Camelia sat on the tall leather barstool in the kitchen. She pressed a blue gel ice pack hard against her swollen right ankle. The skin was already turning a dark, angry purple.

The screen of her phone, resting on the marble counter, lit up. A loud ringtone shattered the quiet room.

Camelia glanced at the caller ID. It was Joy Jacobs. She tapped the green accept button and put it on speakerphone.

"Hey," Camelia said. She sucked in a sharp breath as the ice hit a tender spot.

"What was that noise?" Joy demanded instantly, her voice sharp through the speaker. "Are you hurt?"

Camelia kept her voice flat. She stared at her bruised skin. She recounted the entire incident at the sunken stairs, word for word.

A loud, piercing shriek of pure rage exploded from the phone speaker.

"That blind bastard!" Joy screamed. "I swear to God, Camelia, I am going to castrate him!"

Joy didn't stop to take a breath. "He is legally blind! He treats you like garbage because he actually believes you're just a gold-digger after the Morrow family money! He is a pathetic, arrogant piece of shit!"

The front door of the penthouse clicked open.

Duke walked in. He had left his confidential files in the study and came back to retrieve them.

His leather shoes stopped dead at the edge of the hallway.

Joy's voice continued to blast through the kitchen, echoing off the high ceilings. Every insult, every curse word, rang crystal clear.

The muscles in Duke's jaw locked. His face turned the color of thunder.

He marched into the kitchen area. The air around him felt like a physical weight.

Duke lunged forward. His large hand snatched the phone right off the marble counter.

His thumb slammed down on the red end-call button. Joy's voice cut off instantly.

Duke threw the phone back down onto the hard stone counter. The glass screen protector cracked with a sharp snap.

He stood over Camelia, his chest heaving. "Not only are you malicious," Duke spat, "but you also sit around badmouthing your husband to outsiders."

Camelia lowered the ice pack. She looked straight up into his furious eyes. "She is my best friend. And she is telling the truth."

"Get dressed," Duke snapped, cutting her off. "You are going to the hospital."

He pointed a long finger at her face. "You are going to stand beside Christabel's bed, and you are going to apologize for pushing her."

"No," Camelia said. Her voice was ice-cold. "I am not going anywhere."

She enunciated every single word. "I did not push anyone."

Duke slammed his open palm down on the marble island. The water glasses rattled violently.

"Her kidneys are failing!" Duke yelled, his teeth bared. "She is too weak to stand, let alone throw herself down a flight of stairs just to frame you!"

A short, harsh laugh scraped its way out of Camelia's throat. It was a sound of pure mockery.

The sound of her laughter snapped the last thread of Duke's control. He reached across the counter and grabbed her uninjured left arm.

His fingers dug brutally into her bicep. "Do not test my patience, Camelia."

Camelia ignored the burning pain in her arm. She tilted her chin up, her eyes maintaining a flat, impenetrable calm. "If my presence is so offensive, Duke," she said, her voice dropping to a quiet, passive murmur, "perhaps you should consider how to end this arrangement sooner rather than later."

Duke's entire body went rigid. His grip on her arm loosened for a fraction of a second.

Then, a cruel sneer twisted his lips. He shoved her arm away. "Nice try. You won't get a single dime of alimony early."

He turned on his heel. He stormed into the study, grabbed a manila folder off the desk, and marched out of the apartment.

The front door slammed shut again. Camelia sat alone in the kitchen, slowly rubbing the red, finger-shaped marks blooming on her left arm.

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.

Camelia pressed her hand against the top of the nightstand. She forced her shaking legs to straighten, ignoring the burning pain radiating from her spine and her ankle.

Duke pointed a blood-stained finger right at her face. "You are a sick, bottomless psycho," he spat, his teeth clenched.

Camelia didn't look at him. Her cold, calculating eyes were locked on the bloody fruit knife resting on the floor.

She reached her hand deep into her coat pocket. She pulled out her smartphone.

She unlocked the screen. Her thumb hovered over the keypad. Her voice was terrifyingly calm.

"I am calling the NYPD right now," Camelia announced to the room.

She didn't blink. "Once the police dust that knife handle for fingerprints, we will know exactly whose hand was holding it when that cut was made."

On the bed, Christabel's dramatic sobbing stopped instantly. It was as if someone had flipped a switch.

Christabel's pupils dilated in pure, unadulterated panic.

She shot her uninjured right hand out and grabbed a fistful of Duke's suit sleeve. Her knuckles turned white.

"Duke, please!" Christabel begged, her voice trembling for real this time. "Don't call the police! I can't handle a scandal right now, please!"

Duke looked down at Christabel's terrified face. He looked back at the knife on the floor. A flicker of hesitation crossed his dark eyes. He wasn't stupid.

But he turned back to Camelia. "Put the phone away," Duke ordered. "The Morrow family cannot afford a police investigation over a domestic dispute."

Camelia let out a dry, humorless laugh. Her thumb stayed hovering right over the nine. She didn't move an inch.

Seeing Camelia hold her ground, Christabel started gasping for air. She clutched her chest with both hands. She began hyperventilating, faking a massive panic attack.

The heart monitor next to the bed started beeping rapidly, a shrill, piercing alarm filling the room.

The sound of the medical alarm shattered Duke's logic.

He stepped directly in front of Camelia, using his massive frame to block her view of the bed. He loomed over her, a dark shadow of authority.

"Apologize to her right now, and get out of this room," Duke demanded. "Or face the consequences."

Camelia tilted her head up. "Why should I apologize for a crime I didn't commit?"

Duke leaned in close. His voice was a lethal whisper. "If you do not apologize right now, I will instantly freeze every single corporate resource, budget, and contact you have as the PR Director of Morrow Group."

Camelia's hand began to shake. The joints in her fingers turned white as she gripped the phone.

Her mind raced. She needed that job. She needed those resources to secure her exit plan before the four-month divorce deadline. If she lost her income now, she would leave with absolutely nothing.

She swallowed the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. She slowly lowered the phone and slipped it back into her pocket. She closed her eyes and took one deep, shuddering breath.

She opened her eyes. She looked past Duke's shoulder. Her voice was flat, mechanical, and entirely devoid of emotion.

"I am sorry," Camelia said.

Behind Duke's back, Christabel lowered the towel from her mouth. A wicked, victorious smirk curled her lips.

Duke pointed a stiff finger toward the hospital door. "Get out."

Camelia turned around. She didn't look back. She dragged her injured right leg across the floor and pushed through the heavy door.

She walked down the hall and pushed open the fire door to the stairwell.

The stairwell was dark, damp, and freezing cold. Camelia's legs finally gave out. She collapsed onto the hard concrete landing.

She pulled her knees to her chest. She closed her eyes. The image of Joseph Yang's warm, smiling face filled her mind. It was the only safe place left in her world, and she hid inside it while her body trembled in the dark.