The Fake Mute's Spectacular Revenge Game

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.