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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9.8
Four years ago, I was drugged on a luxury yacht and ended up pregnant with twins.
I raised them in secret, enduring my stepfamily's daily abuse, until the billionaire West family patriarch cornered us at the airport.
He instantly recognized my son's face—an exact replica of his ruthless grandson, Bernardo West.
My malicious stepmother and stepsister immediately leaked to the press that I was a delusional gold-digger using fake kids to trap a billionaire.
They wanted the West family to destroy me to save their own social standing.
Bernardo himself looked at me with pure disgust, demanding a DNA test.
"If you ever lie to me, I will take the children, and I will make you wish you were never born."
I didn't want his money. I was a victim of that night too, left with a crescent-shaped bite mark on my collarbone and zero memory of who set us up.
Why did someone drug us? And how could I protect my babies from a corporate predator who could crush me with a snap of his fingers?
But when the DNA test came back 99.9999% positive, I didn't cower.
I showed him the scar he left on me, looked the most dangerous man in the country right in the eye, and made my demand.
"If you want to claim your heirs, you have to marry me."
9.3
Alyssa Gregory slept with Benton Steele, a recently disgraced and bankrupt heir, just to humiliate him.
She threw a massive check at his bare chest, treating the former prince of Wall Street like a cheap escort.
But Benton didn't take the charity.
Instead, he manipulated her anger, tricking her into signing an ironclad contract that surrendered absolute control of her entire trust fund to him.
When her abusive mother found out she had funded a penniless outcast, she slapped Alyssa across the face.
Her mother froze all her bank accounts, locked her inside her bedroom, and arranged to sell her off to a degenerate politician.
Desperate to escape, Alyssa climbed down her balcony, falling fifteen feet and shattering her ankle on the stones below.
Stripped of her money and freedom, she dragged her broken body to a VIP club just to publicly declare that Benton belonged to her.
She thought she was the boss, playing a rebellious game with a broken man.
But when Benton effortlessly carried her away from the club and locked her inside his rundown apartment, the terrifying calculation in his dark eyes shattered her illusion.
How could a man stripped of his entire empire still radiate such suffocating, violent power?
"You bought me," Benton whispered, his massive frame trapping her against the sofa. "That means I have to take care of you."
Physically trapped and completely broke, Alyssa stared into his consuming eyes, her mind racing to find a way to turn the tables.
9.5
Blaire's mother gave her a ruthless ultimatum: find a husband today, or never call her mother again.
Desperate to escape the suffocating control and disastrous blind dates, Blaire agreed to a fake marriage with a stranger she met through an old woman.
She thought she was marrying a dirt-poor salesman drowning in mortgage debt.
They lived in a rundown Queens apartment and split the living expenses fifty-fifty.
He drove a sputtering Toyota Camry, established extreme territorial rules, and treated her like a gold-digging biohazard.
When she accidentally tripped and spilled hot soup on him, he didn't help her up, instead accusing her of using pathetic tricks to seduce him.
Her own mother even crashed their apartment, ruthlessly mocking his pathetic financial state and calling him a total loser.
Blaire endured his coldness and extreme germaphobia, genuinely pitying him for his stressful, low-paying job.
She refunded his money and defended his dignity, refusing to take advantage of a struggling man.
But she couldn't understand why this supposedly broke guy possessed such a lethal, commanding aura, or why an incredibly expensive cashmere blanket mysteriously appeared on her when she was freezing on the couch.
Until her brother called with a shocking warning.
"Blaire, the name on your marriage certificate belongs to the notoriously secretive billionaire CEO of New York's top financial syndicate!"
Blaire laughed out loud, completely unaware that behind the bedroom door, her "broke" husband was frantically ordering his PR team to bury his true identity.
8.9
Debora went to prison to protect the man she loved, only to end up a paroled convict living under the roof of her abusive foster parents.
When they found her positive pregnancy test from a one-night stand, they threatened to kick her out and send her straight back to a cell.
Just as they were about to report her, the stranger from that dark hotel room suddenly appeared.
He paid her foster parents one million dollars to marry her and take her away.
Debora thought she was finally safe.
But the moment they were alone, he looked at her with pure, venomous hatred.
He didn't want a wife; he wanted a prisoner.
He believed Debora was the ruthless murderer who had destroyed his life in a car crash, and he planned to make her suffocate in her own despair.
He didn't know she was just a scapegoat.
To survive and protect her baby, Debora found a job at a bridal shop, only to run into the real culprit—the man who actually drove the car and framed her.
He was now happily engaged to a wealthy heiress.
They deliberately ruined a priceless wedding gown and blamed it on her.
"Kneel on this floor and apologize, or I'm calling the police to revoke your parole!"
Why did she have to rot in hell for his sins, while the man she married wanted to destroy her?
Just as her trembling knees were about to touch the cold marble floor, the heavy glass doors were violently shoved open.
Her billionaire husband strode in like a force of nature, his eyes locked onto the wealthy couple with a terrifying, destructive rage.
8.6
Marrying Theron Draix in a few days was a life long dream come true.
For seventeen years, I'd loved him, revolving my life around him, and in just three days, we should be married.
"Let's break up. I won't be attending the wedding," he said.
My life shattered in that instant.
Finding out he was in love with my adopted sister was worse. They had played me and controlled my emotions.
At the end, Mireya had killed me.
If I was given a second chance, I would never love Theron and never trust Mireya.
8.6
Genevieve was heavily pregnant, holding the legal papers that would transfer her massive family trust fund to her loving husband, Clinton.
But as she approached his study, she heard a familiar giggle. Through the cracked door, she saw her cousin Carolynn sitting on his desk, her skirt hiked up, while Clinton smirked and poured bourbon.
"Once she signs those papers, we don't need her anymore," Clinton laughed coldly. "The kidnapping is staged for tomorrow. She and the brat disappear permanently."
Genevieve gasped, and he spotted her. When she frantically tried to run, her trusted housekeeper blocked the stairs. Clinton dragged her back, beat her mercilessly, and locked her in a freezing, underground cellar.
Denied any medical help, she endured agonizing hours of labor alone in the dark, only to deliver a stillborn child. Clinton then walked in, ruthlessly tossed her dead baby's tiny body into a pile of dirty rags, and brutally strangled her.
As her lungs burned and the world faded to black, her heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. She had given him everything. How could they be so monstrous as to murder her and her innocent child just for money?
Opening her eyes again, the freezing cellar was gone.
She was standing in an emerald silk gown at an elite charity gala—the exact night their original kidnapping plot began, a month before she even announced her pregnancy.
This time, the naive socialite was dead, and she was going to make them pay in blood.