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."

The subway car rattled violently, throwing Harley shoulder-first against the hard plastic seat. She didn't feel the impact. Her eyes were fixed on the dark window across from her.

Outside, the New York sky broke open. Heavy sheets of rain began to slam against the glass. The rapid, aggressive tapping sound drilled into Harley's ears.

Her breath hitched. The sound of the rain was a trigger. Her mind violently pulled her backward, dragging her into the dark.

Five years ago. The Long Island Vance estate.

Harley stood at the top of the grand, sweeping marble staircase. The heavy wooden handle of her suitcase dug into her palm. She was leaving. She just wanted to get out.

Alyssa stood blocking the top step. She wore a pristine white dress. A sweet, innocent smile was plastered on her face, but her eyes were cold and dead.

"You really thought you belonged here?" Alyssa whispered, her voice a venomous hiss. "You're just a stray dog they picked up. Colvin doesn't love you. He pities you."

Harley felt a tight knot form in her throat. She didn't want to fight. She just wanted to leave.

She turned her body sideways, trying to squeeze past Alyssa on the narrow landing. As she moved, her elbow lightly brushed against Alyssa's shoulder. It was barely a touch.

Suddenly, Alyssa let out a blood-curdling scream.

Harley froze. She watched in horror as Alyssa threw her arms up, arched her back, and intentionally threw herself backward. Alyssa tumbled down the long, steep flight of marble stairs, her body hitting the hard stone with sickening thuds.

At that exact second, the massive oak front doors swung open.

Colvin Gaines walked in, shaking the cold rain from his coat. He looked up just in time to see Alyssa's body hit the bottom of the stairs. Blood pooled on the white marble from a cut on her forehead.

"Alyssa!" Colvin roared.

He dropped his briefcase and sprinted across the foyer. He slid to his knees, gathering Alyssa's bleeding head into his arms. Then, he looked up.

His eyes locked onto Harley standing at the top of the stairs. The look in his eyes wasn't just anger. It was pure, unadulterated hatred.

Harley's stomach plummeted. "Colvin, I didn't-" she started, her voice trembling.

She ran down the stairs, her feet slipping on the marble. She reached out to touch his shoulder, desperate to explain.

Colvin swung his arm back and slapped her hand away with brutal force. The smack echoed in the large hall. Harley stumbled back, her wrist stinging.

Alyssa whimpered in Colvin's arms. She buried her face in his chest, her tears mixing with the blood. "Don't be mad at her, Colvin," Alyssa cried weakly. "She was just angry. She didn't mean to push me."

Colvin's jaw clenched. He glared at Harley. "You vicious, jealous bitch," he spat. "You tried to kill your own sister."

Harley's mouth fell open. The air left her lungs. This was the man she grew up with. The man she was supposed to marry in two months. He didn't even ask what happened. He just convicted her.

Colvin reached out and grabbed his leather briefcase from the floor. He snapped it open, pulled out a thick stack of legal documents, and threw them directly at Harley's face.

The heavy paper hit her cheek, stinging her skin, before scattering all over the bloody floor.

Harley looked down. The bold black letters on the top page read: Prenuptial Asset Forfeiture Agreement & Family Trust Relinquishment.

"I never loved you," Colvin said, his voice cold and flat. "I love Alyssa. The engagement was just to keep the old men on the board happy. Sign it and get out."

Harley's heart stopped beating. It felt like a block of ice sitting in her chest. She looked at Colvin holding Alyssa. The truth hit her so hard her knees buckled. Her entire life, her family, her fiancé-it was all a massive, orchestrated lie.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Her adoptive parents, Mr. and Mrs. Vance, rushed into the foyer. They saw Alyssa bleeding and immediately dropped to the floor beside her. Mrs. Vance looked up at Harley, her face twisted in disgust.

"You monster," Mrs. Vance hissed. "Get out of my house."

Harley looked at the woman who had raised her. There was no love in those eyes. Only hate.

Harley's chest felt hollow. She bent down. Her fingers were numb as she picked up a pen from the floor. She knelt over the scattered papers and signed her name on every single line. She signed away the money, the trust, the name. She cut the cord.

She stood up, grabbed her suitcase, and walked out the front door into the freezing, torrential rain.

Harley threw her suitcase into the back of her beat-up Ford sedan. She climbed into the driver's seat. Her clothes were soaked, sticking to her freezing skin. Her hands shook violently as she turned the key in the ignition.

She pulled out of the driveway, speeding down the winding mountain road of the Long Island coast.

The tears finally came. They burned her eyes, blurring her vision. She wiped her face aggressively, but the tears wouldn't stop.

A sharp curve appeared ahead in the heavy rain. Harley moved her foot to the brake pedal and pressed down.

The pedal went straight to the floor. There was no resistance. Nothing. Someone had tampered with them. Alyssa. Colvin. It didn't matter who pulled the trigger; they had both aimed the gun.

Panic seized her throat. She pumped the brakes frantically. "No, no, no!" she screamed.

The car was moving too fast. She jerked the steering wheel hard to the right. The tires lost traction on the wet asphalt. The car spun out of control, slamming through the metal guardrail.

Weightlessness.

The car flipped into the air. Harley was thrown forward, her head smashing violently against the steering wheel. A blinding flash of white light exploded behind her eyes.

The sound of twisting, tearing metal was deafening as the car crashed into the trees below the cliff. The windshield shattered into a million pieces, raining glass over her body.

Warm blood poured down her forehead, dripping into her eyes. The world went dark. The last thing she heard was the faint, distant wail of police sirens.

"Next stop, 14th Street."

The harsh, robotic voice of the subway intercom ripped Harley out of the memory.

