Woke Up Engaged To My Rival

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.