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.

The freezing concrete of the stairwell had seeped into Camelia's bones by the time her phone vibrated in her coat pocket. It was a cold, brief text from Sloane Bishop, Duke's assistant: 'Madam Matilda expects your presence at the Hamptons estate for dinner. The car is waiting downstairs.' There was no room for refusal. Camelia had slowly pushed herself off the ground, swallowed the lingering dread in her throat, and limped out into the gray afternoon.

Camelia sat in the back of the Morrow family's black SUV. The vehicle was speeding down the highway toward the Hamptons estate.

She pulled her phone out of her purse and tapped the Instagram icon.

The first post on her feed was a breaking news alert. A high-definition photo of the Sotheby's auction house floor filled the screen.

The bold headline read: Morrow Group CEO Drops $5 Million on Rare Diamond Necklace.

The second photo was a side profile of Duke holding up an auction paddle. The comment section was exploding with gossip, everyone guessing which lucky mistress the necklace was for.

Camelia's face remained completely impassive. She pressed the lock button. The screen went black. She tossed the phone back into her Hermes bag.

She turned her head and stared out the tinted window. The lush, green trees of Long Island blurred together as the car sped past.

The SUV turned off the main road and glided through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Morrow estate. It came to a smooth stop in front of the grand fountain.

Ronnie Fitzpatrick, the estate's private driver, hurried out and opened the heavy door for her.

Camelia stepped out. She forced herself to walk normally, hiding the limp in her right ankle as she climbed the wide stone steps to the main entrance.

Hazel Wright, the head maid, was waiting in the foyer. She silently took Camelia's coat.

Camelia followed Hazel down a long, echoing hallway lined with priceless oil paintings. They reached the glass doors of the sunroom.

Matilda Morrow, the matriarch of the family, sat rigidly in a floral armchair. A cup of Earl Grey tea steamed on the table beside her.

When Matilda saw Camelia, the harsh lines around her mouth softened into a warm smile. She waved a wrinkled hand, gesturing for Camelia to sit on the sofa next to her.

Matilda tapped the tip of her wooden cane against the glass screen of an iPad resting on the coffee table. The Sotheby's article was open on the screen.

"Did my grandson buy this gaudy piece of trash for that Christabel woman?" Matilda demanded, her voice sharp and authoritative.

Camelia looked at the older woman. She didn't want to spike Matilda's blood pressure. "It's just corporate PR, Grandma," Camelia lied smoothly. "Client entertainment."

Before Matilda could respond, the heavy oak double doors of the sunroom were shoved open.

Duke strode into the room. He was wearing a tailored navy suit. The air around him crackled with cold hostility.

His dark eyes instantly locked onto Camelia, who was sitting close to his grandmother, speaking in low tones.

Matilda slammed her cane hard against the marble floor. The sharp crack echoed in the glass room.

"You have no shame, Duke," Matilda scolded harshly. "Buying jewelry for an outsider and letting your legal wife become a laughingstock in the tabloids!"

The muscle in Duke's jaw feathered. He shot a look at Camelia that could cut glass.

"Very clever, Camelia," Duke sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Running to the elders to play the victim and tattle."

Camelia met his furious gaze without flinching. "I didn't say a word about you," she said, her voice perfectly level.

Duke let out a dark chuckle. He didn't believe a single syllable. He looked at her like she was a snake in the grass.

"Enough!" Matilda barked. "You will stay here tonight, Duke. You will have dinner with your wife at this estate, and that is final."

Duke knew better than to cross the woman who controlled the family trust. He yanked out the chair opposite Camelia and dropped into it.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and started typing an email. He didn't spare Camelia a single glance.

Camelia lowered her eyelashes. she folded her hands neatly in her lap. She sat perfectly still, letting the temperature in the sunroom drop to absolute freezing.