The Fake Mute's Spectacular Revenge Game

Madeline slammed the thick Stuart family prenuptial agreement onto the glass coffee table.

The sharp, cracking sound echoed through the Manhattan townhouse living room. Danielle flinched, her shoulders jerking upward. She immediately wrapped her arms around her ribs, shrinking back into the deepest corner of the single armchair.

Doreen sat across from her, inspecting her fresh French manicure. "Look at her," Doreen sneered. "The mute finally has some use to this family."

The family lawyer pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. His face was entirely devoid of expression. He picked up a Montblanc pen and extended it toward Danielle.

Danielle kept her chin tucked to her chest. Beneath her lowered eyelashes, her eyes were sharp and clear, taking in the exact position of the pen, the contract, and the exits. But she kept her facial muscles slack, maintaining the dull, vacant stare of a broken girl.

Madeline leaned over the coffee table. Her expensive perfume smelled like chemicals. "Listen to me," Madeline whispered, her voice a low hiss. "If you don't sign this right now, I will make one phone call to the sanatorium. They will pull the plug on your mother's ventilator before you can even blink."

Danielle's pupils dilated. Her breathing hitched, turning into short, shallow gasps, a perfectly timed performance of terror. She had to sell this. Her mother's safety had been secured by Holt months ago, but the Roys didn't need to know that. She let her hands tremble violently as she reached out for the heavy pen. Her knuckles were white, the skin on her wrists marred with faint, old scratches.

Just as her fingers brushed the cold metal, Doreen deliberately shifted in her seat, bumping Danielle's shoulder hard.

The pen slipped from Danielle's shaking fingers and hit the Persian rug.

Danielle dropped to her knees instantly. She patted the rug with frantic, uncoordinated movements, her breath coming out in ragged wheezes.

Madeline clicked her tongue in disgust. "Pathetic."

Danielle found the pen. She stayed on her knees, leaning over the glass table. Her hand shook so badly that the ink blotted the crisp white paper. She dragged the nib across the signature line, leaving a jagged, barely legible scrawl. She had just legally signed herself away as a medical asset.

The lawyer snatched the document back. He checked the signature and nodded at Madeline. "The signature is valid. As per the agreement, once Miss Roy is delivered to the Stuart estate and Dr. Kline confirms the blood type match, the ten million dollar capital injection will be released."

Two massive private bodyguards stepped out from the shadows of the hallway. They flanked Danielle, each grabbing her by the upper arms.

Danielle opened her mouth. A silent scream tore at her throat. She kicked her legs out, the rubber soles of her sneakers dragging uselessly against the expensive rug.

Madeline waved her hand dismissively. "Get this walking blood bag out of my house."

The bodyguards hauled her through the front doors and out into the freezing rain. They shoved her roughly into the backseat of a black, bulletproof Cadillac parked at the curb.

The heavy car doors slammed shut. The automatic locks engaged with a heavy, metallic thud.

Danielle pulled her knees to her chest on the cold leather seat. She bit down hard on her lower lip, pressing her teeth into the flesh until she tasted copper. It stopped her from gagging.

The car sped away, the neon lights of the city blurring past the tinted windows. Hidden in the dark backseat, Danielle slowly let go of her lip. The corners of her mouth twitched upward into a cold, hard smile.

Forty minutes later, the Cadillac turned into the sprawling, gated grounds of the Stuart estate in Long Island. The tires crunched loudly over the gravel driveway before coming to a halt in front of the brightly lit medical wing.

Agnes, the head housekeeper, stood waiting on the steps under a large black umbrella. Her face was carved from stone. She pulled the car door open.

The icy wind hit Danielle's face, making her shiver violently. Agnes did not offer the umbrella. She grabbed Danielle's elbow and half-pulled, half-pushed her into the building.

The heavy scent of bleach and rubbing alcohol assaulted Danielle's nose.

Dr. Kline walked briskly down the sterile hallway, holding a clipboard. He looked Danielle up and down, his eyes lingering on her veins rather than her face. "Blood type matches," he said flatly.

A nurse grabbed Danielle's arm. Danielle yanked it back, whining softly in the back of her throat. The nurse ignored her, swiping a cold alcohol pad roughly over the crook of her elbow.

A thick gauge needle pierced Danielle's skin. A sharp, burning pain shot up her bicep.

Dark red blood flowed out of her arm, traveling rapidly through a clear plastic tube and disappearing into a machine in the adjacent room.

