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.