The Billionaire's Lethal Substitute Wife

The rain was too loud. It battered against the windshield, drowning out the sound of her own screaming. Then came the headlights-blinding, piercing white beams cutting through the dark, rushing straight at her face.

Harley Vance thrashed on the narrow, stiff mattress. Her hands clawed at the cheap cotton sheets. Her chest heaved, pulling in shallow, ragged breaths that burned her throat. The smell of burning rubber and metallic blood filled her nose, choking her.

She jerked violently, her eyes snapping open.

A sharp, high-pitched alarm instantly pierced the room. Harley had ripped the EKG wires from her chest in her panic. The monitor next to the bed flashed red, screaming into the sterile air of the downtown Manhattan rehab clinic.

The door flew open. Nurse Patel rushed in, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor.

"Harley! It's okay, you're safe-" The nurse reached out, her hands aiming for Harley's shoulders.

Harley's survival instinct took over. Her muscles coiled tight, and she shoved the nurse away with a hard, flat palm against her chest. Nurse Patel stumbled back, hitting the metal doorframe with a dull thud.

Harley blinked, the blinding headlights in her mind fading into the harsh fluorescent lights of the clinic. She saw the terrified look on the nurse's face. Harley swallowed hard, forcing her racing heart to slow down. She dug her fingernails into her palms, welcoming the sharp sting of her own skin breaking. The physical pain grounded her, but it was the memory of the crash-the sudden, terrifying realization that her brake lines had been deliberately cut-that kept her from wrapping her hands around Alyssa's throat right then and there.

"I'm fine," Harley said, her voice hoarse and dry.

She reached for the small paper cup on the bedside table. Her hand shook slightly as she brought it to her lips, gulping down the stale, cold water. The chill hit her stomach, grounding her in reality.

Nurse Patel let out a shaky breath and walked over to the wall-mounted television. She grabbed the remote and cranked up the volume, trying to fill the awkward silence.

"Let's just watch some news," the nurse muttered, avoiding Harley's eyes.

Harley lowered the paper cup. She looked up at the screen. It was a financial news network.

The camera panned across JFK Airport. A man in a tailored charcoal suit walked through the terminal, surrounded by a swarm of reporters. It was Colvin Gaines. Her ex-husband.

Harley's fingers tightened around the paper cup. The cheap material crushed instantly, water spilling over her knuckles and dripping onto the thin blanket.

The news anchor's voice buzzed from the speakers. "Colvin Gaines returns to New York today, bringing massive European capital to back the Vance family trust..."

A sudden, phantom pain shot through Harley's left leg. It was a sharp, burning sensation, exactly where the metal rods had been surgically implanted five years ago. She reached down, her hand gripping her thigh hard, trying to squeeze the pain away.

The door opened again. Dr. Ramsey walked in, holding a clipboard. He glanced at the red numbers on the EKG monitor, then looked down at Harley.

"Your heart rate is a mess, Harley," Dr. Ramsey said, his voice flat and serious. "I told you last month. You have to stop doing high-risk stunt work. Your body cannot take another impact like that."

Harley let go of her leg. She looked at the doctor, her face completely blank.

"I need the cash," she said simply.

Before he could argue, Harley reached over to her right arm. She pinched the plastic hub of the IV needle and yanked it out of her vein in one smooth motion.

A thick drop of dark red blood welled up and spilled over the white medical tape. Harley didn't flinch. She grabbed her cheap black hoodie from the chair and pulled it over her head, hiding the bandages on her ribs.

"You are going to kill yourself out there," Dr. Ramsey warned.

Harley ignored him. She reached for her worn canvas duffel bag.

Then, she heard it. The sharp, rhythmic click of expensive heels hitting the clinic's cheap floor. The sound was completely out of place here. It belonged on Fifth Avenue, not in a rundown rehab center.

The door was shoved open. It hit the wall with a loud bang.

Alyssa Christian walked in. She had abandoned the Vance name years ago to build her own brand, but she still carried the family's cruelty. She wore a pristine white Chanel tweed suit. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, falling over her shoulders. The heavy scent of custom perfume instantly overpowered the smell of rubbing alcohol in the room.

