The Fake Mute's Spectacular Revenge Game

The nurse pulled the thick needle out of Danielle's arm. She slapped a piece of medical tape over the puncture wound, pressing down hard enough to bruise.

Danielle pressed her thumb over the cotton ball. She pushed herself up from the chair, letting her knees buckle slightly. She swayed and bumped her shoulder heavily against the cold wall.

Agnes did not reach out to catch her. The housekeeper simply turned on her heel. "Follow me."

Danielle kept her chin glued to her chest. She dragged her feet, following Agnes out of the medical wing and into the main house. They walked down a long, dimly lit corridor lined with thick wool carpets that swallowed the sound of their footsteps.

Danielle's eyes darted left and right beneath her messy bangs. She counted the classic oil paintings on the walls. She memorized the exact angles of the security cameras tucked into the ceiling corners.

Agnes stopped at the end of the hall in front of a pair of heavy, carved wooden doors. She pushed them open and stepped aside.

Danielle hesitated. She poked her head into the room, her shoulders hunched up to her ears.

Agnes shoved her squarely in the back. Danielle stumbled forward onto the plush carpet. The heavy doors slammed shut behind her. The lock clicked into place with a sharp snap.

The master bedroom was massive. The only light came from a few dim wall sconces. The rhythmic beeping of medical monitors filled the silence.

Danielle backed up until her spine hit the solid wood of the door. She dragged in a deep breath, holding it as she scanned the shadows. No nurses. No bodyguards. Just her and the man in the bed.

She dropped her hands from her ribs. The terrified slump of her shoulders vanished. She stood up straight, her eyes narrowing with sharp, predatory focus.

She walked silently toward the center of the room, her sneakers making no sound on the rug.

Deforest Stuart lay in the center of a massive four-poster bed. His skin was pale, his eyes shut tight.

Danielle stood over him, staring down at the man known as the ruthless tyrant of Wall Street.

She noticed his chest. Despite being bedridden, his muscles were firm and defined under the thin fabric of his pajamas. He didn't look like a man wasting away.

The heart monitor beside the bed beeped stronger now, fueled by the fresh blood she had just given him.

Danielle reached out. She pressed two fingers against the side of his neck, right over his carotid artery. His pulse beat steadily against her fingertips.

Deforest's brow furrowed slightly in his deep sleep. A muscle in his jaw twitched, as if his body physically rejected the contact even in a coma.

Danielle snatched her hand back immediately. She took a half-step away from the bed, her eyes fixed on his eyelids. They didn't flutter. He was still under.

She turned her attention to the nightstand. A thick medical file sat next to a water pitcher. She picked it up, flipping through the pages quickly.

The reports were filled with complex medical jargon. Genetic defect. Periodic systemic failure. She quickly flipped the page, her sharp eyes scanning a psychological evaluation. Her finger paused over a line highlighted in red: 'Severe tactile defensiveness and mysophobia-extreme fear of physical contact.'

Heavy footsteps suddenly echoed in the hallway outside. They were moving fast, heading straight for the door.

Danielle shoved the file back onto the nightstand, aligning it exactly as she had found it.

She kicked off her sneakers, leaving them in a messy pile. She scrambled onto the massive bed, crawling under the heavy duvet next to Deforest.

She pulled her knees tightly to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. She buried her face in her knees, making her body as small as possible.

The lock turned. Agnes walked in, followed by a young maid pushing a stainless steel serving cart.

Agnes looked at the bed. Seeing Danielle cowering in the corner like a frightened animal, the housekeeper's upper lip curled in disgust.

The maid placed a glass of tap water and three dry crackers on the small table near the door.

"Do not touch any of the machines," Agnes ordered, her voice cold. "If anything beeps, you will answer to Mr. Stuart's father."

Agnes and the maid left. The door locked again.

Danielle slowly lifted her head. She crawled to the edge of the bed, grabbed a dry cracker, and shoved it into her mouth. She chewed the tasteless food with a blank expression.

She swallowed hard, the dry crumbs scratching her throat. She turned her head, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the pitch-black sky, counting down the days until she could tear this family apart.