Zeke’s POV

Jonathan’s expression shifted to disbelief. “Yeah,” he continued, “word’s spread like wildfire throughout the hospital. They say your kid’s been admitted, and that you have four kids with your ex-wife! Zeke, we saw your ex-wife! I thought she was dead?”

What the hell was he talking about?

Jonathan offered me a seat and asked if I wanted coffee. I nodded numbly, my mind racing. “Yeah, black coffee, strong, please,” I murmured, struggling to form coherent thoughts.

A small smile touched Jonathan’s lips. “I know exactly how you like it.”

As he started to leave to get the coffee, frustration and anxiety welled up. “Hold on,” I said urgently. “What do you mean it’s spread like wildfire?”

Jonathan chuckled softly. “Well, you know, hospital gossip’s legendary. It spreads faster here than anywhere else.”

Fuck! I cursed under my breath, regretting bringing Kamille to the hospital. “Shit,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “I didn’t think of that, but I’m not even sure they’re my kids.”

Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up. “What?” he exclaimed incredulously. “You’re not sure they’re your kids? Stop joking. I saw them arriving. I was on the balcony; I didn’t need you to tell me they were yours. I knew. What are you talking about?”

I sighed, the weight of uncertainty heavy. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. “Their mother said I’m not their father.”

Silence fell as Jonathan processed this. Then, with a determined look, he said, “Want me to run a DNA test? I could do it now.”

I shook my head firmly. “No. Not without their mother’s consent. I’ll wait for her to tell me.”

“What about your ex-wife, Ellen?” Jonathan asked.

Mentioning Ellen sparked bitterness and resentment. “I don’t want to talk about Ellen right now,” I replied tersely, my jaw clenched.

Jonathan sighed, mirroring my frustration. “Yeah, of course. Why would you even want to talk about her after what they did to Kamille? Aren’t they supposed to be family? Why would they do that?”

What the fuck was going on? Was I trapped in a time warp?

Confusion returned as I struggled to understand. “What are you talking about?” I asked, bewildered.

Jonathan, seemingly oblivious to my question, continued babbling. “But how did Kamille rise from the dead? What the hell is happening?” He paused, noticing my confused stare. “Come on, Zeke. You know I love stories.” He smiled sheepishly.

“No, Jonathan. You don’t love stories; you love other people’s business,” I replied, avoiding the word gossip.

“Hehehehe. Literally the same thing,” he giggled.

I rolled my eyes. “So, what were you saying about Kamille and Ellen’s family?”

Jonathan’s eyes widened. “You haven’t seen it? It’s on the tabloids, everywhere! The disgusting, inhumane treatment Kamille faced. Check your phone while I get your coffee.”

As Jonathan left, I collected myself, reeling from our conversation. The numerous missed calls and messages from Rogers, my assistant, filled me with dread.

“Fuck,” I muttered, my heart pounding. What could be so urgent? I clicked on the links Rogers sent, and what I saw horrified me.

Videos of Liz, Ellen’s sister, showed her brutally assaulting Kamille. The canceled fight, the attacks, the threats—all there. My stomach churned with disgust and anger.

The headlines screamed, “Liz Manor, former MMA fighter in training, abuses adopted sister.”

Serves her right.

But the following images shook me profoundly. Pictures of Kamille’s fractured arms, her bruised and wounded body—horrific. A veil had been lifted, revealing the extent of her suffering.

Lost in swirling thoughts and emotions, the weight of Kamille’s suffering crushed me. The videos and images painted a horrifying picture, far darker than I imagined.

“The hell…” I muttered, trembling as I scrolled again.

The realization that Kamille had endured this alone filled me with sadness and guilt. How could I have been so blind?

I quickly called Rogers. “Trace the posts. Find out who leaked the evidence and their motives,” I instructed.

Rogers’ tone was grave. “Tracing the source. It’s a blogger, with an anonymous tip.”

“Damn it,” I cursed, a knot forming in my stomach. “Find out everything. I want to know who’s behind this.”

“On it, sir,” Rogers replied before hanging up.

The gravity of the situation sank in. The evidence was too detailed for a random blogger. Could Kamille be the anonymous tipster? And if so, why? Was she seeking justice, or was there more to the story?

The thought of Kamille in danger, her past catching up to her, filled me with urgency and dread.

I couldn’t lose her again. I would do anything to protect her and her children, even against her own family.

I won’t let anyone hurt her, I vowed.

As I considered telling Kamille, Jonathan returned with our coffees. “Your coffee’s ready,” he said.

My mind was on Kamille. “I’m sorry, Jonathan, but I have to go,” I said, my tone strained. “Thank you.”

“But your coffee…” Jonathan protested, confused.

“I’ll be back,” I assured him, my words hollow. I stood and left.

I needed to find Kamille. Liz’s cruelty filled me with rage.

I don’t hit women, but in my mind, Liz Manor had suffered a thousand fatal blows.

Hurrying through the hospital, my fists clenched, I knew I would stop at nothing to ensure justice for the woman I loved.