Zeke’s POV

“Please, Zeke. Don’t.” Kamille’s words echoed in my head as I left the hospital garden. My emotions raged like a storm, but I couldn't show it. A cold, aloof demeanor encased my heart in an icy grip. Anger consumed me as I replayed what had happened. Hurt and pain gnawed at my insides, a deep, consuming ache.

Each step felt heavy, burdened by my emotions. My jaw clenched, teeth grinding with suppressed frustration. My fists were tight, nails digging into my palms as I fought to control the turmoil.

I returned to the hospital. Nurses scurried past, their movements unnoticed. My face remained grim until I reached Doctor John's office. I opened the door to find him writing in a patient's file.

"Release them," I said flatly.

The doctor looked up, surprised. "Mr. Reid?"

"Discharge Kamille and the kids," I clarified.

"But sir, you wanted them to stay. We need them here to—"

"Release them," I interrupted. "Arrange for regular visits from the medical team."

My words were calm, but the storm inside raged on. I left through the VIP exit.

In my car, I closed my eyes. What the fuck did Christopher say to Kamille? How did he know I was watching her? Who the hell was he?

Just when things were going well, this shattered any peace I’d found. As I stewed, I realized Kamille would need an escort home. Knowing she'd refuse my help, I decided to call her friends.

I didn't have their numbers.

Frustration gnawed at me again. I called Mr. Rogers instead. He'd find a way to reach them. He answered after one ring.

"Mr. Reid," he greeted.

"Tell Kamille's friends," I began, "she and the kids were in a near-miss car accident, but they're fine and need rest at home. They could use help getting home."

"Okay, sir," Mr. Rogers replied, then paused. "But sir…"

"I don't have all day, Mr. Rogers," I snapped.

"Why aren't you doing it yourself, sir?" he asked, confused.

"Kamille wouldn't want me to," I said coldly, ending the call.

The weight of my emotions pressed down as I sat in silence. Soon, Mr. Rogers called to say Kamille and her friends were leaving.

I started my car and drove to the general parking lot, finding a spot where I could see them. I watched as they settled into Amanda's car, nurses assisting with the children.

My eyes lingered on Kamille's tired face. I clenched my fist. How much pain have I caused her? I vowed to right my wrongs and make those who harmed her and my children pay.

But as their car sped away, helplessness washed over me. Frustration, anger, and heartache swirled.

I called Andrew. "Call off the security detail watching Kamille and the kids."

"Sir, after the incident, we should be increasing security, not decreasing it," Andrew argued.

"Do as I say. I have a plan." My voice was firm. All warmth was gone, replaced by a chilling cold. I would do what she wanted, but I'd also protect them.

Next, I called Fletcher.

"Hello, brother," Fletcher said.

"I need five men from special operations, immediately," I instructed.

Fletcher knew my tone. "Okay, brother. Who are they to execute?"

"Not execute, guard. One man for each child, one for Kamille," I clarified, my voice authoritative.

The Caruso family managed special operations. Their patriarch was strict, but he wouldn't refuse me. They were discreet and highly trained.

Fletcher responded, understanding my request. "Consider it done, brother."

I wouldn't let emotions cloud my judgment. Kamille and the kids' safety was paramount. I'd do whatever it took, even if it meant unleashing the demon I kept chained.

I needed a drink. I drove to the casino.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on me as I entered the private lounge. I sat, gestured for the bartender, and ordered, "A double shot of the finest whiskey."

He hesitated. "Sir, it's only four p.m."

Ignoring him, I snapped, "I don't care what time it is. Pour the drink."

He poured the whiskey, trembling. His curiosity overcame him. "Will Mr. Zane and Mr. Fletcher be joining you, sir?"

My gaze hardened. "Who do you think owns this place? Who signs your paycheck?"

The bartender stammered, realizing his mistake. "Y-you do, sir."

"I thought so," I said sharply. "Shut up and pour the drink, or I will."

He quickly poured. As I drank, a bitter satisfaction filled the emptiness. The alcohol clouded my senses, and I drank until I could barely think straight. I left the lounge.

Commotion met me at the door. I saw a woman, flanked by guards, trying to enter. Recognition dawned.

Kamille?