The SUV pulled into a dark, narrow alley behind the New York City Hall.

Ferris shoved his door open. A blast of cold city wind rushed into the heated cabin. He stepped out, turned around, and grabbed the collar of Colette's thin jacket.

He yanked her out of the car.

Colette stumbled onto the pavement. Ferris's fingers wrapped around her wrist, squeezing the delicate bones until she gasped in pain.

Two rows of men in black suits flanked them. Trapped in the middle, Colette was dragged toward a heavy wooden door that looked like the entrance to a tomb.

They stepped into a windowless, secret office deep inside the building. The air in the room was stale, smelling of dust and old paper.

Lex Finch, a high-end celebrity photographer, stood in the corner. He had expensive lighting umbrellas set up and waiting. He offered Ferris a polite nod.

A sweaty city clerk rushed forward. His hands shook as he slid a pre-drafted marriage certificate across the desk.

Ferris snatched a heavy fountain pen from the clerk. He slammed it down on the paper.

"Sign it," Ferris ordered.

Colette stared at the document. The black ink looked like a death warrant. She shook her head frantically, backing away from the desk.

Ferris closed the distance in one stride. His large hand clamped down on the back of her neck. He forced her head down, pressing her chest against the edge of the desk.

He leaned down, his breath brushing her ear.

"Sign it," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "Or I will make sure your father's memory is erased from every record that exists, and whatever pathetic pieces are left of the Wheeler name will be dragged through the mud until there is absolutely nothing left."

Colette's heart stopped. Her father. He was the only family who had stood by her after the scandal—the one person who had never stopped believing in her innocence. Her mother had disappeared into her own world of grief and denial months ago, refusing to even look at her daughter after the accusations surfaced. But her father had fought. He had mortgaged everything, called in every favor, exhausted every legal avenue to prove her innocence. The thought of his sacrifice being erased, his legacy completely destroyed, was more than she could bear.

The threat shattered the last of her resistance. Tears spilled over her lashes as her trembling fingers reached for the heavy pen.

Her hand shook violently. The metal nib scratched against the thick paper, leaving a jagged, messy signature. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper.

She finished the last letter. A single, hot tear dropped onto the paper, blurring the ink.

Ferris's eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. He snatched the paper out from under her hand and shoved it at the clerk to stamp.

"Mr. Vance," Lex Finch spoke up softly. "If you could step closer for the official photo."

Ferris turned to Colette. He wrapped his arm around her waist and yanked her against his side. His grip was brutal, crushing her ribs.

Colette stood rigid as a board. Her face was a mask of pure agony.

Ferris's fingers slid to her lower back. He pinched the soft flesh above her hip, digging his nails in hard.

"Smile," he commanded through gritted teeth.

Colette sucked in a sharp breath of pain. She forced the corners of her mouth up, creating a hollow, broken smile for the camera.

The bright flash blinded her. The moment was immortalized.

The second the flash faded, Ferris dropped his arm. He took a quick step back, his face twisting with disgust as if her touch had burned him.

He turned and walked toward the exit. Bishop stepped up behind Colette and shoved her forward to follow.

Lex Finch was already tapping on his laptop, sending the high-res photos to every major gossip outlet in the country.

They walked out the back door.

A dozen paparazzi jumped out from behind dumpsters, their cameras firing like machine guns.

Ferris instantly pulled Colette against his chest. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over her head, shielding her face from the flashes. He played the role of the fiercely protective husband perfectly.

Colette squeezed her eyes shut against the blinding lights. She felt like a hollow doll as Bishop guided her into the back of the SUV.

Ferris didn't get in with her. He gave her one last, dead look before turning and walking toward a sleek Maybach parked ahead.

Bishop climbed into the SUV and sat across from her. The driver hit the gas, merging into the heavy traffic.

Colette leaned her head back against the leather. Her chest heaved. She just needed one minute to breathe.

Bishop reached beside him. Without a word, he tossed a rolled-up, day-old Wall Street Journal onto her lap.

Colette frowned. She picked up the paper and unrolled it.

The bold, black headline on the front page punched the air out of her lungs: WHEELER ENTERPRISES DECLARES BANKRUPTCY AMID SEC PROBE.

Her hands started to shake. She looked up at Bishop, her eyes wide with panic.

"Where is my father?" her voice trembled. "What happened to him?"

Bishop stared at her with dead eyes.

"He couldn't handle the pressure of the federal investigation," Bishop said flatly. "He jumped off the roof of your company headquarters three weeks ago. Your mother's been missing ever since. Last we heard, she was wandering the streets of Queens, completely broken."

The newspaper slipped from Colette's numb fingers.

A guttural, agonizing scream ripped from her throat, tearing through the silence of the car. She doubled over, clutching her stomach as the world collapsed into darkness.

The SUV sped down the Long Island Expressway.

Colette was curled into a tight ball on the floorboards of the backseat. She was crying so hard she was dry heaving, her body convulsing with every gasp for air.

Bishop frowned in annoyance. He reached over and hit the window switch.

The glass rolled down. Freezing, violent wind roared into the cabin, whipping against Colette's thin clothes and chilling her to the bone.

Thirty minutes later, the massive, wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate slowly parted.

The SUV crunched over the gravel driveway and rolled to a stop in front of a towering marble fountain.

The door opened. Colette tried to push herself up, but her legs were completely numb.

Two massive estate guards reached in. They grabbed her under the armpits and hauled her out of the car like a sack of garbage.

Her left sneaker fell off, hitting the pavement. Her bare foot dragged against the rough stone as they hauled her up the wide granite steps.

Alistair Pemberton, the head butler, pulled open the heavy mahogany double doors.

