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.

The two bodyguards shoved Danielle through the massive front doors of the Stuart manor.

Danielle stumbled forward. Her sneakers caught on the edge of the marble step, and she crashed hard onto her knees on the cold, polished floor. Pain shot up her legs, but she kept her head down, her shoulders shaking violently.

Constance Stuart, the matriarch of the family, sat on a velvet sofa in the center of the grand hall. She held a porcelain teacup, her posture rigid and aristocratic.

Tierney marched past Danielle, her heels clicking sharply against the marble. "Grandmother, look at what the Roy family sent us. She spent her wedding night in a hotel with a disgusting old man."

Constance slowly lowered her teacup. Her cold, gray eyes locked onto Danielle.

Tierney leaned down and violently ripped the collar of Danielle's sweater sideways.

Under the harsh, bright light of the crystal chandelier, the dark, angry hickeys on Danielle's neck and collarbone were fully exposed.

The maids and butlers standing around the perimeter of the hall gasped, exchanging shocked whispers.

Constance's face turned purple with rage. Her hands gripped the armrests of the sofa. "The Roy family sent us a shameless tramp," she spat. "She has violated the morality clause of the prenuptial agreement. Throw her out into the street immediately."

Danielle kept her head bowed. She bit her lower lip, letting her tears fall onto the marble floor. But beneath the curtain of her hair, her brain was running complex calculations. She needed to stay in this house.

The two bodyguards stepped forward, grabbing her arms to drag her out.

Danielle suddenly exploded into motion. She let out a raw, guttural wail from the back of her throat. She thrashed wildly, twisting her body with surprising strength.

She broke free from their grip and scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees. She threw her arms around the base of a massive marble pillar near the hallway leading to the medical wing. She locked her fingers together, refusing to let go.

"Grab that lunatic!" Tierney shrieked.

Danielle clung to the pillar. She raised one trembling hand and pointed frantically down the hallway toward the medical wing.

Constance frowned, her anger momentarily replaced by confusion. "What is the mute trying to say?"

Danielle, seeing they didn't understand, let out a frantic, silent scream. She lunged forward, her fingers desperately grabbing the hem of Constance's expensive skirt. She dipped her trembling fingers into the tears streaming down her own cheeks and frantically drew the shape of a massive bed on the polished marble floor. She pointed at the drawing, then raised her hands above her head, mimicking a very tall, broad-shouldered man. Then, she pointed violently at the hickeys on her own neck, and pointed back to the medical wing.

The entire grand hall fell dead silent. You could hear a pin drop.

Tierney let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Are you insane? Are you trying to blame this on my brother? He's in a coma!"

Danielle shook her head violently. Huge tears rolled down her cheeks. She pointed at the medical wing again, her finger jabbing the air.

Constance's heart skipped a beat. A wild, impossible thought crossed her mind. What if Deforest had woken up?

Constance stood up so fast her teacup rattled. "Bring her," she ordered, her voice trembling slightly. She walked quickly toward the medical wing.

The bodyguards peeled Danielle off the pillar. They dragged her by the arms, following Constance and Tierney down the long corridor.

Danielle let her feet drag on the carpet. She kept her head down, but a cold, calculated gleam flashed in her eyes. Step one was complete.

They stopped in front of the heavy wooden doors of the master bedroom. The truth was waiting inside.