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 unbuttoned collar of her blouse, before snapping back to her eyes. A corner of his mouth ticked up.

"Mrs. Kane," he drawled. His voice was deep, scraping against her nerves.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her. She tried to slam the door.

Harrison moved faster. He didn't shove. He just placed one large hand against the wood and slid the toe of his polished Oxford shoe into the gap. He pushed, effortlessly overcoming her resistance.

"Wrong room," Angelina choked out. Her voice was the high, breathy pitch she reserved for charity galas. "You have the wrong room, Mr. Juarez."

Harrison chuckled. It was a dry, humorless sound. He pulled his phone from his pocket and turned the screen toward her. It was a screenshot. A confirmation page. Order 4409. Client: Anonymous. Location: The Pierre, Room 412.

"You really should use a VPN when you book these things, Angelina," he said.

The blood drained from her face. She stepped back, her knees hitting the edge of the bed. He knew. He had the proof. Her life, her carefully constructed exit plan, everything was over.

Harrison stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him. The lock engaging sounded like a gunshot.

He walked past her, invading her space, smelling of expensive tobacco and sandalwood. He went straight to the minibar, picked up the empty vodka bottle she had just discarded, and sniffed it.

"Cheap courage," he muttered. He turned to face her. "This is messy, Angelina. Even for a Kane."

Something inside her snapped. The fear maxed out and broke, leaving behind a cold, hard clarity. There was no point in the act anymore. The weeping willow routine wouldn't work on him.

Angelina straightened her spine. Her chin went up. The fear vanished from her eyes, replaced by a flat, icy calculation.

"How much?" she asked. Her voice dropped an octave, stripping away the breathiness. "To keep your mouth shut."

Harrison blinked. For the first time, the boredom in his eyes cracked. He looked at her, really looked at her, as if seeing a stranger.

"I don't want your money," he said, watching her closely.

"Then what? You want to run to Brittain? Tell him his little mouse is trying to roar?" She crossed her arms. "Go ahead. He'll hate you for being the bearer of bad news more than he'll hate me for doing it."

Harrison pulled his phone out again. He dialed a number, putting it to his ear while holding her gaze. "Kyle. It's Juarez. Your client at the Pierre has had a change of plans. Consider the contract fulfilled and keep the deposit."

He tossed the phone onto the bed. It bounced once and settled near her leg.

"You're right," Harrison said, stepping closer. He lowered his head until his mouth was inches from her ear. She could feel the heat radiating off him. "That escort... he's just a body. Brittain wouldn't care. He'd just buy you a new car and pay the guy off."

Angelina shivered, not from fear, but from the proximity.

"But if you really want to hurt him," Harrison whispered, his voice rough, "if you want to make Brittain Kane lose his mind... you don't need a gigolo."

He pulled back, his dark eyes locking onto hers.

"You need me."

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy and electric. Angelina stood frozen, her mind racing, processing the data. Harrison Juarez. Brittain's shadow. The man Brittain competed with for every deal, every headline, every accolade.

"You?" she asked. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, sharp and incredulous. She stepped back, putting distance between them. "You want to sleep with me? To get back at Brittain?"

Harrison shrugged. He walked over to the armchair and sat down, spreading his legs comfortably, claiming the space. "He took the port authority deal from me last week. I'm feeling petty."

"You're disgusting," she said.

"I'm effective," he countered. "Think about it, Angelina. You sleep with Kyle the escort, you get a momentary release and a potential blackmail risk. You sleep with me... and you destroy Brittain's ego forever. He can dismiss a hired hand. He can't dismiss me."

He was right. The logic was flawless. It was Machiavellian. It was exactly how she thought.

She walked to the window, looking out at the dark expanse of Central Park. Brittain had been cheating on her since the honeymoon. He treated her like a fixture, a lamp to be turned on when guests arrived. He thought she was stupid. He thought she was safe.

Sleeping with Harrison Juarez was a nuclear option. It was dangerous. It was reckless.

It was perfect.

She turned back to him. The hesitation was gone. "I have conditions."

Harrison raised an eyebrow, amused. "Do you?"

"This is a transaction," she said, her voice steady. "No feelings. No clinging. When we walk out of here, it never happened until I decide to use it."

"Agreed," Harrison said. He stood up. "I make it a rule not to fall for married women anyway."

"And one more thing," Angelina said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a sleek, black titanium card. Brittain's Centurion card. "I hate this room. It smells like stale lavender and desperation."

She tossed the card at him. Harrison caught it against his chest with one hand.

"Book the Penthouse," she commanded. "If I'm going to ruin my marriage, I'm going to do it on his dime. I want the most expensive suite in the city."

