Engaged to my Billionaire Rival

Chapter 7

It took longer than Alex wanted to admit for her to change and convince herself she wasn’t affected. And even then, the illusion only lasted until she stepped back into the main living area in search of water.

She stopped short.

Callan stood at the kitchen counter, barefoot and entirely too at ease. He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt as he scrolled through something on his tablet. A glass of whiskey rested loosely in his hand.

For one disorienting moment, her brain refused to process the image in front of her. Because this version of him, the one stripped of sharp tailoring and public armor, felt far more dangerous than the man she faced across boardroom tables.

His eyes lifted, catching her immediately. “Well,” he started, his voice threaded with quiet amusement, “you look unsettled.”

Alex folded her arms, recovering quickly. “Why did you redecorate the guest suite?”

He glanced back down at the tablet, as if the answer required no real thought. “Because if I’m going to live with you, I’d prefer you slightly less inclined toward violence.”

“You matched it to my taste,” she clarified.

A pause, brief but deliberate. Then, without deflection, “Yes.”

The straightforwardness of it threw her more than she expected. “Why?” she pressed.

This time, he looked up fully, his expression softer and stripped of its usual edge. “Because,” he said slowly, “despite what you seem to believe, I’m not interested in making this harder than it already is.”

The sincerity in his tone unsettled her in a way hostility never had. “You’re forcing me into a corporate engagement,” she pointed out.

“And I bought you custom furniture,” he countered lightly. “You’re welcome.”

The laugh that slipped out of her was unguarded, brief, and entirely involuntary.

Callan’s gaze lingered on her for just a fraction too long afterward. Something shifted beneath the surface stretched between them that neither of them acknowledged.

“There’s a press conference tomorrow,” he said, setting his glass onto the marble countertop he leaned against.

Her attention snapped back. “Tomorrow?”

Callan nodded. “We announce everything publicly.”

“Fantastic,” she muttered. “I was worried I might get a full night to regret my life choices.”

He pushed off the counter, striding toward her as his gaze slid over her figure. She tried to suppress the shiver that brushed over her skin as he said, “Wear something unforgettable.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

His gaze moved back over her, slow and deliberate before returning to her face. “If they’re going to photograph my fiancée,” he said quietly, “then I’d prefer no one else in the room should compare.”

Her pulse betrayed her. It stuttered once before she could steady it as he turned away. Before she could respond, he disappeared down the hall, leaving her alone in a kitchen that suddenly feels far too intimate.

--

The next morning unfolded in controlled chaos.

“No,” Alex said flatly. She stared at her reflection as the stylist made another adjustment. “There is entirely too much cleavage involved in this situation.”

“It’s tasteful,” Iris replied from the sofa, not even looking up from her phone.

Alex glared at her through the mirror in front of her. “There should be no such thing as tasteful cleavage in financial press.”

Iris barely glanced up. “Tell that to literally ever magazine cover ever,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Before Alex could respond, Callan stepped into the room, and for a moment, everything stilled.

He wore a midnight suit tailored so precisely it might as well have been sculpted onto him. The dark fabric was offset by a silver tie that caught the light just enough to draw attention without demanding it. There was something devastatingly composed about him. Something that made the entire room recalibrate around his presence.

Then his gaze landed on her, and stilled.

Slowly, deliberately, Callan’s attention traced the lines of her cream silk dress. The way it fit her like if had been designed with her in mind. It was elegant and effortless in a way that made it impossible to look away.

Something flickered in his expression, sharp intent, unguarded for just a second.

“Is there a problem?” Alex asked, lifting a brow.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “No.” The word sounded strained.

From the couch, Iris let out a short laugh. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

--

The press conference room was already alive with noise by the time Alex and Callan reached it. The low hum of conversation was layered with the sharp staccato of camera shutters and restless energy of reporters sensing something explosive before it had even been confirmed.

Assistants moved quickly along the perimeter, adjusting microphones and shuffling papers, while a wall of media waited beyond the barricade. Their attention snapped toward the doors the moment movement stirred on the other side.

Alex felt it before she saw it. The shift in atmosphere, the subtle tightening of the space as anticipation sharpened into focus. Then, the doors opened.

Light flooded in first, bright and unrelenting, followed by the immediate eruption of sound as voices rose all at once. Questions collided over each other in a chaotic surge that made it nearly impossible to distinguish one from the next.

Cameras flashed in rapid succession. Bursts of white cut through the room like lightening, and every lens turned toward them with a kind of hunger that made Alex’s spine go rigid.

For a fraction of a second, she hesitated. Not visibly, but enough that she became acutely aware of everything at once: the weight of the moment, the implications of what they were about to confirm, the fact that there was no stepping back from this once they crossed the threshold.

Then, Callan’s hand settled against the small of her back. It wasn’t forceful, not even particularly firm. But it was steady, grounding in a way she hadn’t expected. His palm was warm through the thing silk of her dress as his fingers curved just slightly against her spine.

The gesture was subtle enough to read as natural, intimate enough to look convincing, and entirely deliberate in its timing.

“Smile,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear it beneath the noise.

Alex drew in a quiet breath, smoothing her expression into something composed, something camera-ready, even as her pulse ticked unevenly in her throat. “Remove your hand,” she replied under her breath, her lips barely moving, “or I will remove it for you.”

“Engaged couples don’t threaten each other before the announcement,” he returned, his tone edged with light amusement.

“Engaged couples make better life decisions than I do,” she shot back.

Callan’s fingers pressed just slightly, a barely noticeable pressure that grounded her again, before easing back into something lighter. Something that could pass for affection to anyone watching closely enough.

Then, together, they stepped forward.