Alistair escorted the Higginses out. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, sealing the estate like a vault.
The massive foyer was dead silent. Only Ferris and Colette remained.
Colette clutched her burning stomach. She reached out, her bloody palm gripping the leg of the sofa. Her arms shook violently as she forced herself to stand.
She swayed on her feet, lifting her head. Her swollen, red eyes locked onto the man standing in front of her.
"Are human lives just poker chips to you?" her voice was a raw, broken rasp.
Ferris's jaw ticked. The pure hatred in her eyes struck a nerve he didn't know he had. His leather shoes thudded against the marble as he closed the distance between them.
His hand shot out. His thumb and fingers clamped around her jawline, forcing her head up.
"To get Ellie back?" he said, his voice a lethal whisper. "Your life isn't even worth the dirt on my shoes."
He released her face abruptly, stepping back as if her skin was diseased. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped his fingers.
The sudden loss of his grip threw Colette off balance. She stumbled backward, her lower back slamming hard against the sharp edge of the glass coffee table.
Ferris's eyes dropped to her face. The red handprint on her cheek was already turning a deep, ugly purple.
His brow furrowed. He had a highly publicized, exclusive interview scheduled for tomorrow morning. That bruise was a massive liability.
He stepped forward and grabbed her thin wrist.
Before she could process what was happening, he dragged her toward the grand staircase.
"Let go!" she cried out, stumbling over her own feet.
He didn't slow down. He hauled her up the stairs. Her bare ankle clipped the sharp edge of a marble step, leaving a dark, painful scrape.
Ferris kicked open the door to the master bedroom. He threw her forward.
Colette crashed into a wide, leather sofa, sinking deep into the cushions. She scrambled backward, pressing her spine against the armrest as she watched him walk to a custom medical cabinet in the corner.
He pulled out a medical ice pack and a tube of heavy-duty swelling cream. His face was an emotionless mask as he walked back to her.
He stood over her, casting a dark shadow.
"Look up," he commanded.
Colette turned her face away. She clenched her jaw, refusing to accept this twisted, degrading form of charity.
Ferris's patience snapped. He reached down, his large hand wrapping around the back of her head, locking her skull in place.
He pressed the freezing ice pack directly against her swollen cheek.
There was no towel, no barrier. The brutal cold burned her skin. Colette gasped, her hands flying up to grip his wrist. Physiological tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracking down her face.
He ignored her whimper. He pressed harder, forcing the cold deep into the bruised tissue.
"Tomorrow morning, there will be cameras," he said, staring dead into her eyes. "You will smile. You will act like a blushing, deeply in love bride."
He leaned closer, his breath hitting her face. "If you show the reporters even a fraction of a flaw, I will make sure you feel a hundred times more pain than you do right now."
He pulled the ice away, smeared a thick layer of cream over the bruise, and tossed the used cotton swab into a metal trash can. It hit the bottom with a sharp ping.
He turned his back to her and walked toward the master bathroom. He didn't look back.
Just as his hand hit the doorknob, he stopped.
"Don't bleed on my beds tonight," he ordered coldly.
The bathroom door clicked shut.
Colette pulled her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs, burying her face in her knees as the silence of the room swallowed her whole.
