The Wall Street Tyrant's Fake Wife

The heavy bass of the electronic dance music hit Jalynn's chest the moment she walked into the underground club in Lower Manhattan. The sound waves physically vibrated against her ribs.

The air was thick. It smelled like stale beer, sweat, and cheap weed. For Jalynn, the toxic atmosphere felt like pure oxygen. It was real. It was dirty. It was everything the Atkins estate was not.

She pushed her way through the packed, sweaty bodies on the dance floor. Several men tried to grab her waist or shout over the music to get her attention. She ignored them all, her rhinestone heels crushing the sticky floor.

She reached the long, sticky bar. She slammed a crisp hundred-dollar bill onto the counter.

The bartender saw the money and immediately stepped over. He poured a heavy shot of cheap tequila and slid it across the wet surface. Jalynn picked it up, tilted her head back, and threw the liquid down her throat.

The alcohol burned like battery acid. It hit her stomach with a hot, heavy thud. The tension in her neck muscles finally began to uncoil.

A sudden roar of shouting erupted from the far end of the bar. Jalynn turned her head.

Vinnie Koslowski, a massive guy covered in faded prison tattoos, was standing on a barstool. Ten full shot glasses of tequila were lined up on the counter in front of him. He was pounding his massive chest, shouting insults at the crowd, mocking them for being too scared to challenge the reigning drinking champion of the underground.

Jalynn stared at the shots. The adrenaline that had been suppressed all day suddenly spiked in her blood. Her destructive urge craved a target.

She shoved a guy out of her way and walked straight up to Vinnie. She unclasped her purse, pulled out a thick stack of fifty-dollar bills, and slapped them down on the bar right next to the shot glasses.

The crowd around them instantly started screaming and whistling. They looked at the petite girl with the ash-blonde hair and the tight black dress, expecting her to pass out after two drinks.

Vinnie looked down at her. He sneered, his breath reeking of alcohol. "Nobody is going to hold your hair back when you puke, sweetheart."

Jalynn's lips curled into a sharp, arrogant smirk. She didn't say a word. She just reached out, grabbed the first shot glass, and raised it toward him in a mock toast.

Upstairs, behind the soundproof, one-way glass of the VIP lounge, the atmosphere was dead silent.

Deryl Atkins sat deep in a velvet armchair. He held a crystal glass of whiskey in his right hand. His eyes were half-closed, radiating pure, suffocating boredom.

Jax Adler, a billionaire heir with too much free time, was pressing his face against the glass, scanning the crowd below like a kid in a candy store.

Preston Carmichael sat on the sofa, flipping through a thick stack of merger documents, occasionally muttering numbers to Deryl.

Suddenly, Jax slapped his hand against the glass. The loud smack made Preston jump.

"Look at this!" Jax yelled, pointing down at the bar. "That blonde in the black dress is actually challenging Vinnie. She's going to get destroyed."

Deryl didn't move a muscle. He kept his eyes on his whiskey. The ice clinked softly against the crystal. He had zero interest in the trashy entertainment of the lower levels.

Jax wouldn't shut up. "Damn, look at the way she moves. She's aggressive. I bet she doesn't even make it to the fourth shot."

The constant noise grated on Deryl's nerves. His jaw tightened. To shut Jax up, Deryl pushed himself out of the armchair. He walked slowly toward the glass, his drink still in his hand.

He looked down. Through the flashing strobe lights and the sea of moving bodies, his eyes locked onto the bar.

He saw the back of the woman in the black slip dress. The fabric clung to her spine. She moved with a fluid, reckless energy.

Deryl watched as she picked up the third shot glass. She threw her head back and swallowed the tequila in one gulp.

Deryl's eyes narrowed. Something about the angle of her neck, the exact way she tilted her chin upward when she drank, sent a strange jolt through his brain.

Down below, Jalynn slammed the empty glass onto the bar. She turned her head slightly to the side and raised her eyebrow at Vinnie in a silent, mocking challenge.

The muscles in Deryl's forearm suddenly locked. His fingers gripped the crystal glass so hard his knuckles turned bone white.

An image flashed in his mind. This morning. The waiting room at City Hall. The timid, trembling woman who kept her eyes glued to the floor. The woman who looked exactly like Jalynn.

It was impossible. The energy radiating from the woman downstairs was violent and raw. The woman he married this morning was a fragile, broken doll.

But Deryl's instincts were never wrong. His eyes darkened, turning into black, bottomless pits. He stood perfectly still, watching the blonde woman like a predator tracking a bleeding animal in the snow.