Ellen’s POV

Finally! Something promising to start the day.

Martha, Zeke’s housekeeper, texted me in the early morning hours. She’d found something valuable belonging to a woman she’d seen at Zeke’s house, and wanted to give it to me.

I had no choice but to meet her. I trust no one with matters like this.

I strode down the sidewalk, my designer heels clicking on the pavement. My meticulously styled hair bounced with each step. Max, my chief security officer, and Ava waited by my sleek SUV parked in front of my condo.

Max opened the car door. I got in; Ava sat some distance away, and Max took the front passenger seat.

Coursing through London’s bustling streets, I juggled phone calls while Ava handled pending emails.

“Canceled? But why?” I exclaimed, disbelief sharp in my voice. Another musician had pulled out of my upcoming concert.

What the hell was wrong with these people?! The cancellations were due to the persecution of my family; it was bad publicity for them.

I cursed and ended the call, frustration simmering. More cancellations poured in—emails and calls—each one fueling my anger. I’d invested so much in this concert. Why couldn't they just let me host it in peace? My family’s finances were already precarious; I couldn’t ask them for help, and my boutique’s sales were plummeting. I felt utterly helpless.

“Get me on a call with the weekly orchestra’s organizer,” I barked at Ava.

She quickly connected the call.

“What the hell is going on?” I yelled.

“Calm down, Miss Manor. We tried damage control, but it was futile. All the musicians withdrew,” the man said.

“So what am I supposed to do? I invested so much!” I screamed. My anger filled the car.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but perhaps you could try to garner public sympathy through a charity initiative,” he replied.

I hung up, furious. Why should I suffer because of my family? Then I remembered Liz’s weekend fight—I could use that to my advantage.

The Manor business had survived many generations and crises. If we’d overcome similar challenges before, we could do it again.

I sighed. If only I were still with Zeke, things wouldn’t have gone so wrong.

The reality of our fractured relationship weighed heavily on me, a painful reminder of what was and what could have been. But I wouldn't let him leave me. He belonged to me.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed the city as we drove out of the main town.

Arriving at a small downtown restaurant, I marched inside to meet Martha.

The restaurant reeked of stale grease and cheap perfume; the dim lighting did little to hide the grime. Spotting Martha, I suppressed a shudder and approached her.

Pretending to peruse the menu (I wouldn't order anything), I sat down. The thought of eating here churned my stomach.

“Welcome, Ma’am,” Martha greeted, her voice overly sweet.

I offered a grim smile, masking my disdain. “I need you to handle something for me,” I said, keeping my tone clipped.

Martha nodded, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Of course, Ma’am. Tell me what you need.”

I slid an envelope across the table; she did the same. She took the envelope, her fingers lingering a moment too long. “Thank you, Ma’am,” she said with a sly smile.

I maintained my composure, though I desperately wanted to leave.

After she thanked me, I made a hasty exit, still feeling nauseous. I hurried to my car, desperate to escape. I collided with someone. “Watch where you’re going!” I snapped.

The person apologized, but I ignored them and rushed to my car. Max opened the door. Safe inside, I sanitized my hands, inhaling the scent of my milk and honey hand lotion.

How do people survive in such places?

“Get me out of here,” I ordered. We sped away.

In the car, I carefully opened the envelope, protecting my freshly manicured nails—a vanity I cherished.

“What is this?” I whispered, staring at the tiny photograph. A million questions raced through my mind, but the answers remained elusive.

Bringing the photo closer, I saw four children.

“What the fuck?!” I screamed. The driver slammed on the brakes.

“Are you okay, Ma’am?” Max asked. Ava was too scared to speak, but her eyes mirrored the question.

“What? Mind your own damn business!” I yelled.

After a moment, Max signaled the driver to continue.

I stared at the photo, my eyes blazing with hate. Three boys and a girl. The boys looked like younger versions of Zeke. They were undoubtedly his.

Fuck! How could I have missed this?

The little girl’s eyes held a familiar look that made my stomach churn. Whose children were these? Were they the woman's? If they were Zeke’s, he must have had them before we married—they looked about three or four years old. Did Zeke know? What was going on?

“Max, I need a reliable, efficient private investigator,” I said.

“Yes, Ma’am. Mr. Finley knows many,” he replied, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

Mr. Finley, my father’s right-hand man, would know the right people. I’d ask him.

Whoever these children were, I’d make sure they never crossed my path again.

As I considered my next move, a message arrived from Mr. George, our family butler. My parents were summoning us for a mandatory family dinner. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Of course, I muttered, I’ll be there.