My Rival is My CEO

Chapter 8: His Jacket, My Problem

*ELENA'S POV*

His jacket smelled like him. Cold, expensive, boardroom coffee and that stupid cologne he has worn since Crestwood senior year.

Downstairs the gala was still loud. Up here on the balcony it was 11:48 PM and I was wearing Damian Knight's tux jacket over a backless black velvet dress, and someone had just taken a photo of us.

My phone wouldn't stop.

*Zara:* _ELENA DELETE — PHOTO ON TWITTER, 2K LIKES ALREADY._

*Maya:* _Richard is calling me. He saw it._

Damian's hand was still on my waist where he put the jacket around me. He hadn't moved it.

"Your father is going to kill me," I said, shivering even with the jacket.

"My father will kill me first," he said, calm. "Yours second. Order matters."

We both looked at the photo Zara forwarded. Balcony. Night. His tux jacket swallowing me, his hand low on my waist, my red lips an inch from his jaw. It didn't look like rivals. It didn't look like shareholders.

It looked like we were together.

"Take your hand off my waist before my father comes up here and shoots you in this jacket," I whispered.

"If I take it off you shiver," he said. "My mother just texted: _Keep your hand there. You look human for once._"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. 72 hours as CEO, $200M saved, a route changed, a board vote killed, and now I was laughing on a balcony in my enemy's jacket at midnight.

Cole appeared at the door, pale. "Ms. Evans, Mr. Knight — Mr. Richard Evans is downstairs. Looking for you. Both."

Damian finally dropped his hand. "Go. I will deal with Charles tomorrow 8 AM."

"We will deal with both of them tomorrow 8 AM," I corrected. "Your dad said bring your shareholder and a lawyer."

"Are you my shareholder or my lawyer tonight, Evans?" he asked, that small real smile again. The one no one else at Crestwood ever saw.

"I'm the i***t who just ruined her father's plan to buy your company for half price," I said, trying to give his jacket back. Cold hit me instantly.

He put it back, firmer. "Keep it. You need it more than I need to avoid getting shot by Richard."

"Damian — if Charles calls another vote tomorrow—"

"He won't. Not after you voted no. You gave me 24 hours."

"24 hours for what?"

He looked at me — tux, no tie, balcony light on his face.

"To make sure you don't regret that vote."

I walked back into the gala in his tux jacket. Every head turned. Flash. Another photo. Zara grabbed me, hissing: "You just made Vanity Fair and your father's hit list in one outfit."

Maya: "Richard is by the bar. He is not smiling."

I saw him. My father, whiskey in hand, looking at me in Knight's jacket. And next to him, Charles Knight, smiling like they were old friends.

Together. Drinking together. At my gala. After my vote.

My father never drinks with Charles. Never.

Damian came up behind me, saw the same thing, and went rigid.

"Elena," he said low, only for me, hand finding my elbow. "My father and your father haven't spoken in three years. Not since the Evans-Knight contract fell apart. Why are they—"

My phone buzzed. My father. Not a text. A photo.

It was a document. Old. Signed. 2019. Evans Global + Knight Corp.

*Joint Venture Agreement — Confidential.*

And at the bottom, handwritten: _If this fails, we marry our kids. Richard + Charles._

Zara saw it over my shoulder and choked. "Elena — is that—"

Across the room, Richard Evans raised his glass to me. To us. To me in his rival's son's jacket.