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.

The sound of the shower was still running in the bathroom when the bedroom door swung open.

Alistair Pemberton stood in the doorway. His face was pinched with disdain. Two maids with hard expressions flanked him.

"The master will not have you sullying his linens," Alistair announced, his voice devoid of any warmth. "He ordered your relocation to the basement. He expects the stylists to fix whatever damage the night air might do."

One of the maids marched over to the sofa. She grabbed Colette's arm and yanked her upward.

Colette groaned as her bruised back protested, but she didn't fight back. She had no energy left.

The other maid pulled a black plastic trash bag from her apron. She swept Colette's lone sneaker and her cheap jacket off the floor, tossing them into the bag like garbage.

They pushed Colette out of the master suite. They didn't take the grand staircase. Instead, they shoved her down a narrow, steep set of wooden stairs meant for the servants.

The further down they went, the colder the air became. The smell of mildew and damp earth filled her lungs. The overhead lights flickered, casting long, eerie shadows on the concrete walls.

They reached the end of the hall. A maid shoved open a chipped wooden door and pushed Colette inside.

The heavy door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked loudly into place.

"Keep quiet," Alistair's voice came through the wood. "Do not test the master's temper."

Colette stood in the center of the tiny room. A single yellow bulb hung from a wire on the ceiling. There was a narrow cot with a thin mattress against the wall.

The room was suffocating. It smelled faintly of damp mildew and old dust, and the freezing cold radiating from the concrete floor seeped through her thin sneaker and numbed her bare toes, sending a familiar, terrifying chill up her spine. She felt as though she had merely been transferred from one concrete cage to another, more exquisite prison.

Her legs gave out. She collapsed onto the edge of the cot. The wooden slats shrieked in protest.

The silence of the night pressed in on her. Suddenly, the image of her father's warm smile flashed behind her eyes. Then, the horrific thought of his body falling from the top of the Wheeler building ripped through her mind.

She clamped both hands over her mouth to muffle the agonizing sob that tore out of her throat.

Tears poured down her face, soaking into the rough, musty fabric of the mattress.

The basement was freezing. The damp cold seeped through her thin clothes, sinking straight into her bones. She pulled her knees to her chest, shivering violently in the dark.

Outside, the wind howled off the Long Island Sound, rattling the tiny, dirt-caked window near the ceiling.

She didn't sleep. She couldn't. She stared at a water stain on the concrete ceiling until her eyes burned.

Hours later, a sliver of pale gray light crept through the dirty glass. Morning.

Colette's eyes were swollen to the size of golf balls. Her skin was the color of ash.

The deadbolt snapped open. The sudden flood of bright hallway light made her flinch.

Three maids stormed into the room. They grabbed her by the arms and hauled her to her feet, dragging her out of the basement and up to the second floor.

They pushed her into a massive, brightly lit dressing room.

Julian, a top-tier celebrity makeup artist, and Roxanne, an elite stylist, were waiting with their assistants.

Julian grabbed Colette's chin, turning her face left and right. He clicked his tongue in disgust. "Look at this disaster. She looks like a corpse."

Roxanne carefully unzipped a garment bag, revealing a breathtaking, pure white haute couture gown.

They forced Colette into a chair in front of a massive Hollywood mirror.

For two hours, it was pure physical torture. Heavy concealer was spackled over her bruised cheek and dark circles. Hairpins scraped aggressively against her scalp as her hair was pulled into an intricate updo. Cold setting spray hit her face like ice water.

When they finally forced her into the gown, she stood in front of the full-length mirror.

The woman staring back at her was flawless. Radiant. Expensive. But her eyes were completely dead. She looked like a beautifully painted porcelain doll with no soul.

Roxanne clapped her hands together, a wide smile on her face.

"Perfect," she declared. "Now we just wait for Mr. Vance to inspect his bride."