Betrayed Heiress: Marrying The Wall Street Devil

Ina Holman sat at the dimly lit mahogany bar of The Plaza Hotel.

She dug her manicured nails into her palms. The sharp sting grounded her.

She was a Holman. The Holman family, once the undisputed royalty of New York real estate, was now drowning in massive corporate debt. Her toxic, on-and-off entanglement with her ex-boyfriend, Faron Levine, the heir to the Levine banking empire, was a strict business transaction. He was dangling the promise of a renewed alliance, which was the only financial lifeline keeping her father from declaring bankruptcy.

Tonight, she was not here for herself. She was wearing her best friend Clementine's tight black dress. Clementine had begged Ina to stand in for her on a crucial matchmaking meeting aimed at a family alliance, because Clementine's family held significant, terrifying leverage over the Holmans' remaining assets. If Ina refused, the fallout would instantly crush her father's fragile empire. “He knows what you look like,” Clementine had whispered over the phone. “He’ll be expecting you. Just have one drink, pretend to be me, and get out.” The weight of her family's survival rested heavily on her shoulders, leaving Ina with no choice but to obey.

She picked up a plastic swizzle stick and boredly stirred the green olive in her empty martini glass. The jazz music playing from the corner stage felt too loud.

The bartender, a man in a crisp white vest, walked over. He slid a heavy crystal glass across the polished wood. The liquid inside was a glowing, unnatural neon blue.

"From the gentleman at the end of the bar, miss," the bartender said.

Ina glanced down the bar, but the shadows were too thick. She assumed it was Clementine's potential suitor trying to be charming. She did not want to be here. She wanted to go home to her Tribeca apartment. But to maintain the polite facade required of a Holman, she picked up the glass.

She took a small sip.

The liquid burned. It slid down her throat like liquid fire.

Within ten seconds, a violent, unnatural heat erupted in her stomach.

Ina frowned. She put the glass down. She pressed the back of her cold hand against her cheek. Her skin was burning. It felt like she had a severe fever.

Her vision suddenly blurred. The edges of the bar warped. The slow jazz music stretched out, sounding like a distorted underwater echo.

She realized instantly that the drink was spiked.

Panic seized her chest. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. She pushed herself off the barstool.

The wooden chair scraped loudly against the thick carpet.

Her legs felt like jelly. They buckled. She reached out and gripped the edge of the mahogany bar, her knuckles turning white. She had to get out of the public eye. If a Holman was seen stumbling drunk or drugged in The Plaza, the scandal would give the Levine family an excuse to cancel the potential alliance.

She grabbed her silver clutch. She stumbled away