Ellen’s POV

I sat across from my father in his study, the flickering fireplace casting shadows on the walls. His revelation hung in the air between us, a dark veil resisting the passage of time.

“How the hell is she a Manor?” I demanded, my voice shaking.

My father’s eyes met mine, steady and calm. “Remember the story I told you about your Aunt Fiona’s baby and your Grandma Monica adopting another?”

A chill ran down my spine as the pieces of a long-buried puzzle clicked into place. “The baby didn’t die,” I whispered.

My father nodded. “Exactly.”

Dumbfounded, I struggled to process this. Kamille, the woman I despised, was family. Why would Grandma Monica do this?

As if reading my thoughts, my father said, “Your Grandma Monica couldn’t bear the stigma of her granddaughter being the daughter of a security guard.”

The revelation was overwhelming. Grandma Monica's lengths to maintain the family’s reputation now made sense, but it fueled my hatred for Kamille. She'd prioritized Kamille, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. If she'd shown us half that attention, things might have been different.

My thoughts were interrupted by my father’s phone. He answered curtly, “Go ahead and make sure there are no mistakes.” He ended the call and turned to me.

“What was that about?” I asked.

He smiled bitterly, mischief flashing in his eyes. “I’ve prepared a little gift for you,” he said, turning on his PC. A live feed appeared on the screen.

I leaned closer. It was a school. Then it clicked. “Thank you, Father. You know how to treat me well,” I said, smiling sinisterly. I would make Kamille regret her return.

The video showed a teacher approaching Kamille’s children. They interacted amiably. As the little girl talked, I remembered a photograph—those eyes.

“That’s it!” I exclaimed, pointing at the girl. “Those eyes! They remind me of Kamille.”

Hatred surged. My father patted my shoulder, his touch cold but reassuring.

“Wait for the best part,” he murmured.

On screen, the children followed the teacher to a back door, where two large men blocked their path. The children screamed, their tiny fists useless against the men.

“Such a pathetic sight,” I sneered.

The men bundled the children into a car and sped off. Zeke’s men were in pursuit. The chase was intense, culminating in a collision with a trailer.

My breath hitched. “Are they dead?” I whispered.

The screen went black. My father smiled. “We’ll find out soon enough,” he said.

He called Mr. Finley; the call was brief.

“What now?” I asked eagerly.

“Just hang on, Ellen, we’ve got this,” he replied calmly.

I was less concerned about the children than about my own exposure. I couldn't be undone before unleashing my wrath on Kamille.

Finally, his phone rang again. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “They survived,” he said, emotionless.

The children lived, but the game was far from over. “What now?” I asked, my voice steady.

“We proceed with caution,” he replied. “This has just begun.”

I nodded. The stakes were high. I couldn't let emotions cloud my judgment. Kamille was an enemy. I would protect my family.

“You should go before Zeke misses you too much,” Father said, grinning slyly.

“Not that he would,” I replied, flipping my hair.

“Don’t assume,” Father said, setting down his wine.

My phone rang. “Excuse me, Father.”

“Hello, Becky,” I said.

“Hello, El. How are you?” she asked.

“Never better. What’s up?”

I told her I needed a sperm donor with a good background; I needed to be pregnant soon.

“Why ‘better’? That’s unlike you,” she said calmly.

I frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the tabloids?” Becky shouted.

I covered the mouthpiece and asked my father to turn on the TV. “What’s going on?” I asked Becky.

“I can’t believe this! Your lawyer even did an interview,” Becky said.

On the TV, I saw Zeke and Kamille, smiling at the cameras. Rage consumed me. She was living my life!