The Tycoon's Awakening: Losing My Wife
Camelia Drake had only four months left on her prenuptial agreement with billionaire Duke Morrow, living as a glorified maid for his wealthy family.
The nightmare escalated when Duke's mistress, Christabel, intentionally threw herself down the marble stairs and later slashed her own arm with a fruit knife, screaming in fake terror that Camelia was trying to kill her.
Duke didn't even glance at Camelia's bleeding knee or her bruised spine.
He rammed into his wife, cradled the sobbing mistress against his chest, and pointed a furious finger at Camelia's face.
"Apologize right now, or I will ruin your career and make sure you leave this marriage with absolutely nothing."
The entire family mocked her. When Duke's grandmother secretly drugged his wine to force them together, Duke pinned Camelia to the wall, violently accusing her of being a desperate gold-digger.
The second the mistress called with a fake ache, Duke shoved Camelia to the floor and sprinted out into the night.
Sitting alone on the freezing floor, Camelia's heart finally shattered and turned to ice.
She couldn't understand how a man could be so ruthlessly blind, treating his legal wife worse than a stray dog while worshipping a manipulative liar.
The next morning, the mistress texted a victorious selfie from Duke's bed.
Camelia didn't shed a single tear. She calmly called back, telling the mistress to make sure Duke got a full STD test.
Then, she pulled out her suitcase, looked at her furious, hickey-covered husband with dead eyes, and prepared to walk away from this toxic prison forever.
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Chapter 6
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.
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9.3
On her wedding night at The Plaza Hotel, Clara went looking for her husband.
Instead, she found him in the dimly lit parking garage, passionately pinning down her bridesmaid.
She couldn't even scream or expose them. Just hours before the ceremony, Julian had tricked her into signing away her twenty percent shares of their co-founded company, leaving her completely penniless and unable to pay her grandmother's life-saving medical bills.
Fleeing in absolute despair, a sudden hotel blackout plunged her into a second nightmare. She was dragged into a pitch-black room and brutally violated by a heavily drugged stranger.
When a shattered Clara returned to the office to audit the books and reclaim her power, Julian demoted her to a dusty desk by the trash cans.
He flaunted his mistress in the executive suite and deliberately sent Clara into a horrifying trap. He arranged for vicious clients to drug and assault her, demanding high-definition blackmail photos so he could divorce her with absolutely nothing.
"Since you want to play rough, you can service Mr. Petrocelli tonight," the thug sneered, locking the VIP room door.
Clara was pushed to the brink of hell. Why was the man she devoted three years of her life to trying to destroy her so completely? And why did the freezing cedarwood scent of the stranger who ruined her in the dark perfectly match Conrad Vance, the ruthless CEO and Julian's untouchable uncle?
Rather than let Julian win, Clara smashed a glass bottle, held the jagged edge to her own throat to force the men back, and threw herself off the second-floor balcony into the freezing night.
But the bone-crushing impact never came. A massive figure shot out from the shadows and caught her, and her brutal counterattack finally began.
9.3
They say you can't have it all. I'm about to prove them wrong-or destroy myself trying.
When my struggling mother married billionaire Richard Stone, I thought I was gaining a family. Instead, I found three stepbrothers who became my obsession, my downfall, and my salvation.
Dominic, the eldest, cold and commanding, who kisses me like he's claiming his kingdom and looks at me like I'm the only thing he can't control.
Julian, the charming playboy who hides a vulnerable soul beneath his perfect smile, making me feel like I'm the only woman he's ever truly seen.
Asher, the brooding artist who paints me like I'm his muse and touches me like I'm his masterpiece, seeing parts of my soul I didn't know existed.
They're forbidden. They're dangerous. They're everything I shouldn't want.
But when I discover my father didn't die by suicide that he was murdered by the very man who now calls himself my stepfather, these three powerful men becomes my unlikely allies.
First it was a forbidden attraction, now it's an arrangement that defies every rule.
The rules are simple:
I'll give each of them a chance.
I'll take everything they offer.
And in the end, I'll have to make the hardest decision of my life:
Choose one of them. Choose all of them. Or choose myself.
8.8
Kaia was diagnosed with late-stage bone cancer, with only three months left to live.
She wanted to give up her family's entire trust fund just to have Gerrit play the role of a loving husband for her final days.
