The Fake Mute's Spectacular Revenge Game

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.