My Rival is My CEO

Chapter 17: Practical Exam

*ELENA'S POV*

"What do we do now?"

I was asking the question to his chest. Because if I looked up, he would see I was about to cry, and Elena Evans doesn't cry in red silk.

Damian didn't answer right away. He pulled the duvet tighter around my shoulders, then walked past me to the kitchen island and picked up the crib catalog like it was evidence at a trial.

He flipped one page. White cribs. Expensive. Then closed it hard.

"We burn Clause 13," he said.

"You can't burn a legal amendment, Knight."

"I can burn the catalog. Same energy."

He threw it in the trash. It missed. Landed on the floor. Neither of us picked it up.

My phone buzzed again on the bed. Not our fathers this time.

Zara: _GIRL. Sophia just left your building crying. What did you do? Did you kill her in red silk???_ll

I ignored it. Damian's phone was buzzing too — Maya, Cole, everyone who saw Sophia in the lobby with an overnight bag.

He turned his phone face-down.

"Elena," he said, quiet, "Look at me."

I looked. Black silk pants, shirt hanging open, hair messy from me grabbing it during... from earlier. He looked exhausted.

"The photographer is coming at dawn now," he said. "Our fathers want convincing. That means we actually have to sleep in the same bed tonight. No pillow wall. No bench. One bed, like the contract says."

"I know."

"And that crib thing — Clause 13 — we will fight it tomorrow. With lawyers. Not tonight."

"Okay."

"So tonight, we just... survive until morning."

I nodded. The bed was still unmade behind us, pillows on the floor where our wall had been. One pillow was still on the chair. One duvet. Two people who had kissed once for a lighting check and hadn't talked about it since.

Damian walked to the bed and pulled the duvet back. White sheets underneath, still warm from where we were lying before Sophia arrived.

"Come here," he said, not savage, not CEO. Just tired.

I walked over, duvet cape still on, and got in. Left side. He got in. Right side.

No wall this time. Just space. Six inches of space that felt like six miles.

We lay on our backs, staring at the ceiling, no curtains, all of Manhattan watching us not touch.

Then Damian whispered, "Evans, are you cold again?"

"No."

"Liar. Your teeth are chattering."

"I'm not chattering."

"You are. Come here for warmth. For Clause 12.1."

Clause 12.1 again. Our excuse for everything now.

I rolled over an inch. He rolled over an inch. Now it was three inchesll. I could feel heat coming off his black silk.

"For Clause 12.1 only?" I asked.

"For Clause 12.1 only," he said.

I moved. He moved. Then there was no space.

My head ended up on his chest. His arm ended up around me, over the duvet, not under. My red silk leg brushed his black silk leg. My hand — without permission — ended up on his bare chest where the shirt was open.

He didn't ask me to move it.

We stayed like that, breathing, pretending this was just for warmth, pretending the crib catalog wasn't on the floor, pretending Sophia didn't just tell us we had to have a baby in a year.

Then I felt him tense.

"Damian?" I whispered.

He was looking at the ceiling, but not at the ceiling — at the reflection in the glass windows.

In the glass, you could see the entire living room behind us. And in the living room, you could see the front door.

The front door was opening.

Slowly. Quietly. From outside. Someone with a key.

We locked it twice.

I sat up fast, duvet falling, red silk visible.

Damian sat up fast, grabbing me behind him.

The elevator had not dinged. No intercom. So whoever had a key... already lived in the building? Or was given a key by Charles?

The door opened an inch. Then another inch.

A woman's voice, soft, laughing: "Surprise, honey. Your mother told me you moved in tonight so I -"

The door opened fully.

And there, in the doorway, holding a bottle of wine and a spare key, was Damian's mother.