The Mad Billionaire's Genius Undercover Wife

The guest room they gave me was a glorified closet. It smelled of mothballs and Kayla's discarded perfumes. Boxes were stacked against the walls, labeled "Charity" in Brenda's looping handwriting, though I doubted any of it would ever see a donation bin.

I locked the door. It was a flimsy lock, the kind you could pick with a hairpin, but it was a boundary.

I moved to the mirror. The girl staring back at me was a stranger. Blonde hair dyed badly, roots showing, skin pale and devoid of makeup. I looked tired. I looked weak.

I reached up to my ear. The cheap plastic studs I wore were hollow. I unscrewed the back of the left one and tapped it into my palm. A receiver, no bigger than a grain of rice. I slid it into my ear canal. It vanished.

"Fox," the voice in my ear was clear, crisp. "This is Wolf. We have the latest vitals on the target."

"Go ahead," I whispered. I watched the door as I spoke.

"Intel is spotty due to the Faraday shielding in the West Wing," Wolf said. "But thermal imaging suggests his core temperature is erratic. Heart rate variability is dangerously low. It's consistent with high-dose neurotoxin exposure. If we don't intervene within seventy-two hours, there won't be a mind left to save."

I felt a cold spike of anger in my gut. They weren't just imprisoning him; they were erasing him. "Understood," I said. "I need the antidote components ready for the drop."

"We're working on it. But be careful, Fox. The Vances are the least of your worries. The Sterling estate is a fortress."

I was about to reply when my instincts flared. The floorboards in the hallway were old; they groaned under weight. Someone was coming. Heavy steps. Unsteady.

I ripped the receiver out of my ear and palmed it just as the wood of the door frame splintered. The lock gave way with a pathetic crunch.

Kayla stood in the doorway. She was swaying slightly, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a small, silver object in the other. Her eyes were glassy, smeared with mascara.

"Who said you could lock the door?" she slurred. "This is my house. My room."

I backed away, pressing myself against the dresser. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice trembling. "I just... I wanted to change."

She stumbled into the room, kicking the door shut behind her. She looked at me, really looked at me, and her face twisted into a mask of ugly jealousy.

"You think you're pretty, don't you?" she spat. "Under all that dirt. You think you can go there and seduce him? Take my money?"

"No, Kayla, please," I held up my hands. "I just want to help."

"Liar!" She lunged.

The silver object in her hand flashed. It was a dermaplaning razor, small but sharp enough to slice skin open. She swung it toward my face.

Time seemed to slow down. It was a phenomenon I had lived with for ten years-tachypsychia. In the high-stress moment of an attack, my brain processed information faster than reality.

I saw the razor coming in an arc toward my left cheek. I saw Kayla's weight shifted entirely onto her right foot, her balance compromised by the alcohol. I saw the exposed tendons in her wrist.

I could have broken her arm in three places before she blinked. I could have crushed her trachea.

But Serena Vance, the trailer park girl, couldn't do that.

I let out a high-pitched scream and threw myself to the side, flailing my arms like a panicked child.

Kayla missed my face by an inch. Her momentum carried her forward, and she crashed into the bathroom vanity.

She shrieked, turning around, the razor slashing wildly now. "You little bitch!"

She came at me again in the narrow space between the bed and the bathroom door. There was no room to run.

I fell back against the bathtub. As she brought the razor down, I caught her wrist. To her, it would feel like a desperate grab. To me, it was a calculated block. My thumb pressed into the pressure point at the base of her ulna.

She gasped, her fingers going numb. The razor clattered to the tile floor.

I didn't let go. I used her own forward momentum and pivoted my hips. I spun her around and slammed her chest-first against the edge of the bathtub.

Water from the tap I had been running earlier splashed up, soaking her silk robe. I pressed her face down toward the water for a fraction of a second-just enough to trigger the mammalian drowning reflex, just enough to terrify her.

"Let me go!" she gurgled, thrashing.

I heard footsteps in the hall. Heavy, angry footsteps. Brenda.

I released Kayla instantly. I threw myself onto the wet floor, scrambling backward until my back hit the toilet. I grabbed a towel and held it to my chest, hyperventilating.

Brenda burst into the room. "What the hell is going on in here?"

Kayla was pulling herself up from the tub, coughing, water dripping from her nose. "She attacked me!" she screamed. "She tried to drown me!"

Brenda looked at Kayla, then at me. I was huddled in the corner, shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

"I... she fell," I sobbed. "She was dancing... she had the knife... I tried to catch her... I'm so sorry!"

Brenda looked at the vodka bottle on the floor. She looked at the razor. She looked at her daughter, who was clearly drunk out of her mind.

"You idiot," Brenda hissed at Kayla. "You're wasted."

"She broke my wrist!" Kayla wailed, holding her arm.

Brenda grabbed Kayla's arm and inspected it. "It's not broken, you drama queen. It's barely red."

She turned to me. She walked over and slapped me across the face.

The impact stung, snapping my head to the side. I let the tears spill over. I didn't flinch. I took it.

"Clean this mess up," Brenda ordered. "And if you touch my daughter again, I will have Frank throw you out on the highway."

"I'm sorry, Aunt Brenda. I'm so sorry." I kept my head down, hiding my face in the towel.

Brenda dragged Kayla out of the room. I heard them arguing down the hall, Kayla's drunken protests fading into the distance.

I sat on the cold tile floor for a long moment. I lowered the towel. My expression was blank. I touched my cheek where she had slapped me. It was throbbing.

Good. The bruise would help sell the story tomorrow.

I stood up and looked in the mirror again. I wiped the fake tears from my eyes.

"One down," I whispered to the reflection.