Woke Up Engaged To My Rival

She had no idea that the war she was preparing for was nothing compared to the devastation waiting for her at dinner.

Eve Franks woke up gasping, her lungs seizing as if she had just surfaced from deep, freezing water.

She sat up in the dark, clutching the silk sheets of her king-sized bed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Cold sweat slicked her forehead, matting her hairline. The sensation of the dream was still there, physically imprinted on her skin-a phantom pressure on her lips, a heavy hand on her waist, the smell of expensive scotch and cold ambition.

She pressed her palm to her chest, trying to regulate her breathing. In, out. In, out.

It was just a nightmare.

But the taste in her mouth wasn't fear. It was something heavier, darker. In the dream, the man kissing her hadn't been Andre. The man pinning her against the wall with that terrifying, consuming intensity had been Charls Wiley.

Eve gagged. A wave of physiological nausea rolled through her stomach. She scrambled out of bed, grabbing a pillow and hurling it with all her strength against the opposite wall. It hit the plaster with a dull thud and slid to the floor, lifeless.

"Disgusting," she hissed into the silence of the townhouse.

She stumbled into the master bathroom, her legs shaking. She twisted the faucet of the shower to a scalding setting and stepped in, not waiting for the water to stabilize. The steaming spray hit her skin, shocking her system, washing away the phantom sensation of Charls's hands. She scrubbed her skin until it turned pink, trying to erase the memory of his eyes-those cold, calculating grey eyes that, in her dream, had looked at her with a hunger that made her knees weak.

It was stress. Just stress. The merger talks, the board pressure, the constant, exhausting rivalry with Wiley Capital. That was all.

She stepped out, wrapping herself in a plush towel. Her reflection in the fogged mirror looked pale, eyes wide and haunted. She wiped the glass with her hand, forcing herself to look at the woman she had built. Strong. Unshakeable. Not someone who had wet dreams about her business nemesis.

Her phone buzzed on the marble vanity.

Eve flinched, then looked at the screen. The caller ID read: My Star.

The tension in her shoulders instantly evaporated. A soft, involuntary smile broke through her hard expression, changing her entire face. The nausea was replaced by a warm, fluttering sensation in her belly.

Andre.

Today was the day. Seven years. Seven years of watching him from the sidelines, of supporting his art discreetly, of waiting for him to finally be ready to acknowledge their relationship publicly.

She walked into her walk-in closet, bypassing the row of sharp, black Armani suits she usually wore like armor. Her fingers trailed over the fabrics until they stopped at a garment bag in the back. She unzipped it, revealing a champagne-colored silk dress. It