The guards dragged her into the center of the grand foyer. They let go.

Colette hit the hard marble floor with a sickening thud. The impact scraped the skin off her palms. She curled inward, a weak moan escaping her lips.

Mitch and Brenda Higgins were sitting on the velvet sofas in the living room. When they saw her, they shot to their feet.

Brenda's sharp heels clicked furiously against the marble. She lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of Colette's tangled hair, yanking her head back.

Smack.

The slap echoed through the massive hall. Brenda's palm struck Colette's cheek with explosive force.

Colette's head snapped to the side. Her ears rang violently. A warm drop of blood pooled in the corner of her mouth.

Mitch stood over her, his face purple with rage. "You murderer!" he screamed, pointing a shaking finger at her. "You ruined my daughter's life!"

Colette swallowed the blood in her mouth. "I didn't," she sobbed, her words slurring from the pain. "I wasn't even involved in the party planning..."

The denial pushed Brenda over the edge. She pulled back her pointed leather shoe and kicked Colette squarely in the stomach.

Colette screamed. She curled into a tight ball, clutching her abdomen. Cold sweat instantly soaked through her shirt.

A dozen maids stood in the shadows of the hallway. Not a single one moved to help.

Brenda was panting, completely unhinged. She reached over to a side table, grabbed a heavy crystal vase filled with freezing water and wilted roses, and hurled the freezing contents directly into Colette's face, before lunging forward to violently tear at her collar.

"Stop."

The single, icy word cut through the chaos.

Brenda froze. The dripping vase hovered in her shaking hands.

Ferris walked slowly down the curved grand staircase. His hands were in his pockets. He didn't look angry; he looked bored.

He stepped up to Brenda, took the heavy vase from her trembling hands, and tossed it carelessly onto the rug.

Mitch glared at him. "Why did you bring her here, Ferris? Why did you marry the bitch who destroyed Ellie?"

Ferris let out a dark chuckle. He didn't even glance down at Colette, who was bleeding at his feet.

"It's a media trap," Ferris said, keeping his voice low. "Ellie is out there hiding. She's watching. If she sees me parading this trash around as my beloved new wife, it will trigger an emotional response. It will force her out of hiding."

Mitch and Brenda stared at him. Slowly, the rage in their eyes morphed into a desperate, twisted hope.

Lying on the freezing marble, Colette heard every single word.

The last fragile piece of her soul shattered into dust. She wasn't even a person to him. She was just a piece of bait on a hook.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Hot, humiliating tears ran down her bruised face and dripped onto the cold stone.

Alistair escorted the Higginses out. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, sealing the estate like a vault.

The massive foyer was dead silent. Only Ferris and Colette remained.

Colette clutched her burning stomach. She reached out, her bloody palm gripping the leg of the sofa. Her arms shook violently as she forced herself to stand.

She swayed on her feet, lifting her head. Her swollen, red eyes locked onto the man standing in front of her.

"Are human lives just poker chips to you?" her voice was a raw, broken rasp.

Ferris's jaw ticked. The pure hatred in her eyes struck a nerve he didn't know he had. His leather shoes thudded against the marble as he closed the distance between them.

His hand shot out. His thumb and fingers clamped around her jawline, forcing her head up.

"To get Ellie back?" he said, his voice a lethal whisper. "Your life isn't even worth the dirt on my shoes."

He released her face abruptly, stepping back as if her skin was diseased. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped his fingers.

The sudden loss of his grip threw Colette off balance. She stumbled backward, her lower back slamming hard against the sharp edge of the glass coffee table.

Ferris's eyes dropped to her face. The red handprint on her cheek was already turning a deep, ugly purple.

His brow furrowed. He had a highly publicized, exclusive interview scheduled for tomorrow morning. That bruise was a massive liability.

He stepped forward and grabbed her thin wrist.

Before she could process what was happening, he dragged her toward the grand staircase.

"Let go!" she cried out, stumbling over her own feet.

He didn't slow down. He hauled her up the stairs. Her bare ankle clipped the sharp edge of a marble step, leaving a dark, painful scrape.

Ferris kicked open the door to the master bedroom. He threw her forward.

Colette crashed into a wide, leather sofa, sinking deep into the cushions. She scrambled backward, pressing her spine against the armrest as she watched him walk to a custom medical cabinet in the corner.

He pulled out a medical ice pack and a tube of heavy-duty swelling cream. His face was an emotionless mask as he walked back to her.

He stood over her, casting a dark shadow.

"Look up," he commanded.

Colette turned her face away. She clenched her jaw, refusing to accept this twisted, degrading form of charity.

Ferris's patience snapped. He reached down, his large hand wrapping around the back of her head, locking her skull in place.

He pressed the freezing ice pack directly against her swollen cheek.

There was no towel, no barrier. The brutal cold burned her skin. Colette gasped, her hands flying up to grip his wrist. Physiological tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracking down her face.

He ignored her whimper. He pressed harder, forcing the cold deep into the bruised tissue.

"Tomorrow morning, there will be cameras," he said, staring dead into her eyes. "You will smile. You will act like a blushing, deeply in love bride."

He leaned closer, his breath hitting her face. "If you show the reporters even a fraction of a flaw, I will make sure you feel a hundred times more pain than you do right now."

He pulled the ice away, smeared a thick layer of cream over the bruise, and tossed the used cotton swab into a metal trash can. It hit the bottom with a sharp ping.

He turned his back to her and walked toward the master bathroom. He didn't look back.

Just as his hand hit the doorknob, he stopped.

"Don't bleed on my beds tonight," he ordered coldly.

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Colette pulled her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs, burying her face in her knees as the silence of the room swallowed her whole.