Kamille’s POV

Sitting at my study table, the flickering laptop screen cast shadows across the room. My heart hammered against my ribs as I scrolled through the latest press releases about my reappearance. The media was relentless. Every tabloid, every blog post featured me, alone or with Zeke. I knew this was the intended effect, but a deep unease settled over me.

“Gabriel’s release was already underway when Kamille was presumed dead,” the new Manor family lawyer declared in one clip, his voice smug. “But her resurfacing means she orchestrated the release of those videos. This is a direct attack, and the family will fight back—legally, of course.” His laughter echoed, cold and mirthless, grating on my nerves. I leaned back, staring at the screen.

Was this really worth it? The lawyer’s words replayed in my mind. Was my return to society worth this? I'd told Zeke I didn't want to expose my children yet. Looking at the tabloids, I was fucking glad I hadn't.

I had kept my children’s identities hidden precisely for this reason. I didn't want them dragged into this mess. They were my world, and I would do anything to protect them.

I slammed the laptop shut, frustrated, and searched various blog channels, hoping for some sanity. I found only more chaos.

“Kamille’s back from the dead and already stirring trouble,” one blog read. “She’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.”

“She’s a whore,” another comment spat. “Going back to her ex-husband who betrayed her with her sister? Disgusting.”

“She follows Zeke around like a lost puppy,” someone else chimed in. “Did she do something to make him divorce Ellen?”

“Zeke’s got both sisters wrapped around his finger. What a fucking great player,” another remarked, a hint of admiration in their tone.

I slammed the laptop shut, a surge of frustration and anger coursing through me. My pulse pounded as I stood and went to the kitchen. I needed a drink, something to blunt the sharp edges of my thoughts.

I grabbed a glass and a bottle of whiskey. As I poured myself a drink, the amber liquid shimmering in the dim light, I let out a shaky breath. The burn of the alcohol was a temporary distraction from the chaos in my mind.

Just as I began to relax, my phone rang, startling me. I almost dropped the bottle but managed to set it down. Holding my glass, I answered.

“Hello?” My voice was strained.

“Kamille, it’s Chris.” His voice was tight, urgent.

“Chris? What’s wrong?” I asked, immediately apprehensive. His tone only heightened my anxiety.

“I’m sorry, Kamille. Your kids…” His voice trailed off.

My glass slipped from my hand, shattering on the floor. “What? Where are my kids? Chris, what happened?”

“I’m so sorry, Kamille,” he repeated, his voice heavy with regret. “We’re working hard to get them back.”

Panic choked me. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.” I dropped the phone, still connected, tears streaming down my face. A hollow ache filled my chest.

I sank to the floor, the broken glass cutting into my knees and hands. Blood welled up, but I barely felt the pain. All I could think about was my kids. If I hadn't revealed myself, maybe they would have been safe. This was my fault. All my damn fault AGAIN!

I sat there, staring at my bloodied hands, and Royer’s bloodied face flashed in my mind. “No, please, my babies,” I cried.

This can't be happening. I tried to do things right. They weren't exposed to the media. Who would hurt my children? They’re just babies, defenseless. Who would inflict such pain?

I sat back on my heels, tears blurring my vision. The cuts on my hands stung, a reminder that I was still alive, still fighting, even though it felt like I was losing.

I needed to stay calm. For my kids. I had to think. Who could I trust?

Zeke.

I dialed his number, my hands trembling. He answered on the third ring.

“Kamille?” His voice was alert. He must have heard.

“Zeke, our babies…” My voice broke. “Our little babies…”

“Calm down, Kamille, I’m on my way,” he replied urgently.

“But my babies,” I cried, my hand falling to the broken glass again. The pain was nothing compared to the agony in my heart.

“Okay, listen to me,” Zeke said, his voice steady. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay where you are and try to stay calm.”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. “Hurry, Zeke. Please.”

I ended the call and sat there, surrounded by broken glass and blood, feeling more lost and alone than ever. My children were out there, scared and alone, and I was powerless.