My Rival is My CEO

Chapter 13: The Kitchen And The Balcony

*ELENA'S POV*

My father doesn't do kitchens. He does boardrooms.

So when he said "alone in the kitchen" in a penthouse that cost $18M, everyone knew it wasn't about cooking.

He pulled me to the marble island. 20 people were suddenly very interested in the champagne. Damian was being pulled to the balcony by Charles. Our hands were forced to separate.

"Elena," my father said, low, so only I could hear over Zara's fake loud laugh. "Clause 9.4 was not the end."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

He slid a single folded paper across the island. Cream paper. 2019 letterhead. My internship contract. The one I signed at 16 because he said it was "just for filing."

I unfolded it. At the bottom, handwritten in my own 16-year-old bubbly handwriting: _I agree to all future amendments made by my father on behalf of Evans Global._

"What did you amend?" I whispered.

"Clause 12.1," he said, not even blinking. "Added last night after you voted no. If you and Damian Knight do not produce 'convincing evidence of a real marriage' for Wall Street Journal tomorrow at 8 AM, the merger is void. And Evans Global pulls its $40M investment from Knight Corp immediately. Knight Corp goes bankrupt in 14 days. Damian loses everything."

14 days. The same number of days as our first deadline.

"Convincing evidence?" My voice shook. "What does that even mean?"

My father looked out at the balcony, where Charles had Damian by the shoulder, talking close.

"It means Charles and I agreed what convincing looks like. Charles is telling Damian right now."

I turned. Through the glass, I could see Charles gesturing, Damian's face going white, then red, hands in fists.

*DAMIAN'S POV*

"She doesn't know," my father said on the balcony, wind at 62 floors. "Robert added it without telling her. Good. She's more honest when she's scared."

"What did you two do now?" I asked. I could see Elena in the kitchen, my Elena, barefoot, my father's old intern contract in her hands, looking like she was going to cry but wouldn't.

"Clause 12.1," Charles said, sipping my own whiskey from my own bar. "Tomorrow 8 AM, WSJ photographer. If he doesn't believe your marriage is real, merger off. $40M pulled. Knight Corp bankrupt. You lose CEO, you lose company, you lose her father’s permission to even stand near her."

"And what does 'real' mean to a photographer?" I asked, though I already knew.

My father smiled. That father smile that never reached his eyes. "Real means you don't share a desk anymore. Real means you share a bed. And real means when I tell the photographer to say 'kiss the bride,' you kiss her. Not cheek. Not forehead. Real."

I looked through the glass. Elena was staring at me now, contract in hand, eyes big. She mouthed: _What did he say?_

I mouthed back: _We have to talk._

"She will say no," I told my father. "She has rules. No touching without asking."

"Then ask," Charles said. "You have 12 hours until 8 AM. 20 witnesses inside who will report back to WSJ tonight whether you two acted like newlyweds or roommates who hate each other. Your call, son. Kiss her for the camera tomorrow, or watch her father's company kill yours in 14 days."

He walked back inside, leaving me on the balcony with Manhattan at my feet and one impossible decision.

Inside, Robert Evans was saying loudly, "Well! Dinner! Let's eat! Elena, Damian, come sit. Together."

One long table had been set up in the living room. One table. 20 chairs. And at the head — one chair with two place settings, side by side, wine glasses touching.

"Head of the table," Zara whispered to Elena as she passed, "You and Damian. Because you're Mr. & Mrs. Knight now. Congrats, wifey."

Elena walked to the table, barefoot still, contract folded in her fist. She sat. Left side.

I walked in from the balcony. Sat. Right side. Same chair, technically — it was a loveseat bench, not two chairs. Our thighs touched. Fully. No desk between us this time.

Maya started serving pasta she brought. Cole poured wine. Everyone watched.

Robert raised his glass. "To convincing evidence."

Charles raised his. "To 8 AM tomorrow."

Elena's hand found mine under the table. Not romantic. Panicked. Her nails again. She slipped the folded contract into my palm. I opened it under the table, on my thigh, under the napkin.

Her handwriting at 16. _I agree to all future amendments._

And below it, in my father's handwriting, fresh ink:

_Amendment 12.1 — To prove marriage is real, couple must share bed (verified by photographer at 8 AM) and provide photographic proof of affection (kiss) for publication. Failure = merger void._

Share bed. Verified by photographer at 8 AM. Kiss.

I looked at Elena under the table. She had read it already. Her face was red, but not from wine.

She leaned in, lips almost touching my ear, pretending to whisper something sweet for the 20 witnesses, and said in a voice so low only I could hear:

"Damian, if that photographer comes into our bedroom at 8 AM tomorrow and sees us on opposite sides of the bed not touching, we lose everything. And if he tells us to kiss and we don't -"

She didn't finish. Because Charles, loud, said:

"Damian! Elena! The photographer wants a test shot tonight! For lighting! Right now! At the table! He says newlyweds always kiss when they do a toast!"

The photographer — who was supposed to come at 8 AM — lifted his camera. Smiled.

"Just a small one, Mr. and Mrs. Knight! For the lighting check! Come on, show me real!"

20 people went silent. 20 phones up again. My father's smile. Her father's stare.

Elena froze, hand still under the table in mine, thigh still pressed against mine on the bench, eyes locked on me.

Photographer: "Three... two..."

And under the table, Elena whispered the last thing I expected:

"Rule 4, Knight. You can break Rule 2 tonight. But only if you ask."