Fake Bankruptcy The Pampered Wifey of an Imperious President

The heavy mahogany door of the Plaza Hotel's presidential suite stood before Isidora.

She gripped the universal keycard so tightly that the sharp plastic edges bit into her palm. The pain was grounding.

She swiped the card. The green light blinked, followed by a soft click.

Isidora pushed the door open. The air inside hit her like a physical blow, thick with the smell of expensive champagne and cheap lust.

She stepped onto the Persian rug. Her eyes immediately locked onto a custom Armani suit jacket discarded on the floor. It belonged to Kevin.

A black lace bra hung from the edge of the crystal chandelier in the hallway. It was Chantelle's, her former good friend.

Isidora's stomach violently contracted, acid burned the back of her throat. This was the man she was supposed to marry in a few months.

From the half-open bedroom door, the unmistakable sounds of wet skin slapping against skin and heavy, uninhibited moans echoed through the quiet suite.

She didn't cry. Instead, a freezing calm washed over her veins.

Isidora pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened the camera, switched to video mode, and made sure the flash was off.

She walked toward the bedroom and kicked the door wide open with her heel.

The screen of her phone illuminated the tangled limbs on the king-sized bed. Kevin was on top, his face buried in the blonde model's neck.

The sudden light made Kevin freeze. He snapped his head around, his eyes wide with sheer panic.

"What the hell!" Kevin roared, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at the door. "You creepy, ugly freak! Get out!"

Isidora didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head, letting the pillow hit the doorframe.

Her thumb pressed the red stop button. The video was saved.

She looked at Kevin's pale, sweaty face. There was no jealousy in her chest, only the cold satisfaction of a hunter bagging a kill.

Chantelle let out a piercing scream, pulling the silk sheets up to cover her chest.

Isidora turned her back on them. She walked out of the suite, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor in a steady, ruthless rhythm.

By the time she reached the elevator, her lungs felt like they were collapsing. She slammed her hand against the button for the rooftop bar.

She needed alcohol. She needed it to burn away the filth she had just witnessed.

The elevator doors opened directly into the dim, purple ambient lighting of the rooftop bar. The heavy bass of a jazz band vibrated against her ribcage, but it couldn't drown out the churning in her stomach. She forced the nausea down, her face still a mask of thick, uneven foundation and fake freckles, her eyes hidden behind hideous, thick-rimmed black glasses. She was a walking, breathing joke, and tonight, she would lean into it.

She walked to the most isolated corner of the bar, ignoring the sideways glances her strange appearance attracted.

"Dry martini. Make it your strongest," Isidora told the bartender.

When the glass arrived, she didn't sip it. She threw her head back and swallowed the burning liquid in one go.

The alcohol hit her bloodstream like a match dropped in gasoline. Her head spun.