Harrison looked down at the card. Brittain Kane. Then he looked back at her. A slow, genuine grin spread across his face. It changed his entire demeanor, making him look younger, more dangerous.

"You are full of surprises, Mrs. Kane," he said.

He pulled out his phone and dialed the front desk. "This is Harrison Juarez. I need the Presidential Suite. Immediately. Charge it to the card I'll present at the desk... Yes, put a rush on it."

He hung up and extended a hand toward the door. "Shall we?"

Angelina looked at his hand. Large, calloused, steady. Taking it meant crossing a line she could never uncross.

She didn't take his hand. She walked past him, her head high, the heels of her shoes clicking rhythmically on the hardwood floor.

"Keep up, Juarez," she said.

Harrison let out a low laugh and followed her.

The elevator ride was silent. The air in the small metal box felt thin. They stood side by side, not touching, but the heat between them was palpable. Angelina watched their reflection in the polished brass doors. They looked like a power couple. They looked like predators.

The elevator surged upward, the gravity pressing down on her, making her knees weak. Or maybe that wasn't gravity.

The doors chimed and slid open. The penthouse foyer stretched out before them, marble floors gleaming under the crystal chandelier.

Harrison stepped out first. He turned to face her, loosening his tie with one hand. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by a dark, focused intensity.

"Last chance to run, Angelina," he said softly.

Angelina stepped out of the elevator. "Shut the door, Harrison."

The door clicked shut, sealing them in a world of gold leaf and velvet. The city lights of Manhattan sprawled out through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a billion uncaring eyes.

Harrison didn't waste time. He tossed his jacket onto a chair and walked toward her. He didn't rush. He moved with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was going to get.

Angelina's throat went dry. Brittain's idea of intimacy was quick, efficient, and usually happened with the lights off. This felt... raw.

Harrison stopped inches from her. He reached out and took the Hermès bag from her grip, setting it on the console table.

"Stop shaking," he murmured. "I'm not him."

The mention of Brittain was the trigger. The anger she had been suppressing for two years flared up, hot and bright. She didn't wait for him to initiate. She stood on her tiptoes, grabbed the lapels of his shirt, and pulled him down.

She kissed him. It wasn't gentle. It was a collision.

Harrison froze for a split second, surprised, before a low growl vibrated in his chest. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the floor, crushing her against him. He kissed her back with a hunger that bordered on violence. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her, tasting the vodka and the mint.

He carried her to the bedroom, not breaking the kiss. He laid her down on the massive bed, his body covering hers, a heavy, solid weight that felt grounding.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.

Angelina opened her eyes. Harrison was hovering over her, his eyes dark, searching.

"Say my name," he said. "I want to hear you say it."

"Harrison," she breathed.

He didn't just have sex with her. He dismantled her. Every touch was deliberate, every movement calculated to wring a reaction from her. He made her feel things she had convinced herself she was incapable of feeling. He forced her to be present, to be vocal, to be Angelina, not Mrs. Kane.

Afterward, the silence in the room was different. It wasn't heavy anymore. It was soft.

Angelina lay curled on her side, the high-thread-count sheets pulled up to her chin. She felt exhausted, sore, and strangely, incredibly hungry.

Harrison was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his eyes. He shifted, turning to look at her. He reached out, his index finger tracing the line of her spine.

"You're starving," he said. It wasn't a question.

Angelina's stomach growled loudly. She flushed. "I... I usually skip dinner."

"To fit into the sample sizes Brittain likes?" Harrison scoffed. He sat up and grabbed the room service menu. "Not tonight."

He picked up the hotel phone. "Two double cheeseburgers. Fries. Truffle aioli. And... a chocolate milkshake. Two straws."

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting cross-legged on the million-dollar bed, surrounded by greaseproof paper.

Angelina hesitated, holding the burger. It was greasy, heavy, everything she wasn't allowed to have.

"Eat it, Angelina," Harrison said, taking a massive bite of his own. "It's just food. It won't kill you."

She took a bite. The taste of salt, fat, and cheese exploded in her mouth. She groaned involuntarily. She ate the whole thing. She wiped a smudge of ketchup from her lip, but she missed a spot.

Harrison reached out. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping away the sauce. His touch was gentle, almost reverent. It was such a domestic, intimate gesture that it terrified her more than the sex had.

She pulled back sharply.

Harrison dropped his hand. The mask slid back into place, but his eyes remained soft.

"You staying?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Harrison lay back down, pulling the duvet up. "I'm not leaving a suite that costs fifteen grand a night until check-out. Besides," he closed his eyes, "we haven't finished the milkshake."

Angelina watched him sleep. For the first time in two years, she didn't feel alone. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.