Zeke’s POV

I watched Kamille remove the cookies from the oven, waiting a few seconds before she turned. Even then, her eyes avoided mine.

"I should go. I just wanted to see you, make sure you're okay," I said, my gaze fixed on her every move.

"Okay, Zeke," she replied, lifting her head but still avoiding my eyes.

I left the kitchen. The tension was suffocating. I adjusted my tie for some relief.

Outside, my mind raced, replaying the last few hours since arriving at the penthouse.

Fuck! What was I thinking?

Was I too forward? Was she still angry? Or was it the damn oven timer? I tried to make sense of it, but I was sure she felt it too. She kissed me back, grabbed my hair—she felt it.

As I heard the door slam, I turned to see Kamille holding a box. Was she leaving because of me?

"Go back inside, Kamille," I said dryly. I didn't want her to leave because of what happened in the kitchen.

She surprised me. Calmly, she said, "I'm done with the cookies, Zeke. The kids at the ward will have them, along with Royer."

"But…" I hesitated, the words caught in my throat. So much I wanted to say, so many emotions, but the words wouldn't come.

"See you around, Zeke," Kamille said before I could speak. She offered a half-hearted smile as she walked past.

Watching her go, longing washed over me. I wanted her to stay, to tell her how much I needed her. But I stood rooted, watching helplessly as she disappeared.

I sighed and went to my car. Settling in, I looked back at the penthouse one last time.

"I'm going to show her," I whispered, filled with resolve. "I'll love her with all my heart. I'll fight for her, and I'll do everything to have her back."

I am going to show her how much she means to me.

With that thought, the engine roared to life. I would do whatever it took to get Kamille back. I couldn't survive much longer without her.

Driving through London, nothing interested me. I just wanted a cold shower and to bury myself in work. To help Kamille and prove my love, she needed to trust me again. I entered the house.

"Welcome home, Mr. Reid," a maid said, passing me.

"Good to see you back, sir," another added, busy with her chores.

I ignored them and walked away.

Near my room, I heard a more welcome voice.

"Hello, sir. Welcome back," Mr. Rogers greeted.

"Rogers," I nodded. He looked healthier than the last time I saw him.

"Yes, sir. Good to have you back. The company has felt your absence," he replied.

"What did I miss?" I asked. I disliked being away from work for long. Mr. Rogers did an amazing job, but it's never quite the same without me.

Rogers updated me on the Reid Company. I had a mountain of documents and tasks.

"I left some documents in the study for you," he explained, his brow furrowing slightly.

I sighed. "How much?"

"A lot, sir," Mr. Rogers replied with a sympathetic smile.

"Thank you, Rogers," I said, starting up the stairs, then stopping. "You should take more time off. It suits you." I continued upstairs. Mr. Rogers was the closest elderly figure I had since my father. A few days off had refreshed him.

After a shower and change of clothes, I went to my study. A massive pile of documents greeted me.

This was a month's work! Accumulated in three days? What the fuck?!

I cursed inwardly, sitting down to begin. The computer screen illuminated the dimly lit study, but my concentration was broken by my phone ringing. I glanced at the caller ID.

"Hello," I answered.

"Hello, brother. I've just emailed you what we owe you," he replied unenthusiastically.

"What do you owe…?" Realization hit me. This rascal must be talking about the drug baron. "I'll take a look now," I added calmly.

I ended the call with Fletcher and opened my email. The attachment was a picture of a man with an odious aura, but his face was obscured.

I called Fletcher. "What is this?" I asked.

"Brother, that's the only picture we could get. He's always surrounded by men, so a close-up was impossible," Fletcher replied. His background was noisy.

"Get a clearer picture next time. I don't want to believe your men are outsmarted by my well-trained personnel," I said. Fletcher and Zane hated bruised egos. I hoped I'd made my point. I hung up before he could reply.

Returning to the picture, I searched for clues. Nothing. Just a side view of the drug baron in a limousine, cigar in hand.

At first glance, everything seemed different—hairstyle, clothing, the angle. But as I studied it, familiarity struck. Something about his jaw, his cheekbones… a deep memory stirred.

Wait. Could it be…? Was it possible the drug baron was someone I knew?

I'd opened Pandora's box of unanswered questions and dangerous answers.

Who the fuck is he?