Harley gasped loudly, her eyes snapping wide open. Cold sweat dripped down her neck. She looked down at her hands. Her fingernails were dug so deeply into her palms that four small crescents of blood had pooled on her skin.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her sleeve. Her breathing was fast and shallow. She stood up as the train screeched to a halt.

She stepped off the train into the humid New York night. She looked up at the neon lights of Manhattan. The vulnerability in her eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, unbreakable steel. She pulled her hood up and started walking toward the club.

The heavy bass from the club vibrated through the concrete pavement, traveling up Harley's boots and into her bones. She stood in the dark, trash-filled alley behind "The Apex," Manhattan's most exclusive underground club.

She pulled open the heavy steel service door. The smell of stale beer, sweat, and cheap cologne hit her face.

Harley walked down the dimly lit employee corridor, keeping her head down. She dodged two drunk men in expensive suits who were stumbling out of a bathroom. She pulled her phone from her pocket and opened her messages.

She typed: I'm inside. Where is the audition room?

A few seconds later, Brenda replied: VVIP 9. It's in the unfinished section on the third floor. Hurry.

Harley frowned. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Why would a major studio hold a stunt audition in an unfinished, abandoned section of a club? A cold prickle of unease ran down her spine. But she thought of the zero balance in her studio's bank account. She needed the money.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket and headed for the stairs.

When she pushed open the heavy acoustic door leading to the third floor, the deafening music instantly vanished. The silence was jarring. The air here was freezing and smelled heavily of drywall dust and mildew.

Harley walked down the dark hallway. At the very end, standing nervously by a door, was Brenda.

Brenda was clutching her phone with both hands. She kept looking over her shoulder, her eyes wide and panicked.

Harley walked up to her. "Where is the director?" Harley asked, her voice low.

Brenda jumped, startled. She wouldn't look Harley in the eye. She stared at Harley's shoes. "He's... he's inside. Waiting for you."

Harley's stomach tightened. Brenda's hands were shaking. The alarm bells in Harley's head were screaming now.

Harley reached out and pushed the heavy, self-locking fire door to VVIP 9 open. She stepped inside.

It was pitch black. There were no lights, no cameras, no crew. Just a massive, empty warehouse-like space filled with construction debris.

Harley spun around.

Brenda was already backing away into the hallway. She grabbed the heavy metal handle of the door and pulled it shut with all her weight.

"Brenda!" Harley yelled.

The heavy deadbolt mechanism, designed to lock automatically from the outside, engaged with a deafening CLANG.

The sound echoed in the dark room. Harley was locked in.

She rushed to the door and slammed her fists against the cold steel. "Brenda! Open the door! What are you doing?!"

Through the thick metal, Brenda's voice came out muffled and choked with tears. "I'm sorry, Harley. Alyssa threatened to blackball my entire agency. I have to eat. I have no choice."

The sound of Brenda's footsteps quickly faded down the hall.

Harley cursed under her breath. She pulled out her phone. No service. The thick concrete walls and steel doors acted as a perfect Faraday cage.

She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow down. Panic would only waste oxygen. She turned on her phone's flashlight and swept the beam across the room.

It was a mess. Stacks of drywall, broken wooden pallets, and discarded sofas littered the floor. The air was stagnant and freezing.

She walked back to the door and pulled a metal hairpin from her hair. She kneeled down and shoved the pin into the keyhole, trying to pick the lock. She twisted it, but the internal mechanism was completely rusted and jammed. The pin snapped in half.

Harley threw the broken piece on the floor.

Suddenly, her ears caught a sound. It was faint. A ragged, shallow wheezing.

Harley froze. She turned her head slowly. The sound was coming from a dark corner of the room, under a large, dusty blue tarp.

Her muscles tensed. She quietly reached down and picked up a heavy, rusted steel pipe from the floor. She held it tightly in her right hand, her knuckles white. She walked silently toward the tarp.

She reached out with her left hand, grabbed the edge of the plastic, and ripped it away. She raised the pipe, ready to strike.

She stopped dead.

Curled up in a tight ball on the concrete floor was a little boy. He looked about five or six years old. He was wearing a miniature, incredibly expensive tailored suit, now covered in dust.

The boy looked up at her. His eyes were wide, filled with a pure, paralyzing terror. He looked like a trapped animal. He bit down on his lower lip so hard it was turning white. He didn't make a sound.

Harley immediately dropped the steel pipe. It clattered loudly on the floor, making the boy flinch and press himself harder into the corner.

Harley raised both hands, showing her empty palms. She slowly lowered herself into a crouch.

"Hey," Harley whispered, her voice dropping to a soft, soothing tone. "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

The boy didn't move. His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths. He was on the verge of a full panic attack.

Harley noticed his cheeks were flushed a deep, unnatural red. She slowly reached her hand out. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating a blow. Harley gently pressed the back of her hand against his forehead.

Her breath caught. His skin was burning hot. It felt like touching a radiator.

"You're burning up," Harley muttered. She looked into his terrified eyes. "What's your name? Where are your parents?"

The boy just stared at her. He kept his lip tightly between his teeth. He refused to speak.

Harley looked around the freezing, airtight room. If they stayed locked in here all night, a fever this high could cause a seizure. The kid could die.

She grabbed her flashlight and pointed it straight up.

Three meters above the floor, near the ceiling, was a large, rusted metal grate covering an HVAC ventilation duct.

Harley looked down at her heavy hoodie. She unzipped it and threw it on the floor, leaving her in just a tight black sports bra. The cold air bit into the scars on her waist.

She looked at the boy, her eyes hardening with absolute resolve. "We are getting out of here."