My Rival is My CEO

Chapter 20: LIVE

*ELENA'S POV*

The door handle turned.

I had exactly two seconds to make a decision: grab the duvet and look modest, or own the red silk and look like Mrs. Knight.

I owned it.

Damian's arm was still around me. The key under my pillow was glowing so bright now I was worried it would shine through. The crib catalog was still on the floor by the trash can where he threw it.

The door opened.

It wasn't one photographer. It was a photographer and a woman with a notepad. And behind them, because of course, Zara holding coffee like this was her favorite show.

"Good morning, Knights!" the reporter said, too cheerful for dawn. "Lena Park, WSJ. Hope we didn't wake you. Oh — you two are awake. Perfect. Cozy."

Cozy. We were tangled in red and black silk, duvet at our waists, my head on his chest, his hand on my hip over the duvet, brass key glowing under my pillow.

Damian didn't move his arm. Good. Clause: never let them see you fight.

"Morning, Lena," he said, voice rough from sleep, which made it worse, or better, depending on who you ask. "You're early."

"Early bird gets the baby story," Lena said, eyes landing on the crib catalog on the floor. She smiled. "Oh, I see you've already started shopping?"

My brain screamed. Zara mouthed from the doorway: _SAY PRACTICING!_

Right. Practicing.

I sat up slightly, red silk cami slipping, hair messy on purpose now, and said, sleepy voice, savage gone, soft: "We were... discussing Clause 13."

Lena Park's pen paused. "Clause 13? My editor mentioned an heir clause rumor? That you two have to have a baby within a year to keep the merger?"

Silence. Camera clicking already. Click click click. Me in red silk on Damian Knight's chest at dawn.

Damian looked at me. I looked at him. Brass key burning under my pillow.

Then he said, calm, CEO voice but with sleep in it: "Elena and I have always practiced for everything. Crestwood finals, boardrooms, mergers. Clause 13 is no different."

"So you're practicing?" Lena asked, eyes wide.

I felt my face go red. Not angry red. Different red.

"Yes," I said, before I lost courage. "We're practicing. Upstate. This weekend. Just us."

Zara choked on coffee.

Damian's hand tightened on my hip.

Lena wrote furiously: _KNIGHTS SAY PRACTICING FOR BABY — WEEKEND ALONE UPSTATE_

Then she looked up, sweet, killer smile: "One last question, for the live piece. If Clause 13 is real — and my cousin Sophia says it is — when can we expect the heir?"

Sophia's cousin. Maya was right.

The key under my pillow pulsed so hot I jumped.

Damian felt it. He slid his hand under the pillow, under me, and pulled the key out. It was glowing gold in his palm, in front of WSJ, in front of Zara, in front of camera.

Lena gasped. "Is that -"

"It's the key to our house upstate," Damian said quickly, covering the glow with his fist. "Where we'll be practicing. No more questions. Photo is done."

He put the key back under the pillow, glow hidden, and pulled the duvet up over both of us like we were about to go back to sleep for the camera.

Click. The photographer got the shot — us under white duvet, red silk and black silk, one bed, one key hidden, one crib catalog on the floor.

Perfectly convincing.

Lena closed her notepad. "Thank you, Mr. & Mrs. Knight. My editor will love this. Heir in a year, practicing upstate, key to love nest. Very... fertile."

She left. Photographer left. Door closed.

Zara stayed for two seconds, mouthed _WHAT THE f**k WAS THAT GLOW,_ then left too.

We were alone again, under duvet, dawn light now full in the penthouse, no curtains, photographer gone but live interview going online in an hour.

*DAMIAN'S POV*

She was still on my chest, breathing fast, red silk strap down, key under her pillow still warm.

"Practicing," I whispered, repeating her word from last night and this morning. "You told WSJ we're practicing, Evans."

"You told them too," she said into my chest.

"We're going upstate then? Just us?"

"Just us," she said, small voice. "One bed. Fireplace. And we burn Clause 13."

"And practice?" I asked, before I could stop.

She looked up at me, finally, hair messy, lips swollen from sleep, not from kissing, savage eyes soft.

"If you stay together, it opens," she whispered, quoting the key. "Maybe it opens... if we practice?"

She reached under the pillow and pulled out the key. It wasn't glowing anymore. Cool brass now. But the engraving was still there, clear in dawn light:

_IF YOU STAY TOGETHER, IT OPENS._

"Open what?" she asked.

I didn't know. My mother never said. My father never told me about a glowing key.

Then my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Not buzz — rang. Loud.

Charles calling.

I answered on speaker, because Elena was right here on my chest.

"Son," Charles said, voice crisp, like he already read the WSJ live draft, "Saw the photos. Good. Very convincing. That red silk was expensive but worth it. Now — you saw the key? Your mother gave it?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good. That house — listen carefully — has a safe in the fireplace. Combination is your wedding date. Inside is the original 2019 Agreement. Without amendments. No Clause 12.1, no 12.2, no 13. If you find it and stay the weekend together without killing each other, I will let you tear Clause 13 up."

Original Agreement. Without amendments. No baby clause.

Elena sat up fast, duvet falling.

"And if we don't stay?" she asked, loud enough for Charles to hear.

"Then Clause 13 stands," Charles said. "One year, baby, or Evans takes Knight. Your choice, Mrs. Knight. Weekend upstate. One bed. Fireplace. Practice."

Call ended.

We stared at each other. Red silk, black silk, one bed, crib catalog on floor, WSJ live going out, and now a safe in a fireplace upstate with our freedom inside.

Elena held the glowing key — now cool — tight in her fist and whispered:

"Pack your black silk, Knight. We're going to burn something."

And outside, an elevator dinged. Again.