Kamille’s POV

As I sat at my desk, surrounded by paperwork and evidence, my mind drifted back to my childhood—a time when I was only a few years older than my own children, now tucked safely in their beds.

I reviewed the evidence I’d gathered on Liz. Her fight is days away, and I need to send this to Amanda for forwarding to the blogger. I studied photos of my injuries—fractured arms, bruised ribs, the purplish-red discoloration—and my heart ached with empathy, the pain feeling almost fresh.

My past hurt resurfaced, taking me back to my sisters’ bullying. Physically and emotionally battered, I'd tried to speak up, but they twisted the truth, portraying me as the villain.

Esther Manor’s voice echoed in my mind: “Kamille, stop blaming your sisters for everything. They’re just playing around.” Doubt and disbelief laced her words.

“But Mom, it’s not fair! They’re hurting me!” I’d pleaded, clutching my bruised arms, tears streaming down my face.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your sisters love you. They wouldn’t hurt you,” she’d reply dismissively, her words cutting deeper than any physical blow.

After one such incident, I sat brooding, hiding my bruises from Grandma Monica. Her perceptive gaze found me.

“What’s wrong, Kamille?” she asked gently, her voice filled with concern.

I hesitated, but her reassuring touch urged me to speak. “Nothing, Grandma. Just a rough day,” I mumbled.

But Grandma wasn’t fooled. Leaning closer, she whispered, “Kamille, my dear, remember, evidence erases arguments.”

Her words ignited my determination. I began meticulously gathering evidence of my siblings’ abuse. I saved money, bought a camera, and discreetly placed it in my room to capture every angle. It became my silent witness, documenting the horrors I endured.

The videos revealed the truth: the violence, the threats, the relentless bullying. There was no denying the reality, no room for gaslighting.

Liz, once my tormentor, now an MMA fighter, continued to inflict pain. I’d been terrified then, but now I had proof. The recordings included chilling threats, Liz’s voice dripping with malice.

The accumulated evidence was overwhelming, each video a damning testament to the abuse I suffered within my own family.

Gabriel, my brother, betrayed me. The footage captured his late-night intrusions, his twisted attempts to justify his actions by claiming we weren’t related.

I felt sick watching him try to coerce me into a relationship, using manipulation and intimidation. When I resisted, his violence escalated, leaving me bruised and broken. I watched in horror as he whipped me, the sound echoing through the room. Tears streamed down my face as I cried out in pain and fear.

Ellen’s constant physical and verbal abuse made my life a living hell. The camera captured her relentless attacks, at home and at school. I was isolated, alone.

Lost in thought, wrestling with the evidence, a small voice broke the silence. “Mummy?”

Roen stood there, his innocent eyes filled with concern. My heart melted. I crouched down. His small hand clutched a book.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Why couldn’t you sleep?” I asked gently, picking him up. “Should Mummy get you milk?”

“Yes, Mom.” His eyes were fixed on the book.

“What book are you holding?” I asked, noticing his attention.

“Is he Dad?” I heard his tiny voice. I followed his gaze to a picture of Zeke and me. It was from a couples photoshoot, but even then, the distance and lack of warmth in Zeke’s expression were evident. He didn’t hold me, didn’t love me, and couldn't hide it. Now he expects me to believe his “miss me” stories.

Roen’s question pierced my reverie. How do I explain adult relationships to my son?

“How did you get this picture, sweetheart?” I asked, trying to deflect his curiosity.

“Is he Dad?” he asked again.

I took a deep breath. “Baby, you don’t have to worry about this. When the time is right, I’ll introduce you to your father. I promise I won’t keep you away from him.”

He nodded slowly. “I trust you, Mom.”

I kissed his forehead. “So we have to keep this a secret between us, okay?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“That’s my baby. Now let me tuck you in.” I fetched his milk. After he finished, I tucked him and his brothers into bed. I checked on Tyris before returning to my study.

Back in the study, the weight of the world pressed down on me. Tears welled up. What was I going to do? How careless of me to leave such pictures around?

I needed to act quickly, to tell Zeke about his children. But I wanted to be strong, to ensure he couldn’t take them away. My gaze fell upon my grandmother’s will.

Zeke’s unpredictability worried me. I couldn't let him use his influence to take my kids. Another thought surfaced: Zeke needed to move on. The best way? To make him believe I had moved on too.

Christopher’s name flashed in my mind, but I dismissed the idea. I had too much on my plate.

Then, the realization hit me: I needed Zeke away while I sorted everything out. The only way? To push him away with another man.

Frustration bubbled. “Fuck!” I muttered, overwhelmed.

With conflicting thoughts, I turned off the light and went to my room.