shipwreck.

He took a step closer, curiosity overriding his instinct to leave.

Eve felt eyes on her. She turned her head slowly, the movement making the room spin. Through the haze of vodka and tears, the figure standing there was tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired.

Her brain, desperate for comfort, misfired. The sharp lines of Charls's face softened in her vision. The cold grey eyes looked warmer, deeper.

He came, her mind whispered. He came to apologize.

"You..." Eve whispered. She slid off the high stool. Her heels wobbled, and her ankle twisted.

Charls saw her stumble. His body reacted before his brain did. He stepped forward, reaching out to steady her just as she pitched forward.

Eve collided with his chest. It was hard, solid, warm.

She grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, her fingers digging into the expensive wool. She buried her face in his shirt, inhaling deeply. He smelled of sandalwood and cold winter air. It wasn't Andre's scent, but her drunk brain didn't care. It was the scent of a man who was here.

"Eve?" Charls's voice was stiff. He tried to peel her off. "What the hell are you doing? Let go."

Eve looked up. Tears were streaming down her face, ruining her makeup. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with a devastating amount of adoration.

She reached up, her palm cupping his jaw. Her thumb brushed over his lip.

The crowd around them went silent. Phones were raised. The flash of a camera went off.

"Why did you say those things?" Eve sobbed, her voice cracking. "Why did you want to leave me? I love you so much."

The silence in the club was deafening. Even the DJ seemed to have lowered the volume.

Charls froze. His eyes widened in genuine shock. He looked around, seeing the faces of half of New York's social elite staring at them. He saw the phones recording.

I love you so much.

She was talking to him. Eve Franks, his sworn enemy, the woman who had sued him three times last year, was confessing her undying love in the middle of a nightclub.

"Eve," Charls hissed, grabbing her wrists. "You are drunk. Look at me. I am Charls Wiley."

"I know who you are," Eve cried, clinging tighter. "You're mine. You're my star."

Charls's face went dark. He felt a vein in his temple throb.

This was a disaster. This was a PR nuclear bomb. If he pushed her away now, the headlines would read Wiley Assaults Drunk Franks Heiress. If he left her here, she'd be eaten alive by the press, and her mother, Huldah, would blame him for not intervening.

He looked down at her. She was a mess. She was vulnerable. And for some godforsaken reason, she was looking at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.

"Damn it," Charls muttered.