The sudden loss of blood made Danielle's stomach drop. A wave of genuine dizziness hit her. She slumped back against the vinyl chair, her skin turning pale.

Agnes stood over her, checking her watch. "When the extraction is complete, you will go to the master bedroom. You will fulfill your duties as a wife."

Danielle turned her head heavily. Through the glass observation window, she could see a man lying in a hospital bed. He was hooked up to a ventilator. As her blood pumped into the machines, the erratic, weak lines on his monitors began to stabilize into strong, rhythmic peaks.

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.

At 2:00 AM, the lock on the master bedroom door clicked again.

Danielle's eyes snapped open in the dark. She instantly buried her face back into her knees, forcing her shoulders to tremble as if she were having a nightmare.

Agnes marched into the room. She carried a metal basin filled with warm water and a white towel.

The housekeeper threw the towel directly at Danielle's face. The damp fabric hit her cheek with a wet slap.

"Wipe him down," Agnes commanded. "The doctors said he needs physical stimulation to prevent muscle atrophy. Do your job."

Danielle pulled the towel off her face. Her fingers dug into the terrycloth. She gripped it so hard her knuckles ached. She stared at Agnes's shoes, fighting the overwhelming urge to wrap the towel around the woman's neck.

Agnes scoffed and walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Danielle sat on the bed, holding the warm towel. She looked at Deforest's pale face. An image of Carson flashed in her mind-Carson lying in a hospital bed, tubes shoved down her throat, her life ruined by Elliott Stuart and his entire, rotten family. Her anger needed an outlet, and the man in the bed-Elliott's brother-was the closest target. Danielle shoved the warm towel roughly against Deforest's bare chest. She dragged it down his skin with zero gentleness, pressing hard enough to leave red streaks.

The sharp clack of high heels hitting the marble hallway broke the silence.

The bedroom door swung wide open. Tierney Stuart walked in, wearing a custom trench coat over a designer dress. She looked down her nose at the scene.

Tierney saw Danielle aggressively scrubbing Deforest's chest. Disgust flashed in her eyes, quickly followed by a dark, calculating gleam.

Tierney marched over and snatched the towel out of Danielle's hands. She threw it into the water basin. Water splashed onto the carpet.

Tierney's face instantly shifted into a mask of exaggerated pity. She spoke in a high, soothing voice, like she was talking to a stray dog.

"Oh, you poor thing," Tierney cooed. "Agnes is a monster for making you do this. Come with me. I'll take you somewhere safe to sleep."

Danielle caught the malicious glint in Tierney's eyes. Her stomach tightened. This was a trap.

But staying in this room meant staying under the cameras. Danielle needed to get out. She forced tears into her eyes and nodded frantically.

She reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Tierney's expensive trench coat, clutching it like a lifeline.

Tierney's jaw clenched. She visibly restrained herself from slapping Danielle's hand away. "Let's go. Quickly."

Tierney led her out of the room. They bypassed the main staircase, taking the narrow servant stairs down to the back exit of the manor.

A bright red Porsche sat idling under the trees in the freezing rain.

Tierney opened the passenger door and shoved Danielle inside. She slid into the driver's seat and hit the central locking button. The doors locked with a heavy clunk. In the dim light of the car's interior, Danielle quietly reached up, twisting her messy hair into a tight bun. She secured it with a silver cloud hairpin, the only piece of her true identity she had kept hidden during her performance.

Tierney slammed on the gas. The Porsche roared to life, tearing down the driveway and out into the dark, rainy night.

The inside of the car smelled overwhelmingly of heavy, floral perfume. It made Danielle's throat close up. She twisted her fingers together in her lap, keeping her head down.

Tierney reached into the center console. She pulled out a bottle of Fiji water, already uncapped, and shoved it toward Danielle. "Drink this. It will calm your nerves."

Danielle took the bottle with shaking hands. As they passed under a streetlamp, the yellow light illuminated the water. Danielle's sharp eyes caught tiny, undissolved white particles floating near the bottom.

She brought the bottle to her lips. She tilted her head back, pretending to take a massive gulp. Instead, she pressed her tongue against the opening and let the water spill down her chin, directly into the wide, loose sleeve of her oversized sweater.

Tierney watched her in the rearview mirror. Seeing Danielle's throat bob, a cruel, satisfied smile spread across Tierney's face.

Danielle lowered the bottle. She let her head loll to the side, resting her cheek against the cold glass of the window. She closed her eyes, letting her breathing slow down until she appeared completely unconscious.

The Porsche sped through the rain, heading straight for the Grande Hotel in Manhattan.