My Rival is My CEO

Chapter 18: Mother-In-Law

*ELENA'S POV*

Damian's mother.

I knew her from magazines. Victoria Knight. Ice queen, perfect bob, married to Charles for 30 years and survived it. She wrote a book called _How To Raise A CEO._

And now she was standing in our penthouse doorway holding wine, looking at me in red silk on top of her son in black silk pants, duvet half off, one bed very clearly slept-in.

"Oh," she said, not surprised at all. "You two already started Clause 13. Good. Charles will be happy."

She walked in like she owned the place — which she technically did, because her husband owned three floors — and put the wine on the island next to the crib catalog.

"I brought Pinot," she said, smiling at me. "You must be Elena. I'm Victoria. Damian's mother. And your mother-in-law, I suppose, even if this is fake."

Fake. She said it so casually.

Damian got out of bed fast, pulling his black silk shirt closed, which did nothing because it had three buttons.

"Mother, what are you doing here? How did you get a key?"

"Charles gave me one. For emergencies. This is an emergency — my son has never shared a bed with a woman without making her sign an NDA first. I had to see it."

She turned to me, still in bed, duvet now pulled up to my neck.

"Elena, sweetheart, red is your color. Charles picked it, yes? He has good taste. Though for 6 AM photos, I would have picked white. More innocent. More... baby-making."

Baby-making again. Everyone was saying it tonight like it was brunch plans.

Victoria sat on the edge of our bed. Our one bed. Like she was about to tuck us in.

"Charles told me about Clause 13," she said, low, conspiratorial. "He thinks it's romantic. I think it's insane. You can't force a baby in a year. But you can force good press. Which is why I'm here."

She pulled out her own cream paper. Not a contract. A list.

*MOTHER-IN-LAW APPROVED RULES FOR SURVIVING A FAKE MARRIAGE*

1. Never let them see you fight.

2. Always kiss when they ask.

3. If you must share one bed, share it well.

"Rule 3," she said, looking pointedly at the six inches of space that was now zero inches because I was still on his chest. "You're learning fast."

Damian grabbed the list. "Mother -"

"And," Victoria continued, ignoring him, pulling out one more thing from her purse, "Because the photographer is coming early now, and Charles wants 'baby-making lighting,' I brought you this."

It was a small velvet box.

Not jewelry velvet box. Different.

She opened it.

Inside was a single key. Old, brass, tiny.

"What's that?" I asked, sitting up, duvet dropping again.

"The key to the old Knight family house upstate," Victoria said. "Charles and I spent our first year there after we married. No press, no staff, no cameras. Just one bed. One kitchen. If you two can survive a weekend there alone, you can survive anything. Charles said if you pass tomorrow's 6 AM photo check, he will send you there for Clause 13 practice."

Clause 13 practice. Weekend alone. Old house. One bed again.

Damian went pale. "That house has no heat."

"It has a fireplace," Victoria said, smiling. "Very romantic. Very... convincing."

She stood, closed the velvet box, placed the tiny brass key on our pillow — right in the middle where our failed pillow wall used to be.

"Goodnight, Mr. & Mrs. Knight," she said, walking to the door. "Try not to kill each other before dawn. And Elena — keep the red silk on. My son likes red."

She left. Door locked behind her this time, from outside.

We stared at the tiny brass key on our pillow.

*DAMIAN'S POV*

The key was still warm from my mother's hand.

Upstate house. I hadn't been there in ten years. Last time was before my parents stopped speaking without lawyers. One bedroom, fireplace, no staff. My father hated it, which is why my mother loved it.

Elena picked up the key. Small in her palm, brass against red silk.

"Clause 13 practice?" she whispered. "Weekend alone? Damian, we can't even survive one night with a photographer."

"We survived Sophia," I said.

"Barely."

She looked at the key, then at me, then at the bed. Then she did something I didn't expect.

She put the key under her pillow. My side was left, her side was right, but she put it in the middle. Where we both could reach it.

"If we pass tomorrow's photo," she said, trying to sound savage but voice soft, "If we look convincing at dawn... we go there? Just us? No Charles, no Robert, no Sophia, no photographer?"

"Just us," I said. "One bed. Again."

"And Clause 13?" she asked, eyes down at the key under the pillow.

"We burn it there," I said. "In the fireplace. Together."

She nodded, slowly, and lay back down. This time she didn't leave space. She lay right in the middle, on top of the key under the pillow, red silk against white sheets.

"For warmth again?" she asked.

"For warmth," I said, lying down next to her, arm around her, brass key pressinlg into both our backs under the pillow.

We turned off the lamp. Manhattan glowed outside, no curtains.

And just as we closed our eyes, both our phones buzzed one last time.

Not a text. An email.

From: Wall Street Journal Photo Desk

Subject: *URGENT — PHOTOGRAPHER + REPORTER COMING TOGETHER AT DAWN — LIVE INTERVIEW ABOUT BABY CLAUSE — PLEASE BE IN BED*

Reporter now too. Live interview. About baby clause.

Elena read it out loud in the dark.

Then she whispered, "Damian, if they ask us tomorrow when we're having a baby -"

She didn't finish.

Because under the pillow, the tiny brass key was suddenly hot. Like burning hot.

I pulled it out. It was glowing faintly in the dark.