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."

The heavy double doors of the dressing room swung open.

Ferris stepped inside. He was dressed in a razor-sharp, custom black suit that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly.

His eyes swept past the stylists and landed directly on Colette.

His footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second.

The pure white gown clung to her narrow waist, cascading down to the floor. The makeup hid her bruises, leaving behind a face of breathtaking, tragic beauty.

A sharp, undeniable jolt of heat hit Ferris's chest. For one dangerous second, he was completely captivated.

Then, the memory of Ellie's smiling face crashed into his mind. The heat in his chest turned into a block of solid ice.

He waved his hand, dismissing the entire styling team. They scurried out, closing the door behind them.

Ferris walked up behind Colette. He placed his large, warm hands heavily on her bare shoulders. His grip was possessive, his fingers digging slightly into her skin.

He leaned down. His warm breath brushed against the sensitive skin of her neck, sending a violent shiver down her spine.

"The game starts now," he whispered to her reflection in the mirror. "Do not mess this up. Or you will pay for it."

Colette kept her eyes downcast. Her long eyelashes hid the burning hatred in her pupils.

He grabbed her cold hand and forcefully tucked it into the crook of his arm.

They walked out of the dressing room, moving in perfect sync down the plush carpeted hallway toward the sunroom.

The sunroom had been transformed. Hundreds of white champagne roses filled the corners. Professional lighting rigs and cameras were pointed at two velvet chairs.

Paige Turner, America's most ruthless and respected broadcast journalist, stood up with a bright, welcoming smile.

The moment Ferris crossed the threshold, his entire demeanor shifted. The cold monster vanished. In his place stood a deeply enamored, charming husband.

He pulled out Colette's chair, his hand resting protectively on the small of her back as she sat.

The red light on the main camera blinked on.

"We are here with Ferris Vance and his new bride," Paige began, her voice smooth. "Tell me, Ferris, how did this whirlwind romance begin?"

Ferris reached over and took Colette's hand. He laced his fingers through hers, his palm burning hot against her icy skin.

He looked deeply into Colette's eyes and spun a flawless, poetic lie about love at first sight and finding light in the darkness. His acting was so perfect, even Paige looked genuinely moved.

Then, Paige leaned forward, her eyes sharpening.

"Colette," Paige said, dropping the friendly tone. "Two years ago, you were at the center of a horrific scandal. Sitting here now, in this house... how do you live with that past?"

The color drained from Colette's face. The heavy makeup couldn't hide the sudden, violent trembling of her hands.

Her chest heaved. Her throat closed up. The urge to scream I was framed! clawed at the inside of her mouth.

Ferris felt her panic. He moved instantly.

He wrapped his long arm around her shoulders and pulled her flush against his chest, physically shielding her from Paige's piercing gaze.

"The past was a terrible misunderstanding," Ferris said to the camera, his voice thick with protective devotion. "The truth is, our love is stronger than any rumor."

To sell the lie, he tilted her chin up and pressed his lips firmly against her forehead.

Under the cover of the romantic gesture, his fingers dug brutally into the muscle of her shoulder, a silent, agonizing threat.

The pain snapped Colette back to reality. She forced her lips into a stiff, trembling smile for the camera.

"Cut!" the director called out. "That was beautiful. We got it."

The red light on the camera died.

Paige Turner stood up, shaking Ferris's hand with a satisfied smile before her team began breaking down the heavy equipment.

The moment the cameras were pointed at the floor, Ferris dropped his arm from Colette's waist. He stepped away from her so fast it was as if she had caught fire.

He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a black silk square, and aggressively wiped the palm that had just been holding her hand.

Colette watched him do it. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron. The humiliation burned hotter than the physical pain in her shoulder.

They walked out of the sunroom in silence, heading down the long corridor toward their separate holding rooms.

Just as they reached the corner, a woman in a skin-tight, blood-red dress stepped out from a side hallway, blocking their path.

It was Keira Higgins. Ellie's older half-sister.

Keira planted her high heels into the carpet, crossing her arms. Her eyes raked over Colette's expensive white gown with pure, acidic jealousy.

"Look at this," Keira sneered, her voice echoing off the walls. "A convicted criminal playing dress-up. You have no shame, do you?"

Colette stopped. She was so physically and mentally exhausted her bones ached. She tried to step to the side to walk past her.

Keira shifted, blocking her again. "You think you won because you manipulated your way into his bed? You stole my sister's life!"

"Move, Keira," Colette said, her voice hollow.

"Make me, you piece of trash!" Keira lunged forward. Her manicured hands grabbed the delicate lace neckline of Colette's gown.

She yanked hard.

Riiiiip.

The left strap of the couture dress tore, slipping off Colette's shoulder and exposing the pale skin of her collarbone.

Colette gasped, her hands flying up to cover her chest. Her eyes widened in shock.

Keira laughed, a cruel, ugly sound. Without warning, Keira raised her right hand and swung.

Smack.

The slap landed squarely on Colette's cheek, right over the heavy makeup hiding her previous bruise.

The force of the blow sent Colette stumbling backward. Her spine slammed hard against the carved wooden wainscoting of the hallway. Her ears rang, and the skin on her face felt like it had been set on fire.

Up ahead, Ferris's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, and the moment he saw the caller ID, the color drained slightly from his face. His jaw locked. He turned to Colette, his eyes narrowing into a lethal glare. "Stand exactly here. Do not move a single muscle," he commanded coldly, before turning the corner into a private study to take the call, disappearing from sight.

Colette watched his broad back vanish.

He was gone. There were no cameras. No guards.

The dam inside Colette broke. Two years of prison, the death of her father, the beatings, the humiliation-it all surged into her blood like adrenaline.

She pushed herself off the wall. She adjusted her torn strap with eerie calmness. Her eyes locked onto Keira, cold and dead.

Keira smirked, raising her hand to strike again. "What are you gonna do, you little-"

Colette planted her feet, twisted her hips, and swung her arm with every ounce of strength she had left in her body.

CRACK.

Her palm connected with Keira's cheekbone with the force of a baseball bat.

Keira's eyes rolled back. Her stiletto twisted on the carpet, and she collapsed backward, hitting the floor in a heap of red fabric.

Keira clutched her rapidly swelling face, her mouth open in shock before a piercing, pig-like squeal erupted from her throat.

Colette stood over her, breathing heavily. She looked down at the crying woman like she was a stain on the rug.

"Touch me again," Colette whispered, her voice shaking with rage, "and I will kill you."

She turned around and pushed open the door to the lounge.