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.