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The Billionaire's Rival: My Sweet Revenge Novel Cover

The Billionaire's Rival: My Sweet Revenge

I had spent two years playing the perfect Stepford Wife to billionaire Brittain Kane, acting as the obedient accessory while he built his empire. I played the fool until I found his second phone, the one filled with messages and photos of a nineteen-year-old hostess. Determined to balance the scales, I checked into the Pierre Hotel and spent twenty-five thousand dollars to hire a high-end male escort. I wanted one night of rebellion to wash away the two years of humiliation and finally even the score. But when the heavy footsteps stopped outside my door, the man who walked in wasn’t the professional I had booked. It was Harrison Juarez—my husband’s most ruthless business rival and supposed "best friend." He stood there in a suit that cost more than my car, holding a screenshot of my scandalous booking on his phone. My blood turned to ice as I realized my carefully constructed exit plan was over. He had the proof, the leverage, and the power to leave me with nothing in a divorce. He mocked my "cheap courage" and told me that sleeping with a hired hand wouldn't hurt a man like Brittain; he’d just pay the guy off and buy me a new car to shut me up. The fear inside me snapped, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. I looked at the man who held my life in his hands and realized he wasn't there to expose me. He was there because he was petty, effective, and wanted to destroy Brittain just as much as I did. "If you really want to make Brittain Kane lose his mind," Harrison whispered, his voice rough against my ear, "you don't need a gigolo. You need me." I didn't hesitate. I reached into my bag, pulled out my husband’s black Centurion card, and tossed it at my husband's greatest enemy. I told him to book the most expensive penthouse in the city, because if I was going to ruin my marriage, I was going to do it on Brittain’s dime with the one man he feared most.
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Chapter 7

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was transformed. towering floral arrangements, endless champagne, the flashing lights of the paparazzi. Angelina smiled until her jaw ached. She held onto Brittain's arm, a perfect accessory in red silk.

They were seated at a prime table. When Angelina saw the place cards, a chill ran down her spine. Harrison Juarez. Placed directly to her right. This was no accident. The seating chart was a declaration of war, and Harrison had fired the first shot.

He was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. He didn't look at her when they sat down. He was talking to a senator, charming and dangerous.

Dinner was served. Brittain was droning on about his yacht. Angelina kept her hands in her lap, staring at her salad.

"Mrs. Kane," Harrison said suddenly.

She looked up. He was holding a bread basket. "Roll?"

"No, thank you," she said.

"You should eat," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "You need your strength."

Under the table, something brushed against her knee.

Angelina jumped slightly. Brittain looked at her. "What?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Static."

Harrison took a sip of his wine, his face a mask of polite disinterest. But under the long tablecloth, his hand moved. It slid up her calf, warm and rough against her skin. His fingers hooked around the back of her knee.

Angelina stopped breathing. They were surrounded by hundreds of people. Brittain was right there.

Harrison's hand moved higher, his thumb tracing circles on the inside of her thigh.

"So, Brittain," Harrison said, his voice smooth, "how is the merger going?"

Brittain launched into a monologue. Harrison nodded, pretending to listen, while his hand inched higher, teasing the hem of her dress.

Angelina gripped her fork so hard it bent. She couldn't move. If she pulled away, she'd make a scene.

Harrison squeezed her thigh firmly, once, then withdrew his hand.

He raised his glass to her. A silent toast.

Angelina grabbed her water glass and drained it. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might pass out. This wasn't just revenge. This was madness.

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