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