The Tycoon's Awakening: Losing My Wife

Camelia Drake woke up in the center of the massive king-sized bed.

The Star Bay penthouse was dead silent. The air conditioning blew a steady stream of cold air over her bare shoulders. She stared blankly at the pristine white ceiling.

Her fingers brushed against the mahogany nightstand. The cold metal of her smartphone vibrated once against the wood.

She picked it up. The screen brightness pierced her retinas in the dim room. It was a multimedia message from an unknown number.

Camelia swiped the screen open.

The first image loaded. It was a hospital VIP room. A custom-tailored dark suit jacket hung over the back of a plastic chair. She recognized the stitching on the lapel. It was Duke's.

She swiped her thumb across the glass. The second photo appeared.

A pale, thin hand with an IV drip taped to the back was tightly gripping a man's large, distinctively veined hand.

A sharp, physical ache pierced the center of Camelia's chest. Her lungs constricted. Her fingers clamped down on the edges of the phone hard enough to make her joints pop.

An image flashed behind her eyes. A gentle face. A small mole near the corner of a smiling eye. Joseph. Her breathing turned shallow and rapid. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force oxygen into her tight chest.

A heavy thud echoed from the front entryway of the penthouse. The front door opening.

The rhythmic sound of expensive leather shoes hitting the hardwood floor grew louder. The footsteps were moving straight toward the master bedroom.

Camelia shoved the phone face-down under her pillow.

The double doors of the bedroom swung open. Duke Morrow walked in. He was yanking his silk tie loose. His jaw was set in a hard, rigid line. His eyes were bloodshot and completely devoid of warmth.

The smell hit her instantly. A clinical wave of hospital rubbing alcohol mixed with the sickeningly sweet scent of vanilla perfume. Christabel's perfume.

Duke stopped at the foot of the bed. He stared down at Camelia. She was still wearing her thin silk pajamas.

"Get up," Duke ordered. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. "Go to the kitchen."

Camelia pressed her lips together. The inside of her mouth tasted like copper. "What for?" she asked, her voice flat.

"Christabel is being discharged today," Duke said. He didn't blink. "Her stomach is weak. You are going to make her a gluten-free breakfast. From scratch."

A wave of pure absurdity washed over Camelia. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot.

"Since when did I become the maid for the Morrow family?" Camelia asked.

Duke's eyes narrowed. The air in the room instantly dropped ten degrees. He took a slow, deliberate step toward the side of the bed.

He reached out. His large fingers clamped around Camelia's jaw. His grip was like a steel vice, forcing her chin up to meet his cold gaze.

"Do not forget the prenuptial agreement you signed," Duke said. His breath smelled of stale coffee.

His thumb pressed hard into her cheekbone. "You have four months left until the divorce deadline. Remember your place until then."

The blood drained from Camelia's face. A freezing sensation spread from her neck down to her fingertips. She swallowed the massive lump of humiliation blocking her throat.

She gave a slow, stiff nod.

Duke let out a short, dismissive scoff. He released her jaw. He turned his back to her and walked straight into the master bathroom.

The heavy glass shower door slid shut. The sound of running water filled the room.

Camelia threw the duvet off her legs. Her bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor.

She walked out of the bedroom and down the long hallway to the open-concept kitchen. She pulled open the heavy stainless steel door of the refrigerator.

She grabbed a carton of organic eggs and a loaf of gluten-free bread. She slammed them down onto the marble island.

She picked up a heavy chef's knife. She sliced into a ripe avocado. Her motions were stiff, robotic, and overly forceful. The blade hit the cutting board with a loud thwack.

She dropped a square of butter into the hot frying pan. The loud sizzle drowned out the heavy sigh she had been holding in her lungs.

Camelia looked up. Her reflection stared back at her in the polished metal of the range hood. For a moment, the dull hurt in her eyes was replaced by something sharp and cold, a flicker of hardened resolve hiding deep within, before she quickly blinked it away, burying it under a mask of practiced indifference.