The Wall Street Tyrant's Fake Wife

Jalynn stood in front of the mirror in the women's restroom at New York City Hall. She took a deep breath. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, uneven jerks. She pressed her palms flat against the cold porcelain edge of the sink. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it made her teeth ache.

She raised her trembling hands to her head. Her thick, wild black hair cascaded down her back in loose waves. She grabbed a fistful of it and twisted it hard. The pull on her scalp sent a sharp sting behind her eyes. She pinned the hair back into a tight, severe low bun. Not a single strand was left out of place.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a rough paper towel. She pressed it against her mouth and scrubbed. The friction burned her skin. The bold, aggressive red lipstick smeared across the white paper like a bloodstain. She kept rubbing until her lips felt raw and swollen. She pulled out a pale, muted pink gloss and applied a thin layer.

She stared at the stranger in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was a perfect imitation, her expression molded into the same submissive, gentle look as Ericka Vance. Deryl Atkins's dead fiancée. A wave of pure, physical nausea hit Jalynn's stomach. Acid burned the back of her throat. She gripped the sink tighter until her knuckles turned completely white.

The image of her father flashed behind her eyes. Silas Horton looked ten years older than he had a month ago. The crushing debt and the looming trust crisis had carved deep, dark hollows into his cheeks. His hands shook every time he held a pen.

Jalynn squeezed her eyes shut. She slapped her own cheeks, the sharp sting forcing her to focus. She opened her eyes and forced the corners of her mouth up. She practiced the smile. It was quiet. It was obedient. It was everything she was not.

She looked down at her clothes. The conservative, cream-colored tweed suit scratched against her collarbones. It felt like a straitjacket. She grabbed her vintage clutch from the counter, pushed open the heavy bathroom door, and stepped out into the hallway.

Her low heels clicked against the marble floor. The sound echoed in the empty corridor. Every step felt like a physical blow to her spine. She was walking toward her own execution.

At the end of the hall, K.C. Fleming stood outside a private waiting room. Deryl's chief assistant was staring down at his expensive watch.

K.C. heard her approaching and looked up. His eyes scanned her conservative suit and her tightly pulled hair. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed instantly by a cold, mocking glint in his eyes. He knew exactly what she was doing.

He didn't say a word. He just reached out and pushed the heavy oak door open. He stepped aside, his posture stiff and entirely professional.

Jalynn squeezed the vintage clutch until the metal clasp dug into her palm. She sucked in a breath of stale air and walked into the room that would seal her fate.

The air conditioning inside the waiting room was blasting. The sudden drop in temperature stripped the heat from her skin. A violent shiver ripped through her shoulders.

Deryl Atkins stood with his back to her. The Wall Street titan looked like a statue carved from solid ice. He was staring out the massive floor-to-ceiling window, his broad shoulders blocking the sunlight.

He heard the door close. He turned around slowly. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto her. The gaze felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. He scanned her from the top of her tight bun down to her sensible shoes.

Jalynn immediately dropped her chin. She stared at the polished wood floor. She perfectly mimicked the shy, timid posture that Ericka was famous for. She made herself look small.

Deryl didn't speak. He walked straight to the long walnut table in the center of the room. He picked up a thick stack of papers and tossed them onto the surface. The heavy thud echoed in the quiet room.

"Read it," Deryl said. His voice was completely devoid of warmth. It sounded like metal scraping against ice. "Understand your place in this arrangement. Do not attempt to cross the boundaries set in that contract. You are a placeholder. Nothing more."

Jalynn bit down hard on the soft inside of her cheek. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. She kept her head down.

"I understand completely," Jalynn said. Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "I don't expect anything else."

She walked to the table. She picked up the heavy Montblanc pen resting next to the papers. She didn't need to read the clauses; she knew they would be designed to humiliate her. All that mattered was the outcome. She flipped straight to the last page and signed her name in quick, fluid strokes.

Deryl narrowed his eyes. He watched her hand move across the paper. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he evaluated the speed of her compliance.

A sharp knock on the door broke the heavy silence. A city clerk walked in, carrying a clipboard and a wide, overly enthusiastic smile.

"Good morning," the clerk said, oblivious to the suffocating tension in the room. "I just need both of your signatures here on the marriage license, with me as your witness."

Deryl took the pen from Jalynn's hand. Their fingers didn't touch. He signed his name with aggressive, sharp strokes. There was no hesitation. No reverence for the act.

He handed the pen back to her. Jalynn took it. Her fingers trembled slightly. She pressed the tip to the paper and signed her life away.

"Congratulations," the clerk said. "You are officially husband and wife." The clerk pulled a small velvet box from his pocket and placed it on the table.

Deryl picked up the box and snapped it open. Inside sat a massive, flawless diamond ring. The symbol of the Atkins family matriarch.

He reached out and grabbed Jalynn's left hand. His grip was rigid. His skin was freezing cold. He shoved the heavy ring onto her ring finger. The metal scraped against her knuckle. It felt like a shackle snapping shut.

Jalynn kept her eyes on the floor. "Thank you," she whispered. She injected the exact right amount of pathetic gratitude into her voice.

Deryl dropped her hand. He didn't even look at her face.

"My lawyers will wire the initial funds to the Horton accounts within the hour," Deryl said, his voice flat. He didn't bother to look at her as he spoke, already turning toward the door. K.C. followed right behind him.

The heavy oak door clicked shut.

Jalynn's shoulders instantly dropped. The fake, timid smile vanished from her face. Her facial muscles ached from the strain.

She lifted her left hand. The massive diamond caught the harsh light of the room and threw cold sparks across the walls. She let out a long, shaky breath. Her chest felt hollow, but her mind was clear. Horton Enterprises was going to survive.