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.

Keira's shrieks echoed down the corridor, piercing the heavy oak doors of the study.

Ferris ended his call and strode out of the room. He turned the corner and froze.

Keira was sobbing hysterically on the floor, clutching her red, swollen face. Colette stood a few feet away, her chest heaving, her hand still balled into a fist.

Keira pointed a shaking finger at Colette. "She attacked me!" Keira wailed, tears streaming down her face. "I was just walking by, and she went crazy!"

Ferris looked at the dark red handprint blooming on Keira's cheek. His jaw locked. The veins in his neck bulged against his collar. In his eyes, Colette was nothing but a violent, unrepentant monster.

"Alistair!" Ferris roared.

The butler appeared instantly.

"Get Keira up. Have the driver take her to the hospital to get checked," Ferris commanded, his voice vibrating with barely contained fury.

Alistair helped Keira up and led her away.

The second they were out of sight, Ferris closed the distance between him and Colette. He grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging into her fragile bones like iron clamps.

Colette let out a sharp gasp of pain, her face turning white, but she clamped her mouth shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream.

He didn't say a word. He dragged her down the hallway, pulling her so fast she had to run to keep from falling. They reached the grand staircase, and he hauled her down to the massive foyer.

He let go of her wrist with a violent shove.

Colette crashed onto the cold marble floor, her torn dress pooling around her.

Ferris pointed a long finger at the expansive, gleaming marble floor of the foyer.

"Take off that dress. Put on a maid's uniform," he ordered, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "And scrub every inch of this floor. On your hands and knees."

Ten minutes later, Colette returned. The heavy, coarse gray fabric of the maid's uniform scratched against her bruised skin. She carried a heavy metal bucket of freezing water and a rough rag.

She dropped to her knees. The hard marble sent a shockwave of pain up her bruised legs.

She plunged her bare hands into the ice-cold water, wrung out the rag, and began to scrub.

Her knees quickly turned raw and red. The muscles in her lower back screamed in agony with every forward motion. Sweat beaded on her forehead, sliding down her pale cheeks and dropping onto the polished stone.

Ferris sat on the plush leather sofa in the center of the room. He crossed his legs, watching her suffer with cold, detached satisfaction.

Two brutal hours passed. Colette's hands were blistered and numb. She finally reached the edge of the rug near Ferris's feet. She sat back on her heels, gasping for air, the floor behind her spotless.

Ferris stood up. He held a crystal glass filled with dark, expensive Burgundy wine.

He walked over to the section of the floor she had just finished cleaning. He tilted his wrist.

The red liquid cascaded onto the white marble, splashing against Colette's cheek and staining her gray uniform like fresh blood.

He looked down at her. "Do it again."

Colette's hands shook violently. She slowly lifted her head, staring up at him with eyes full of pure, burning hatred.

Ferris ignored her gaze. He turned and walked into the mudroom near the front door.

He returned a moment later holding a pair of heavy leather riding boots, completely caked in thick, foul-smelling horse mud.

He threw them down. They hit the marble inches from her knees, splattering mud across her face.

"Wipe this mud clean," he ordered, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "And then, with the exact same hands you used to scrub this filth, you will go upstairs and draw my bath. I want you to remember exactly what you are."

He didn't wait for her response. He turned and walked up the grand staircase.

Colette closed her eyes. A single tear escaped, cutting a clean line through the mud on her cheek. She reached out with trembling fingers and picked up the filthy boot.