The Billionaire's Rival: My Sweet Revenge

Angelina Sherman sat on the edge of the bed in the Pierre Hotel, her fingers digging into the textured leather of her Hermès Birkin bag until her knuckles turned white. The room was too quiet. The silence was heavy, pressing against her eardrums, amplifying the sound of her own heart. It wasn't a steady rhythm. It was a frantic, uneven thudding that made her chest ache.

She looked down at her wrist. Five minutes.

Five minutes until the man she had hired walked through that door.

She stood up, her legs feeling unsteady, like she had just stepped off a boat. She walked to the minibar, her hand trembling as she reached for a miniature bottle of Grey Goose. She didn't bother with a glass or ice. She twisted the cap off and downed it in one go. The alcohol burned her throat, a sharp, chemical fire that settled in her stomach. This wasn't about courage; it was part of the costume. The role of the desperate, hysterical wife required the faint scent of vodka on her breath, the slight, believable flush on her cheeks. A performance had to be perfect down to the last detail.

She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was perfect. Not a hair out of place, her makeup flawless, her Chanel suit modest and expensive. It was the armor Brittain Kane had chosen for her. The Stepford Wife. The obedient accessory.

She hated her.

With a sudden, violent motion, she unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. She tried to pull her lips into a seductive smile, something wild, something that wasn't Angelina. But the mirror only showed fear.

She wasn't doing this for pleasure. She was doing this because she had found the second phone. The one with the messages. The one with the pictures of the nineteen-year-old hostess. Two years of marriage, two years of playing the fool, and tonight, she was spending twenty-five thousand dollars to balance the scales.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. They were slow, deliberate. They stopped right outside her door number.

Angelina sucked in a breath, holding it in her lungs until they burned. This is a transaction, she told herself. Just a transaction.

She walked to the door. Her hand hovered over the handle. She could do this. She had to do this. She pulled the door open.

The man standing there was not the "Kyle" from the agency profile.

He was tall, towering over her, dressed in a dark suit that cost more than her car. His hair was dark, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes... his eyes were familiar.

Angelina's stomach dropped. The air left her lungs in a rush.

Harrison Juarez.

Brittain's business rival. His "best friend." The man who owned half of New York's biotech sector and had a reputation that made mothers lock up their daughters.

He didn't look surprised. He looked bored. His gaze traveled down her body, lingering on the unbuttoned collar of her blouse, before snapping back to her eyes. A corner of his mouth ticked up.

"Mrs. Kane," he drawled. His voice was deep, scraping against her nerves.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her. She tried to slam the door.

Harrison moved faster. He didn't shove. He just placed one large hand against the wood and slid the toe of his polished Oxford shoe into the gap. He pushed, effortlessly overcoming her resistance.

"Wrong room," Angelina choked out. Her voice was the high, breathy pitch she reserved for charity galas. "You have the wrong room, Mr. Juarez."

Harrison chuckled. It was a dry, humorless sound. He pulled his phone from his pocket and turned the screen toward her. It was a screenshot. A confirmation page. Order 4409. Client: Anonymous. Location: The Pierre, Room 412.

"You really should use a VPN when you book these things, Angelina," he said.

The blood drained from her face. She stepped back, her knees hitting the edge of the bed. He knew. He had the proof. Her life, her carefully constructed exit plan, everything was over.

Harrison stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him. The lock engaging sounded like a gunshot.

He walked past her, invading her space, smelling of expensive tobacco and sandalwood. He went straight to the minibar, picked up the empty vodka bottle she had just discarded, and sniffed it.

"Cheap courage," he muttered. He turned to face her. "This is messy, Angelina. Even for a Kane."

Something inside her snapped. The fear maxed out and broke, leaving behind a cold, hard clarity. There was no point in the act anymore. The weeping willow routine wouldn't work on him.

Angelina straightened her spine. Her chin went up. The fear vanished from her eyes, replaced by a flat, icy calculation.

"How much?" she asked. Her voice dropped an octave, stripping away the breathiness. "To keep your mouth shut."

Harrison blinked. For the first time, the boredom in his eyes cracked. He looked at her, really looked at her, as if seeing a stranger.

"I don't want your money," he said, watching her closely.

"Then what? You want to run to Brittain? Tell him his little mouse is trying to roar?" She crossed her arms. "Go ahead. He'll hate you for being the bearer of bad news more than he'll hate me for doing it."

Harrison pulled his phone out again. He dialed a number, putting it to his ear while holding her gaze. "Kyle. It's Juarez. Your client at the Pierre has had a change of plans. Consider the contract fulfilled and keep the deposit."

He tossed the phone onto the bed. It bounced once and settled near her leg.

"You're right," Harrison said, stepping closer. He lowered his head until his mouth was inches from her ear. She could feel the heat radiating off him. "That escort... he's just a body. Brittain wouldn't care. He'd just buy you a new car and pay the guy off."

Angelina shivered, not from fear, but from the proximity.

"But if you really want to hurt him," Harrison whispered, his voice rough, "if you want to make Brittain Kane lose his mind... you don't need a gigolo."

He pulled back, his dark eyes locking onto hers.

"You need me."