Zeke's POV

I'd felt pain before, but the pain gripping my heart now was excruciating. I couldn't bear the sight before me. Why was she drinking alone at the bar?

I moved closer. Her eyes were red and puffy. Was she crying?

What have I done?

Looking at her beautiful, tear-stained face, I reminisced about our marriage. She had always been loving, kind, thoughtful, and patient. She was almost flawless. I had caused her all this pain.

If only I hadn't let Ellen poison my mind. If only I'd learned to love her better. If only I'd known sooner about her family's treatment of her. If only I'd been there.

I have failed you, Kamille.

Lost in thought, my mind wandered back to how I'd uncovered the Manors' malicious lies and scheming against Kamille. I'd visited their ancestral home a few weeks after marrying Ellen. She'd claimed to miss the view of where she grew up and suggested a visit.

Roaming the magnificent mansion, with its beautiful antiques and sculptures, I stumbled upon its ugliest part: a bare room containing only an old, creaky bed. It was jarringly out of place in the elegant structure.

"What are you doing staring at this eyesore?" Ellen said, sneaking up behind me.

"Uh, nothing. Why have such an ugly servant's room inside the main hall? It's evil," I said, with a hint of humor.

Perhaps I meant it. It felt inhumane.

"Servant? I wish she were one," Ellen laughed. "Our servants sleep in decent rooms. This belonged to someone who got what she deserved," she added with a smirk.

"This belonged to Kamille?" I asked, concern etched on my face.

"Yes. So don't get worked up over it; she liked it anyway. Now let's go see my room," she replied nonchalantly, dragging me away.

I was awestruck by Ellen's room: silk sheets, colored curtains, 3D wall painting, figurines, a nice closet, a beautiful garden view, and a soft, furry foot mat. This was the luxury this mansion afforded.

That's when I began to suspect something was wrong. No matter the hate, she didn't deserve to be treated like a beggar. It felt far worse. I began investigating and discovered the hell Kamille had endured.

My thoughts gradually reeled me back to reality. I looked up. Her drowsy eyes and disoriented composure showed she'd had too much to drink. I smiled sadly.

I wanted to approach her, but I hesitated, remembering she'd asked me to stay away. But then, I saw a disreputable-looking man approach her table. A cold glint flashed in my eyes.

My legs moved faster than my mind, and soon I was at her table. The man looked up. "Who are you, mister?" he asked.

I gave him my coldest stare. He shuddered. "Okay, miss, some other time," he said, hurrying away.

"There will be no other time, motherfucker!" she yelled at his retreating back. She looked at me. "You again," she said disinterestedly.

Yeah. Me again.

"What are you doing out here alone?" I asked, sitting down beside her.

"Fuck off, Zeke. It's none of your business," she replied, pouring herself another drink. I saw three empty bottles.

"Did you drink all of these by yourself?" I asked, surprised.

"None of your business," she repeated. I sighed. She was a beautiful woman, once so happy and full of life—a life I'd taken from her.

"At least you should call your husband. He might be worried," I insisted.

"Oh, Zeke, you should know better now that husbands don't worry about their wives that much. You were one yourself. Oh, sorry, you are one yourself," she replied, gulping down her drink.

Ouch!

"You need to get home," I said, ignoring the hurt in my heart.

"Make me, daddy," she said with a pout, then laughed. My heart skipped a beat when she called me "daddy," but the adrenaline rush stopped when I remembered the vodka bottles. She was drunk.

Negotiating with her was useless; she couldn't even coordinate her movements, and no one was with her.

"Get up. Let's get you home," I said, offering to help her up.

"No, noo, no. I don't neeeed your help, Zeke. I just want you to staaay awaaay from me," she slurred.

"Why are you being so stubborn?" I asked, slightly agitated.

"Your act is really sickening, Zeke. You act like you care about me, but you don't! Go back to your fucking wife! I have a ride coming to pick me up, so you can drop the stupid and unprofessional act," she replied. "My babies can do better," she mumbled.

I paused. She thought I was still married to Ellen. I didn't bother correcting her. "Can you call the ride?" I asked in defeat.

She rolled her eyes and searched for her phone. "Fuck!" she cursed, dropping it on the table.

"What's wrong?" I asked. No response. I picked up her phone—it was dead. "You can't get a ride with a dead phone, can you?" I asked, regaining my confidence. No response. "I'll take you home," I said, standing up.

"No need, Zeke. You're the last person I want around," she replied, pouring herself another drink.

I was getting angry. I looked at the predatory men in the bar. They wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of her. "Well, you can hate me all you want, but I'm not leaving you here." I gently grabbed her arm, picked up her purse, and guided her toward the door.

She struggled, hitting my chest. "Let me go, you son of a bitch! You couldn't hurt me for all those years and only show up now acting like you care! You don't deserve the pleasure of helping me!" She yelled until she became weak and succumbed to the alcohol.

I'm sorry, Kamille, but I can't leave you here.

I carefully placed her in the car, threw her purse in the back, and buckled her in before getting into the driver's seat. I checked on her before starting the engine. I drove off.

"Why are you doing this, Zeke? I don't need you coming into my life and disrupting it. My kids and I are okay the way we are," she murmured, her eyes closing.

I just want to get you home safely. If she was in London to introduce her children to their father, why wasn't he at the airport? Was she not married to their father?

Either way, she was raising the children alone.

I hit the brakes. How would her children react to seeing her in this state? This wasn't my plan, but I reversed and headed toward my house. Her children didn't need to see their mother drunk upon their arrival.

Once home, I carefully carried her inside. Though only housekeepers and security were on the ground floor, I couldn't risk discovery. No one was to know she was alive and back in London. I took her to my room and laid her on the bed, removing her coat and boots. This caused her to stir, and her eyes fluttered open.

As I helped her rest her head, she leaned into my arms. "Kamille?" I whispered. No response. Instead, with sad, longing eyes, she stared at me—a look I felt mirrored in my own heart. I let her stare.

What are you doing, Kamille?

I gently pushed her back onto the bed. Better safe than sorry.