But before she could show him the biopsy report, he looked at her with absolute disgust, declaring that their three-year marriage made him physically sick.
He only loved Seraphina.
To force Kaia out, Seraphina constantly framed her. When Seraphina faked a fall, Gerrit pushed Kaia so hard she tore her waist open on a glass table.
When Kaia writhed in agonizing pain from her failing organs, he stood over her coldly, mocking her pathetic acting.
Even when Gerrit finally discovered Seraphina had hired a fake stalker and maliciously burned Kaia's skin with boiling tea, he still chose to protect his mistress.
"I already signed the divorce papers with Kaia. We are going to bury this story temporarily to protect the company."
Hearing those words from behind the wall, the last shred of hope in Kaia's chest completely died.
She had endured his cruelty for three years, only to realize his bias for another woman defied all logic and morality.
Lying in the bathtub, coughing up mouthfuls of dark blood that turned the water crimson, Kaia picked up her phone and dialed her lawyer.
"Julian, initiate the final plan."
Since Gerrit despised her existence, she would make sure he never found her body.
8.3
He laid me on the sheets, climbed over me, caged me with his arms. "Last chance to run," he said, voice low."I need the money," I whispered, feeling so tiny in his arms."You're soaking," he muttered. "Virgin or not, your pussy wants this."I moaned, looking away, couldn't help it,"Eyes on me, sweetheart," he pushed his tip in slowly."Fuck," he groaned. "So tight."He fucked me like he was claiming something. "Come for me," he whispered in my ears, moving faster."Damien," I cried out his name as I came."That's it," he growled. After a long minute he pulled out slowly. "One night," he said again, almost like a reminder....weeks later, I walked through the quiet hall of my school. A massive portrait stared back at me.Damien BlackwoodPrincipal Benefactor and OwnerColumbia University.Same man who'd just taken my virginity for money. My stomach dropped. "Oh fuck... what have I done?"
7.2
Six years ago, Seraphina's billionaire husband slapped a fake infertility report onto the marble table.
"Sign the divorce papers and get out," Julian commanded, looking at his wife of three years with pure, icy disgust.
Kicked out into the freezing rain while heavily pregnant, her own family abandoned her like garbage thanks to her sister's vicious lies.
She nearly died in a sterile operating room that night, giving birth to quadruplets, only for the grim-faced doctor to tell her two babies didn't survive.
She spent six agonizing years rebuilding her shattered identity in London, raising her surviving genius twins.
Meanwhile, her ex-husband paraded around New York with Livia, the very woman who orchestrated her ruin.
But when a medical emergency forced Seraphina back to the city, her twins accidentally crossed paths with two identical children at JFK airport.
Why did Julian's severely traumatized, mute daughter look exactly like her own little girl?
And why did her genius son just hack into his father's private server, only to find her delivery records locked behind military-grade encryption?
Staring at a faded ultrasound printout of four tiny shapes, a cold smile broke across Seraphina's face.
Tomorrow night, the discarded wife they thought they broke was going to crash the Astor-Vance charity gala, and she was going to burn their empire to the ground.
7.9
On our third wedding anniversary, my husband skipped our celebration to comfort his fragile adopted sister.
When I went to look for him in the middle of the night, I saw them intimately kissing in bed.
"She is a spoiled heiress who cannot live without me. Let her wait."
He scoffed to his sister, calling me a pathetic, clingy dog waiting for a scrap of attention.
For three years, I gave up my career as a top surgeon and managed his estate like a compliant housewife.
I swallowed my pride because my dying father desperately needed an experimental drug controlled by my husband's company.
But when my father accidentally overheard how my husband humiliated me, the guilt gave him a severe heart attack.
Waking up in the ICU, my father grabbed my hand and ordered me to divorce him.
When I finally handed my husband the divorce papers on the street, he flew into a violent rage.
"If you file these, I will cut off your father's medicine and leave you with nothing!"
He threatened me, thinking I would drop to my knees and beg for his mercy.
He didn't know that my personal trust fund was the only thing keeping his entire over-leveraged company from going bankrupt.
I smiled calmly and executed the secret clause to instantly withdraw my two hundred million dollars.
This time, I chose to burn his family's empire to the ground.