The life support monitors in the Stuart master bedroom suddenly emitted a rapid, high-pitched alarm.

The steady green line of the heart monitor spiked violently.

Deforest's eyes snapped open. His pupils were blown wide, the whites of his eyes heavily bloodshot. Pure, unadulterated rage radiated from his rigid posture.

He reached up and ripped the oxygen mask off his face, tossing it onto the floor. He sucked in a massive breath of air, his chest heaving.

Dr. Kline, who had been dozing in the observation room, sprinted into the bedroom. He reached out, trying to push Deforest back down by the shoulders. "Mr. Stuart, you need to-"

Deforest's arm shot out. He grabbed the doctor's wrist, twisted it violently, and shoved him backward. Dr. Kline crashed into the medical cart, sending metal trays clattering to the floor.

Deforest grabbed the IV line taped to the back of his hand. He ripped it out in one brutal motion. Blood instantly welled up, dripping down his knuckles and staining the pristine white sheets.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet hit the carpet. "Who put that blood in me?" he demanded, his voice a raw, gravelly rasp.

Dr. Kline scrambled up, clutching his wrist. "Your father, sir. He arranged a medical marriage. The girl-"

Deforest didn't let him finish. He slammed his bloody fist into the glass water pitcher on the nightstand. The glass shattered, sending shards flying across the room.

"Get out," Deforest snarled. He ignored the blood dripping from his hand. He marched into the massive walk-in closet, grabbed a black dress shirt, and shoved his arms into the sleeves. He stormed out of the bedroom, slamming the heavy doors behind him so hard the walls shook.

Miles away, in the underground VIP parking garage of the Grande Hotel, Tierney slammed the brakes of the Porsche.

She got out, popped the trunk, and pulled out a wide-brimmed black sun hat. She opened the passenger door and shoved the hat roughly onto Danielle's head, pulling it low over her face.

Tierney grabbed Danielle by the arm, dragging her limp body toward the private VIP elevator. They rode in silence up to the penthouse level.

The elevator doors chimed open. Tierney pulled Danielle down the quiet, heavily carpeted hallway. She stopped at suite 1802 and swiped a keycard.

Tierney dragged Danielle inside and shoved her hard. Danielle collapsed onto the velvet sofa in the living room, keeping her eyes shut and her body completely loose.

Tierney pulled out her phone. She typed a quick text to Warren, the sleazy investor. Room 1802. She's ready.

Tierney looked around the luxurious room, sneered at Danielle's motionless body, and walked out. She pulled the door shut but deliberately left it unlatched, leaving a small crack open.

The sound of Tierney's high heels faded down the hall.

Danielle's eyes snapped open. The dullness was gone, replaced by ice-cold clarity.

She ripped the hat off her head. She moved quickly to the door and looked through the peephole. The hallway was empty.

She saw the crack in the door. She pushed the door shut until it clicked, then immediately hit the deadbolt and flipped the heavy metal security latch.

Danielle walked into the marble bathroom. She turned on the cold water and splashed it over her face, scrubbing her skin to get rid of the faint chemical smell clinging to her sleeve.

She looked in the mirror. She checked the silver cloud hairpin already securing her tight bun, making sure the signature piece was still firmly in place after the rough car ride.

She reached under the hem of her skirt and pulled out a tiny, flat electronic jammer. She stood on the edge of the bathtub and stuck it directly over the bathroom's smoke detector.

Suddenly, heavy, uncoordinated footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the suite.

Danielle froze. She reached over and killed the bathroom lights. She pressed her back flat against the bathroom door, holding her breath.

A deep, male voice mumbled something slurred outside. Another man's voice answered, trying to soothe him.

The door handle to suite 1802 was violently shoved downward. A heavy thud hit the wood as someone threw their weight against the locked door.

Out in the hallway, Deforest yanked aggressively at the collar of his black shirt, popping the top two buttons. His skin was flushed, radiating an unnatural heat.

Zane, his business partner, gripped Deforest's bicep, trying to keep him upright. "You just woke from a coma, Deforest. Chugging half a bottle of whiskey at the club was a terrible idea."

The alcohol was reacting violently with the heavy sedatives still lingering in Deforest's bloodstream. His vision blurred, the edges of the hallway doubling and overlapping. His head pounded with a vicious, rhythmic ache.

Deforest shoved Zane's hand away. He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a sleek, metal hotel black card.

He slapped the card against the sensor of room 1802.

The card reader flashed green. A long, high-pitched beep sounded. A heavy clunk sounded from the door as the master override electronically retracted the deadbolt. Deforest shoved his heavy shoulder violently against the wood, his brute force snapping the secondary security latch right off its hinges.

Deforest pushed the heavy wooden door open. He stumbled over the threshold into the pitch-black suite.

"Just sleep it off, man," Zane called out from the hallway, pulling the door shut behind Deforest.

The heavy door clicked shut. The suite plunged into total, suffocating darkness.

Behind the bathroom door, Danielle's heart hammered against her ribs. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sharp, metal eyebrow razor. She gripped it tightly, the cold metal biting into her palm.

In the living room, Deforest took a heavy step forward. His foot caught the edge of a heavy armchair. He let out a low, painful grunt, his knee buckling slightly.

He navigated purely by instinct, moving toward the bedroom. The heavy scent of expensive whiskey rolled off him in waves, filling the stagnant air of the suite.

Danielle peeked through the crack in the bathroom door. The ambient light from the city outside cast a faint glow. The man stumbling through the room was massive. Broad shoulders, towering height. This was absolutely not Warren, the short, overweight investor.

