The Billionaire's Lethal Substitute Wife

The heavy bass from the club vibrated through the concrete pavement, traveling up Harley's boots and into her bones. She stood in the dark, trash-filled alley behind "The Apex," Manhattan's most exclusive underground club.

She pulled open the heavy steel service door. The smell of stale beer, sweat, and cheap cologne hit her face.

Harley walked down the dimly lit employee corridor, keeping her head down. She dodged two drunk men in expensive suits who were stumbling out of a bathroom. She pulled her phone from her pocket and opened her messages.

She typed: I'm inside. Where is the audition room?

A few seconds later, Brenda replied: VVIP 9. It's in the unfinished section on the third floor. Hurry.

Harley frowned. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Why would a major studio hold a stunt audition in an unfinished, abandoned section of a club? A cold prickle of unease ran down her spine. But she thought of the zero balance in her studio's bank account. She needed the money.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket and headed for the stairs.

When she pushed open the heavy acoustic door leading to the third floor, the deafening music instantly vanished. The silence was jarring. The air here was freezing and smelled heavily of drywall dust and mildew.

Harley walked down the dark hallway. At the very end, standing nervously by a door, was Brenda.

Brenda was clutching her phone with both hands. She kept looking over her shoulder, her eyes wide and panicked.

Harley walked up to her. "Where is the director?" Harley asked, her voice low.

Brenda jumped, startled. She wouldn't look Harley in the eye. She stared at Harley's shoes. "He's... he's inside. Waiting for you."

Harley's stomach tightened. Brenda's hands were shaking. The alarm bells in Harley's head were screaming now.

Harley reached out and pushed the heavy, self-locking fire door to VVIP 9 open. She stepped inside.

It was pitch black. There were no lights, no cameras, no crew. Just a massive, empty warehouse-like space filled with construction debris.

Harley spun around.

Brenda was already backing away into the hallway. She grabbed the heavy metal handle of the door and pulled it shut with all her weight.

"Brenda!" Harley yelled.

The heavy deadbolt mechanism, designed to lock automatically from the outside, engaged with a deafening CLANG.

The sound echoed in the dark room. Harley was locked in.

She rushed to the door and slammed her fists against the cold steel. "Brenda! Open the door! What are you doing?!"

Through the thick metal, Brenda's voice came out muffled and choked with tears. "I'm sorry, Harley. Alyssa threatened to blackball my entire agency. I have to eat. I have no choice."

The sound of Brenda's footsteps quickly faded down the hall.

Harley cursed under her breath. She pulled out her phone. No service. The thick concrete walls and steel doors acted as a perfect Faraday cage.

She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow down. Panic would only waste oxygen. She turned on her phone's flashlight and swept the beam across the room.

It was a mess. Stacks of drywall, broken wooden pallets, and discarded sofas littered the floor. The air was stagnant and freezing.

She walked back to the door and pulled a metal hairpin from her hair. She kneeled down and shoved the pin into the keyhole, trying to pick the lock. She twisted it, but the internal mechanism was completely rusted and jammed. The pin snapped in half.

Harley threw the broken piece on the floor.

Suddenly, her ears caught a sound. It was faint. A ragged, shallow wheezing.

Harley froze. She turned her head slowly. The sound was coming from a dark corner of the room, under a large, dusty blue tarp.

Her muscles tensed. She quietly reached down and picked up a heavy, rusted steel pipe from the floor. She held it tightly in her right hand, her knuckles white. She walked silently toward the tarp.

She reached out with her left hand, grabbed the edge of the plastic, and ripped it away. She raised the pipe, ready to strike.

She stopped dead.

Curled up in a tight ball on the concrete floor was a little boy. He looked about five or six years old. He was wearing a miniature, incredibly expensive tailored suit, now covered in dust.

The boy looked up at her. His eyes were wide, filled with a pure, paralyzing terror. He looked like a trapped animal. He bit down on his lower lip so hard it was turning white. He didn't make a sound.

Harley immediately dropped the steel pipe. It clattered loudly on the floor, making the boy flinch and press himself harder into the corner.

Harley raised both hands, showing her empty palms. She slowly lowered herself into a crouch.

"Hey," Harley whispered, her voice dropping to a soft, soothing tone. "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

The boy didn't move. His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths. He was on the verge of a full panic attack.

Harley noticed his cheeks were flushed a deep, unnatural red. She slowly reached her hand out. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating a blow. Harley gently pressed the back of her hand against his forehead.

Her breath caught. His skin was burning hot. It felt like touching a radiator.

"You're burning up," Harley muttered. She looked into his terrified eyes. "What's your name? Where are your parents?"

The boy just stared at her. He kept his lip tightly between his teeth. He refused to speak.

Harley looked around the freezing, airtight room. If they stayed locked in here all night, a fever this high could cause a seizure. The kid could die.

She grabbed her flashlight and pointed it straight up.

Three meters above the floor, near the ceiling, was a large, rusted metal grate covering an HVAC ventilation duct.

Harley looked down at her heavy hoodie. She unzipped it and threw it on the floor, leaving her in just a tight black sports bra. The cold air bit into the scars on her waist.

She looked at the boy, her eyes hardening with absolute resolve. "We are getting out of here."