The Wall Street Tyrant's Fake Wife

Jalynn stood in front of the mirror in the women's restroom at New York City Hall. She took a deep breath. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, uneven jerks. She pressed her palms flat against the cold porcelain edge of the sink. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it made her teeth ache.

She raised her trembling hands to her head. Her thick, wild black hair cascaded down her back in loose waves. She grabbed a fistful of it and twisted it hard. The pull on her scalp sent a sharp sting behind her eyes. She pinned the hair back into a tight, severe low bun. Not a single strand was left out of place.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a rough paper towel. She pressed it against her mouth and scrubbed. The friction burned her skin. The bold, aggressive red lipstick smeared across the white paper like a bloodstain. She kept rubbing until her lips felt raw and swollen. She pulled out a pale, muted pink gloss and applied a thin layer.

She stared at the stranger in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was a perfect imitation, her expression molded into the same submissive, gentle look as Ericka Vance. Deryl Atkins's dead fiancée. A wave of pure, physical nausea hit Jalynn's stomach. Acid burned the back of her throat. She gripped the sink tighter until her knuckles turned completely white.

The image of her father flashed behind her eyes. Silas Horton looked ten years older than he had a month ago. The crushing debt and the looming trust crisis had carved deep, dark hollows into his cheeks. His hands shook every time he held a pen.

Jalynn squeezed her eyes shut. She slapped her own cheeks, the sharp sting forcing her to focus. She opened her eyes and forced the corners of her mouth up. She practiced the smile. It was quiet. It was obedient. It was everything she was not.

She looked down at her clothes. The conservative, cream-colored tweed suit scratched against her collarbones. It felt like a straitjacket. She grabbed her vintage clutch from the counter, pushed open the heavy bathroom door, and stepped out into the hallway.

Her low heels clicked against the marble floor. The sound echoed in the empty corridor. Every step felt like a physical blow to her spine. She was walking toward her own execution.

At the end of the hall, K.C. Fleming stood outside a private waiting room. Deryl's chief assistant was staring down at his expensive watch.

K.C. heard her approaching and looked up. His eyes scanned her conservative suit and her tightly pulled hair. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed instantly by a cold, mocking glint in his eyes. He knew exactly what she was doing.

He didn't say a word. He just reached out and pushed the heavy oak door open. He stepped aside, his posture stiff and entirely professional.