The pain in her jaw was sharp and immediate, sending a jolt up the side of her face. Tears pricked at the corners of Hope's eyes, a purely physical reaction, but she bit down hard on the inside of her lip, refusing to make a sound. She would not give him the satisfaction.
King stared into her defiant, tear-filled eyes, and a strange, unfamiliar flicker of irritation tightened his chest. For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face—irritation, maybe confusion—before his grip loosened a fraction.
It was all the opening she needed.
Hope twisted her head violently, wrenching her jaw from his grasp. In the same motion, she scrambled back on the massive bed, pulling the silk duvet with her, wrapping it around her body like a shield. The movement was defensive, feral.
King retracted his hand, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as if trying to wipe off a contaminant. He reversed the wheelchair, putting a calculated distance between them.
"So, the little stray has claws," he sneered, his voice laced with a fresh layer of venom. He let his eyes travel down the length of her body, now hidden beneath the silk. "A bit scrawnier than I was led to believe. I suppose the Grahams were desperate to offload their damaged goods."
Hope took a deep breath, the air burning in her lungs. She forced the humiliation down. Panic was a luxury she couldn't afford. Her mind, finally clear of the drug's haze, began to work, searching for a weapon, any weapon.
"You talk a big game about trust funds," King continued, his tone mocking. "Tell me, what was your price? How much does a Graham sell their dignity for these days?"
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "You think I did this willingly?" She met his gaze, her own eyes cold and sharp. "If you're as powerful as everyone says, Mr. Bennett, how did you end up with the wrong bride? It seems to me someone played you for a fool."
That struck a nerve. The insult wasn't just personal; it was a challenge to his authority, his control. A dark flush crept up his neck. His hands tightened on the armrests of his chair, the veins standing out in sharp relief against his skin.
"Watch your mouth," he warned, his voice dangerously low. "We both know what you are. A social-climbing parasite from a family of has-beens. You couldn't even get into a decent school. A state university diploma isn't exactly a ticket into this world."
At the mention of her education, a flicker of something—amusement, irony—passed through her eyes, so quick he almost missed it. She didn't bother to correct him.
"So we're both victims here," she said, her voice deceptively calm. "You were deceived. I was drugged and delivered. Why are we fighting each other instead of the people who put us here?"
"Don't try to align yourself with me," he snapped, seeing it as just another manipulation. "There is no 'we'. You are a problem my lawyers will handle. In the meantime, you will stay out of my sight and keep your mouth shut. Do that, and you might walk away from this with your life. Cross me, and I have a dozen ways to make you disappear into the New York Bay."
"And what would the media say?" Hope countered, her chin lifting. "Tech billionaire's new bride vanishes on their honeymoon cruise? That would do wonders for your stock price."
Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills waged across the opulent bedroom. Neither would back down.
Then, King's gaze shifted slightly, snagging on a tiny detail just below her collarbone. A small, dark red mole, no bigger than a pinprick.
The sight was like a key turning in a long-rusted lock. A flash of memory, chaotic and blurred, assaulted him. Rain. The smell of wet asphalt. The coppery taste of blood in his mouth. A woman's hands, gentle but firm, pressing a makeshift bandage to his head. He remembered a flash of pale skin in the dim light, and a small, dark mark... just like that one.
His heart skipped a beat. His breath hitched. For a dizzying second, he tried to superimpose the face of the woman in his memory onto the defiant girl in front of him.
But it was impossible. Ridiculous. Victoria was the one who found him that night. Victoria Carlisle was his savior. This girl was just... a complication.
He blinked, shaking off the absurd thought. To cover his momentary lapse, his expression became even colder, his voice harsher.
"Get out," he commanded.
"What?"
"Get out of my room. There are guest cabins on the lower deck. Find one. I don't want you here, touching my things, breathing my air."
Hope felt a surge of relief. She needed to be alone. She needed space to think, to plan.
"Fine," she said. "Turn around. My clothes are on the floor."
King let out a sound of disgust, as if the request itself were an insult. He spun the wheelchair around with a sharp, angry movement, presenting her with his rigid, unyielding back.
Wasting no time, Hope slid off the bed, snatching her crumpled dress and underwear from the carpet. She dressed quickly, her movements efficient and sure. The fabric felt foreign against her skin, a reminder of a life that had ended less than twenty-four hours ago.
Once dressed, she walked to the heavy, carved wooden door and pulled it open. She didn't look back. Stepping out onto the soft wool carpet of the hallway, she let the door click shut behind her.
As she walked toward the far end of the corridor, a single, burning promise formed in her mind. Kassidy would pay. They would all pay.
