The Billionaire's Lethal Substitute Wife
Five years ago, my fiancé and my adopted sister framed me, took my family trust, and cut my car's brake lines, leaving me with a shattered body in the freezing rain.
Now, struggling as a stunt double to fund my revenge, I risked my life to save a billionaire's trapped son from a locked room.
But instead of gratitude, I became the billionaire's prey.
Jaidyn Miles, the apex predator of Wall Street, investigated my crippling debts and threw a five-million-dollar contract in my face.
"You possess the single most valuable asset in this transaction. Your face."
He demanded I dye my hair jet black, wear specific white dresses, and use a bespoke perfume. He wanted me to be the living, breathing doll of his dead wife.
I refused to be a billionaire's prop and walked away.
But Jaidyn immediately bought the entire movie studio where I had just bled for a life-changing role, threatening to destroy hundreds of jobs and my only chance at a career if I didn't submit.
Why was I always just a tool to these wealthy, arrogant men? First a placeholder for a family trust, now a ghost for a dead woman?
I grabbed his contract and a pen, my eyes cold. I wouldn't be broken again.
"Three months, and you don't interfere with my shooting schedule."
I signed my name. I would take his five million, and I would use it to bury the people who ruined my life five years ago.
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Chapter 1
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."
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8.5
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But the heat in Miami isn't just from the sun. While Daniel's magnetic pull draws Tyla into a world of high-stakes parties and whispered promises, a blade is being sharpened in the shadows. Summer, the "best friend" who has lived in Tyla's shadow for years, has finally reached her breaking point.
Summer doesn't just want Daniel; she wants Tyla's life. And she's willing to burn both of them to the ground to get it.
7.6
Isolde Mitchell knew her wealthy husband was cheating on her, but the true nightmare began when her mother-in-law summoned her.
The older woman coldly announced that the mistress was pregnant with a boy and would be moving into their estate.
Because Isolde's family had gone bankrupt and she had only given birth to a frail daughter, she was deemed completely worthless.
When Isolde packed her bags and demanded a divorce, her husband Clark just laughed.
He threatened to use their ironclad prenup to leave her penniless and take full custody of her daughter just to torture her.
To make matters worse, he forced Isolde to secure a failing business deal with the ruthless billionaire Jacques Valdez, essentially ordering her to sell her body to get the signature.
"If you fail, you will never see Bria again."
He even sent his goons to snatch the little girl from her preschool to prove his point.
Isolde was completely cornered, trembling with a mix of rage and absolute despair.
How could the man she married be such a monster? She would rather die than let them destroy her daughter, but how could a bankrupt mother fight a powerful dynasty with absolutely nothing?
Out of options, she looked at the private business card the terrifying billionaire Jacques had unexpectedly given her daughter.
Swallowing her pride, she decided to make a deal with the devil himself, ready to use his power to tear her husband's family apart.
8.7
Brought back from a humble life in Montana, Nora found out she was the true biological heiress of the ultra-wealthy Beaumont family.
But her biological parents didn't love her; they loved the fake daughter, Olivia, much more.
The moment she arrived, her father pushed an engagement termination agreement across his massive desk, forcing her to give up her wealthy fiancé so Olivia could have him.
Her mother looked at her with pure disdain.
"You should know your place. Don't reach for things that were never meant for you."
To break her spirit, they moved her into a cramped, dusty servant's room. They even ordered the butler to feed her cold kitchen scraps and gristle.
They wanted to humiliate her, to make her feel like a piece of trash rather than a daughter.
They expected her to cry, to beg, and to be absolutely crushed by the realization that her own flesh and blood saw her only as a liability to their reputation.
They thought the country girl would easily fold under their united front of cruelty.
But Nora felt no sting of betrayal, only the calculating clarity of a chess player.
She calmly signed the paper, pulled out the Beaumont family trust rules, and looked them dead in the eye.
"Since I am the legal heir, I demand what belongs to me. I'm taking the master bedroom."
7.7
For three years, I was the unpaid maid, cook, and accountant for my boyfriend Kieran's family. His mother, Jeanie, never let me forget my place. "You're not legally family," she'd say, whenever I asked for basic respect.
Then I found the messages on his phone. He and Jeanie were arranging his engagement to Carolina Farley, a wealthy heiress. They called me a placeholder—someone who was just "around" until a better option came along.
Jeanie sat me down and told me it was time to leave, confident I had nowhere else to go.
She was wrong.
While they slept, I earned my CPA license. While they spent, I saved every dollar. While they dismissed me as "just the girlfriend," I bought my own condo.
When Kieran finally came crawling back, begging for another chance, I had one thing to say:
"I'm already married. To a man who didn't need three years to know my worth."
He thought I'd wait forever.
He thought wrong.
8.7
I stood as a ghost, watching the rhythmic thud of dirt hitting my own casket. My father, Senator Ellwood, dabbed his eyes for the cameras while my stepmother, Carroll, played the grieving mother perfectly, even though they were the ones who had paved the way for my murder.
The vision shifted to a high-rise office where Isadore Walker, the terrifying "Shadow Regent," was methodically bankrupting every elite family that had betrayed me. He pressed a silver koi fish necklace to his lips and triggered a massive explosion, choosing to burn the entire world down just to join me in death.
"Little Fish," he whispered.
In my first life, I was a naive pawn who believed my best friend, Catarina, when she claimed I simply slipped into the pool at my Debutante Ball. I let the opportunistic Cody Stevens play the hero who "saved" me, leading to a hollow engagement that ended in my ruin. I never knew that my stepmother had conspired with our housekeeper to hide my true identity and keep me from my biological family.
I died without ever understanding why Isadore, a man who treated me with cold indifference, would sacrifice everything for my sake. I didn't know that my entire life was a web of kidnappings and bribes designed to keep me as a political pawn.
Suddenly, the heat of the explosion warped into the agonizing burn of icy water. I broke the surface, gasping for air, back at the very party where my downfall began three years ago.
As I climbed out, I didn't look for Cody’s help. I wrapped myself in Isadore’s sandalwood-scented jacket and felt the cold steel of the tactical knife he had left in the pocket. This time, I wasn't the victim; I was the one who would light the fuse.
8.5
Aileen transmigrated into a dark, unfinished novel as the villainous, abusive wife of a powerful billionaire.
The moment she opened her eyes, her husband's calloused hand was crushing her throat, and her six-year-old stepson was pointing a box cutter at her face, screaming for her to die.
A cold system voice suddenly exploded in her brain, forcing a mandatory mission: save the villainous father and son, or face immediate death.
To survive the system's strict Out-Of-Character warnings, Aileen had to keep playing the role of the deranged, hateful wife.
She was despised by everyone. Her husband threatened to drag her to an asylum, and her terrified stepson scrubbed the floor with his own pajamas just to avoid her wrath.
Things escalated when the novel's original female lead publicly framed Aileen in Central Park, throwing herself onto the grass and clutching her pregnant belly.
"She pushed me. She tried to hurt the baby!"
Archer rushed over, shoved Aileen aside with absolute disgust, and looked at her with the eyes of a murderer.
Aileen felt a bitter wave of exhaustion. She had discovered the original owner's hidden antipsychotic pills; the woman wasn't just evil, she was severely mentally ill and completely broken by this loveless marriage.
Yet, no one cared, and her husband would always choose to believe his childhood sweetheart's fake tears.
Since everyone in this world was convinced she was an unpredictable lunatic, she decided to give them exactly what they expected.
Aileen turned her back on the ridiculous scene, a cold smile forming on her lips.
She was going to stage a massive, undeniable psychological breakdown, using her "insanity" as the perfect shield to play the system and rewrite her fate.