Danielle held her breath, her muscles coiled tight.

Deforest felt his blood boiling. The drug interaction was frying his nervous system. He couldn't think. He couldn't see straight.

He grabbed the hem of his shirt and ripped it over his head, throwing it blindly into the dark. He crashed onto the edge of the massive king-sized bed, groaning as he fell back against the mattress.

Danielle waited a full minute. The man on the bed didn't move. His breathing was heavy and ragged.

She pushed the bathroom door open an inch at a time. She stepped out barefoot, her toes sinking into the thick carpet. She moved silently toward the front door, keeping her eyes locked on the bed.

As she passed the nightstand, the fabric of her loose sweater caught the edge of a tall glass vase.

The vase tipped over. It hit the floor with a sharp, shattering crash.

The man on the bed moved with terrifying speed. Deforest lunged through the dark like a predator. His large hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around Danielle's ankle like a steel vice.

Danielle gasped, losing her balance. She pitched forward, crashing hard onto the soft mattress.

Before she could scramble away, Deforest flipped her over. He pinned her down, his heavy, burning chest pressing flush against her back.

Danielle thrashed wildly. She twisted her wrist, bringing the sharp eyebrow razor up to slash at him.

Deforest felt the movement. He caught her wrist mid-air. He squeezed her bones until she gasped in pain, easily prying the razor from her fingers and tossing it across the room.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck to hold her down. As he inhaled, the faint, sweet scent of vanilla filled his lungs.

The scent triggered a massive hallucination in his drug-addled brain. He pressed his nose against her neck, inhaling deeply. "Anya... you smell just like Anya," he muttered against her skin, his voice thick with a desperate, sick obsession, tying her vanilla scent to a ghost from his past.

Danielle froze. The deep, gravelly vibration of his voice sent a shockwave of pure terror down her spine. She knew that voice. It was her husband. The man who was supposed to be in a coma.

The shock paralyzed her. Her muscles went completely slack.

Deforest took her stillness for surrender. His mouth crashed down on her neck, his teeth scraping against her collarbone.

The alcohol and the drugs completely stripped away his control. In the pitch-black room, the two of them tangled together in the sheets, driven by chaos and a terrifying, unstoppable force.

The first harsh ray of morning sunlight pierced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains, hitting Danielle right in the eyes.

She woke up with a sharp gasp. Her entire body ached, a deep, bruised feeling settling in her bones. She tried to move, but a heavy, muscular arm was clamped tightly around her waist, pinning her to the mattress.

Danielle turned her head slowly. In the morning light, she saw Deforest's face resting inches from hers. His sharp jawline was relaxed in sleep, but his brow was still slightly furrowed.

The memories of the dark, chaotic night crashed into her brain. Her stomach churned with nausea. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted fresh blood.

She placed her trembling fingers on his thick forearm. Holding her breath, she pushed his arm up, millimeter by millimeter.

Deforest shifted. He let out a low, irritated groan, his hand flexing against the sheets.

Danielle froze instantly. She didn't dare exhale. She watched his chest rise and fall until the rhythm smoothed out again.

She slid out from under his arm and slipped off the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold floor.

She scrambled around the room on her hands and knees, frantically gathering her torn sweater, her skirt, and her undergarments. She pulled them on quickly, her hands shaking so badly she could barely manage the buttons.

She stood up and caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her skin paled. Dark, angry red and purple bruises covered her neck and collarbone.

She reached up to fix her messy hair. Her fingers brushed empty air. The silver cloud hairpin was gone.

Panic flared in her chest. She dropped to her knees, sweeping her hands under the bed and between the sofa cushions. Nothing.

On the bed, Deforest rolled onto his back. The duvet slipped down to his waist, exposing the angry red scratch marks Danielle had left on his shoulders.

Danielle knew if he woke up now, her entire revenge plan would be destroyed. She couldn't risk staying another second.

She abandoned the search. She grabbed the black sun hat from the floor, jammed it onto her head, and pulled the brim down low.

She took one last look at the man in the bed, her eyes cold and calculating. Then, she slipped out the door, pulling it shut with a soft click.

She bypassed the elevators entirely, sprinting down the concrete stairs of the fire exit. Her lungs burned by the time she reached the ground floor.

She pushed the heavy metal door open, stepping out into the damp, cold air of the hotel's back alley.

A blinding white flash exploded in her face.

Danielle threw her hands up to shield her eyes.

Tierney stood blocking the alley exit. Two massive bodyguards flanked her, and three paparazzi with massive cameras were snapping photos frantically.

Tierney looked at Danielle's disheveled clothes and messy hair. A look of absolute triumph lit up Tierney's face.

Tierney lunged forward and slapped the hat off Danielle's head. She grabbed the collar of Danielle's sweater and yanked it down.

The camera flashes went off like strobe lights, capturing the dark hickeys covering Danielle's neck.

"Look at this," Tierney sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "Grab this filthy whore. We are taking her back to the manor to face the family."

Back in suite 1802, Deforest slowly opened his eyes. A vicious headache pounded behind his temples.

He reached his hand out across the mattress. The sheets were cold and empty.

He sat up abruptly, his muscles tense. He looked around the empty room. The faint, sweet scent of vanilla still hung in the air.

His eyes dropped to the pillow next to him.

Resting on the white cotton was a delicate, silver cloud hairpin.

Deforest picked it up. He rubbed his rough thumb over the smooth metal edges. His eyes darkened, a dangerous, obsessive fire igniting in his pupils.