Barren Heiress Returns With Quadruplet

Kamille’s POV

Sitting at the table in my study, the flickering light from my laptop screen cast shadows across the room. My heart rammed hard in my chest as I scrolled through the latest press releases about my reappearance.

The media was relentless. I was in every tabloid. Every blog post had a picture of either myself or myself together with Zeke. I know this was the desired effect, but somehow I began to feel a little uneasy about it.

“Gabriel’s release was already underway since Kamille was presumed dead,” the new Manor family lawyer declared in one clip, his voice smug.

“But her resurfacing means she was the one behind the release of those videos. This is a direct attack, and the family will fight back-legally, of course.” He added.

His laughter echoed in my ears, a cold, mirthless sound that irritated me. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen.

Was this really worth it? The lawyer’s words replayed in my mind. Was my comeback into society important at this point? I told Zeke I did not want to expose my children yet.

Staring at the tabloids, I’m fucking glad I did.

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

I closed the video with a frustrated click and began searching through various blog channels, hoping to find some semblance of sanity. Instead, 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 said bluntly. “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 fuckin great player,” another remarked, a hint of admiration in their tone.

I slammed the laptop shut, feeling a surge of frustration and anger. My pulse raced as I stood up and made my way to the kitchen. I needed a drink. Something to dull the sharp edges of my thoughts.

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

Just as I began to relax, my phone rang, startling me. I nearly dropped the whiskey bottle but managed to set it down on the counter. Holding onto my glass, I answered the call.

“Hello?” My voice sounded strained, even to my own ears.

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

“Chris? What’s wrong?” I asked. I suddenly became uncomfortable and his tone was doing very well in aggravating how I was feeling.

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

My glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor, the sound ringing in my ears. “What? Where are my kids? Chris, what happened?”

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

Panic rose in my chest, choking me. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.” I let the phone slip down my ears, the call still on at the time and with tears streaming down my face. I felt a hollow ache in my chest.

I sank to the floor, the broken glass cutting into my knees and hands. Blood welled up, bright red against the shards, 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 on the floor and lifted my now bloodied hands and looked at it. My mind began drifting and I began seeing Royer’s bloodied face.

“No please, my babies,” I cried.

This can’t be happening to me. I tried to get it right. They were not exposed to the media or the public. Who would want to hurt my children so much? They are just little babies and cannot defend themselves. So who would want them to experience so much pain such as this?

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

My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to scream, to throw my phone against the wall, but I knew I had to stay calm. For my kids. I had to think. Who could I call for help? Who could I trust?Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

Their father, Zeke.

I dialed Zeke’s number, my hands trembling so badly I could barely press the buttons. He answered on the third ring.

“Kamille?” His voice was already alerted. He must have heard what had happened.

“Zeke, our babies…” I said, my voice breaking. “Our little babies…”

“Calm down Kamille, I’m on my way,” He replied, his voice was urgent now.

“But my babies,” My words tumbled out in a rush and I let my hand fall to the ground again, causing me to collide with the broken pieces again. It hurt, but I lost the ability to feel any physical pain. My heart took all the pain.

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

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