Nurse Patel stepped forward. "Excuse me, you can't just-"

A massive bodyguard in a black suit stepped out from behind Alyssa. He grabbed the nurse by the arm, shoved her roughly into the hallway, and pulled the door shut. The lock clicked.

Alyssa turned her cold gaze to Dr. Ramsey, who stood frozen in the corner. "Doctor, get out. Now," she snapped. The doctor didn't argue. He hurried past the bodyguard, and the heavy door clicked shut, leaving them in absolute privacy.

Alyssa walked closer to the bed. She wore soft black leather gloves. She reached out and ran a gloved finger along the rusted metal railing of Harley's bed. She looked at the rust on her glove and let out a disgusted laugh.

"Look at you," Alyssa sneered. "Living in the gutter."

Harley stood perfectly still. She stared at Alyssa, her face hard as stone. She zipped up her canvas bag, the harsh sound of the metal zipper cutting through the quiet room.

Alyssa's smile faded. Harley's absolute silence always irritated her.

"Colvin is back," Alyssa said, her voice dripping with poison. "Did you see? He's richer than ever. And he's mine."

Harley's hand paused on the zipper for a fraction of a second. Then, she let out a low, dry chuckle.

"Congratulations, Alyssa," Harley said, her voice cold. "You always were good at picking up my leftover trash."

Alyssa's face turned red. The muscles in her jaw tightened. She stepped right up to Harley, invading her space.

Alyssa leaned in, her lips inches from Harley's ear. "You know," Alyssa whispered, "five years ago, on those stairs... I didn't slip. I threw myself down. Just to watch him throw you out."

Harley's pupils shrank to tiny pinpricks. The air in her lungs vanished. The memory of that night-the cold rain, the screaming, the absolute humiliation of being kicked out of the Vance family-slammed into her chest like a physical blow.

Her hands dropped to her sides. She clenched her fists so hard her knuckles turned white.

Alyssa pulled back, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. She reached into her Hermes Birkin bag and pulled out a crisp piece of paper. She tossed it onto the floor, right at Harley's worn-out sneakers.

It was a check. One hundred thousand dollars.

"Take it," Alyssa commanded. "Get out of New York. If Colvin ever sees your face again, I will ruin you."

Harley looked down at the check. Then, she slowly bent her knees and reached for it.

Alyssa's smile grew wider. She loved watching Harley submit.

Harley stood up, holding the check between her fingers. She looked Alyssa dead in the eye.

With a swift, violent motion, Harley tore the check in half. Then she tore it again. And again. She threw the shredded pieces of paper directly into Alyssa's face. The white confetti rained down on the expensive Chanel suit.

Alyssa shrieked, batting at her clothes as if the paper burned her. "You bitch!"

The bodyguard instantly stepped forward, his hand reaching out to grab Harley's neck.

Harley didn't back away. She spun around, her hand wrapping around the heavy metal medical tray on the table. She ripped it off the stand and raised it high, her eyes burning with the raw, feral violence of a cornered animal.

The bodyguard stopped in his tracks, surprised by the sheer murder in her eyes.

Alyssa backed toward the door, her chest heaving with anger. "You are dead in this industry! I will make sure no studio in Hollywood ever hires you as a stunt double again!"

Harley lowered the tray slightly, her breathing heavy. "You better pray you never fall off your little throne, Alyssa. Because I won't be there to catch you."

Alyssa let out a sharp scoff. She turned on her heel. "Let's go," she snapped at the bodyguard. They walked out, slamming the door behind them.

Harley stood alone in the quiet room. The adrenaline drained from her blood, leaving her legs shaking. She dropped the metal tray. It clattered loudly on the floor.

She leaned her back against the cold wall and slid down until she hit the floor. She pulled her phone from her pocket and opened the banking app. She checked the secret account for Atelier L.A.N.

The balance was almost zero.

Harley closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. She opened her contacts and hit call.

"Brenda," Harley said when the line connected. "That high-risk stunt audition at the Manhattan club tonight. Tell them I'll take it."