The Tycoon's Awakening: Losing My Wife

Camelia's phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text from Sloane Bishop, Duke's executive assistant.

The car is waiting downstairs.

Camelia knew fighting Duke's logistics was useless. She slid her swollen right foot into a soft, flat loafer. She limped heavily out of the apartment and into the elevator.

The elevator dropped to the lobby. Camelia walked out the glass doors and climbed into the back of the black Morrow family SUV.

The ride was a blur of city traffic. The heavy vehicle finally pulled up to the VIP entrance of Mount Sinai Hospital.

Camelia pushed the heavy car door open. She gritted her teeth against the sharp pain in her ankle and walked into the sterile, quiet VIP corridor.

As she approached the central nursing station, she heard two nurses whispering.

"VIP Room 1 is driving me crazy," Nurse Brenda muttered, organizing a stack of charts. "Her vitals are perfectly normal, but she keeps hitting the call button demanding Dilaudid."

Camelia slowed her steps. She filed that piece of information away in her mind.

Brenda looked up and saw Camelia. The nurse's eyes widened. She quickly turned her back and pretended to read a clipboard.

Camelia kept walking. She reached the heavy, soundproof door of VIP Room 1 and pushed it open.

Christabel was propped up against a mountain of fluffy pillows. She was casually popping imported Shine Muscat grapes into her mouth.

The moment Christabel saw Camelia enter alone, the frail, sickly act vanished. A wicked, triumphant smile spread across her face.

Christabel reached down and yanked up the hem of her hospital gown. She exposed a thick, ugly surgical scar on her lower back.

"Take a good look," Christabel gloated. "As long as this scar exists, Duke will do whatever I say. Forever."

Camelia stared at her with dead eyes. "You are a pathetic, D-list actress who only survives by playing the victim."

The smile fell off Christabel's face. Her eyes turned dark and venomous.

Out in the hallway, the deep, unmistakable rumble of Duke's voice echoed. He was talking to the attending physician, and the footsteps were getting closer.

Christabel's eyes darted toward the door. She reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a sharp silver fruit knife from the fruit platter.

Without a second of hesitation, Christabel dragged the sharp blade across her own left forearm.

A thick line of bright red blood instantly welled up and dripped down her pale skin onto the pristine white bedsheets.

Christabel opened her mouth and let out a high-pitched, terrified scream.

She tossed the bloody fruit knife onto the linoleum floor. It clattered to a stop right next to Camelia's shoes.

The heavy hospital door burst open. Duke rushed into the room, his chest heaving.

His eyes locked onto the blood soaking the sheets. Then, his gaze dropped to the bloody knife at Camelia's feet.

The last shred of Duke's sanity snapped. He charged toward the hospital bed like a rabid animal protecting its young.

As he rushed past Camelia, he roughly shoved her aside to clear his path to the bed. It wasn't a calculated strike, but the sheer, reckless momentum of his large frame was enough. Camelia's bad ankle buckled under the sudden, jarring force. She stumbled backward, unable to catch her balance.

Her spine slammed violently into the sharp wooden corner of the bedside table. A sickening thud echoed in the room. A choked gasp tore from her throat as the wind was knocked out of her.

Duke grabbed a white towel and pressed it hard against Christabel's bleeding arm. He whipped his head around and glared at Camelia.

"Are you out of your fucking mind? !" Duke roared, his voice shaking the walls.

Camelia clutched her throbbing back. She looked up at his murderous eyes, and a cold certainty settled deeper into her heart. It wasn't a new revelation, just a harsh reminder of her current reality. To him, she wasn't a wife to be protected, but a convenient enemy to be crushed whenever Christabel needed a victim.