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.

Camelia sat at one end of the massive mahogany dining table. Duke sat at the far opposite end. The silence in the dining room was thick and suffocating.

Hazel, the maid, stepped out of the shadows. She held a crystal decanter of aged red wine. She poured a generous amount into Duke's glass, then walked over and poured a smaller amount into Camelia's.

Matilda sat at the head of the table. She raised her own glass of water. "To the future of this family," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Camelia picked up her crystal glass. She took a small, polite sip of the dark red liquid.

As the wine coated her tongue, she tasted a very faint, bitter, herbal aftertaste. She frowned slightly, setting the glass down.

Duke wanted this dinner over with. He grabbed his glass, tilted his head back, and downed the entire half-glass of wine in one continuous swallow.

The rest of the meal was a symphony of silver forks scraping against porcelain plates. No one spoke.

Matilda wiped her mouth with a linen napkin. "I am tired," she announced. She pointed her cane at Duke. "You will sleep in the master suite with your wife tonight."

Duke yanked his tie loose with a violent tug. He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and marched toward the grand spiral staircase.

Camelia stood up silently and followed him up the stairs. They walked down the plush carpeted hallway and stepped into the luxurious master suite.

Click.

The heavy, carved wooden door shut behind them. The sound of the lock engaging echoed loudly in the quiet room.

Duke stopped. He turned around and grabbed the brass door handle. He pulled down hard.

The handle didn't budge. The door was locked from the outside.

Duke slammed his open palm against the thick wood. "Hazel!" he yelled into the hallway. "Open this door!"

There was no answer. Just the dead silence of the massive estate.

Duke turned away from the door. Suddenly, a strange, unnatural heat bloomed in the pit of his stomach. It rushed upward, setting his chest on fire.

He cursed under his breath. He ripped open the top two buttons of his dress shirt. His breathing grew heavy and ragged.

Camelia stood near the edge of the bed. Her cheeks suddenly felt flushed. A strange, rapid fluttering started in her chest, completely out of her control.

Duke's dark eyes widened slightly. Then, a look of pure, murderous realization washed over his face.

He closed the distance between them in three long strides, moving like a predatory cat.

He grabbed Camelia by both shoulders. He shoved her backward. Her spine hit the hard wooden doors of the walk-in closet with a loud thud.

"You drugged the wine," Duke snarled, his face inches from hers. "What exactly did you put in my glass? You and my grandmother really think you can corner me like this? You think you can just control my body and force my hand?"

Camelia's back ached from the impact. She shoved both her hands against his rock-hard chest, trying to push him away.

"I didn't know anything about the wine!" she gasped, her breath coming too fast.

Duke let out a cruel, breathless laugh. "You are a liar. You'll do anything for the money."

Camelia's temper finally snapped. She raised her right hand, aiming a hard slap right at his arrogant face.

Duke's reflexes were too fast. His hand shot up and caught her wrist mid-air. His grip was like iron.

He twisted her arm up and pinned both of her wrists flat against the closet door, high above her head.

Duke pressed his massive, overheated body completely against hers. The heavy scent of male pheromones, amplified by the drug in his veins, crashed over Camelia, trapping her entirely in his dangerous, suffocating shadow.