Barren Heiress Returns With Quadruplet

Kamille’s POV

As I sat at my desk, surrounded by paperwork and evidence, my mind drifted back to a time long ago, when I was just a child, a few years older than my own tucked-in angels in their rooms.

I looked through the evidence I had gathered on Liz. Her fight is a few days away and I have to send these pieces of evidence to Amanda, so she forwards them to the blogger.This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

I study the photos of my injuries, the fractured arms, the bruised ribs decolourized purplish red and my heart aches with empathy as though I was feeling the pain afresh.

Relishing my past hurt, my mind took me back to the days when my sisters’ bullying left me battered and bruised, physically and emotionally. Each time I tried to speak up, they twisted the truth, painting me as the villain in our family drama.

“Kamille, stop trying to blame your sisters for everything.” Esther Manor’s voice echoes in my mind, filled with doubt and disbelief. “They’re just playing around.”

“But Mom, it’s not fair! They’re hurting me.” I’d plead, clutching my bruised arms, tears streaming down my face.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your sisters love you. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.” She’d reply dismissively, her words cutting deeper than any physical blow.

On one of those times after I was bullied, I sat brooding with my bruises and wounds, trying to hide the pain from Grandma Monica, but her perceptive gaze caught me off guard.

“What’s wrong, Kamille?” She asked gently, her voice filled with concern.

I hesitated, not wanting to burden her with my troubles, but her reassuring touch on my shoulder urged me to speak. “Nothing, Grandma. Just a rough day.” I mumbled, trying to brush off the question.

But Grandma wasn’t fooled. With a knowing look, she leaned in closer and whispered, “Kamille, my dear, remember, evidence erases arguments.”

Her words struck a chord deep within me, igniting a fire of determination. From that day forward, I began meticulously gathering evidence against my sibling’s abuse.

I saved up and bought a camera, discreetly placing it in the corner of my room where it could capture every angle. It became my silent witness, documenting the horrors I endured.

The videos revealed the truth the moments of violence, the threats, the relentless bullying. There was no denying the reality of my situation, no room for gaslighting or disbelief.

I watched as Liz, once my tormentor, now an MMA fighter, continued to inflict pain upon me, both physically and emotionally. I was so terrified back then, but this time, I had proof.

Among the recordings were chilling threats, Liz’s voice dripping with malice as she warned me of the consequences if I dared to speak out.

The weight of the evidence I had accumulated was overwhelming, each video a damning testament to the horrors I endured within my own family.

Gabriel, once someone I should have been able to trust as an only brother, betrayed me in the most despicable way. The footage captured his late-night intrusions into my room, his twisted attempts to justify his actions by claiming we weren’t even related.

I felt sick to my stomach as I watched him try to coerce me into a relationship, using manipulation and intimidation to get what he wanted. And when I resisted, his violence escalated, leaving me bruised and broken, both physically and emotionally.

I watched in horror as Gabriel whipped me, the sound of the belt lashing against my skin echoing through the room. Tears streamed down my face as I cried out in pain and fear, helpless to defend myself against his cruelty.

Ellen, with her constant barrage of physical and verbal abuse, made my life a living hell. The camera captured her relentless attacks at home. Even at school, her influence ensured I had no respite, no escape.

I longed for friendship, for solace in the company of others, but Ellen’s toxic presence poisoned every aspect of my life. I was isolated, alone, with no one to turn to for support.

As I’m lost in my thoughts, wrestling with the weight of the evidence before me, a small voice broke through the silence. “Mummy?”

I turned to see Roen standing there, his innocent eyes filled with concern. My heart melted at the sight of him, my sweet child who always seemed to know when I needed him the most, even at just four years old.

I crouched down to his level, asking him why he’s not sleeping. His little hand clutched a book, holding it close to his chest.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Why couldn’t you sleep?” I asked gently, reaching out to pick him up in my arms. “Should mummy get you milk?”

“Yes Mom.” He nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the book in his hands.

“What book are you holding?” I asked, noticing his attention drawn to the book in his hands.

“Is he dad?” I heard his tiny voice ask. I followed his gaze and my heart skipped a beat as I saw the image of me and Zeke, frozen in time. It’s from one of those couple photoshoots we did just for the cameras, but even then, I can see the distance between us, the lack of warmth in his expression. He didn’t hold me, didn’t love me and couldn’t hide it.

Now he expects me to believe his ‘Miss me’ tales.

Roen’s innocent question pierced through my reverie, and I felt a pang of sadness wash over me. How do I explain to my young son the complexities of adult relationships?

I snapped back to reality, realizing he’s waiting for an answer. “How did you get this picture, sweetheart?” I ask, trying to deflect his curiosity.

But he’s undeterred, his gaze unwavering as he asks again, “Is he Dad?”

I took a deep breath, grappling with how to respond. “Baby, you don’t have to worry about this.” I reassured him, cradling him close. “When the time is right, I’ll introduce you to your father. I promise I won’t keep you away from him.”

His eyes searched mine for a moment before he nodded slowly. “I trust you, Mom.” he said, his voice filled with unwavering faith.

A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I brushed a gentle kiss against his forehead. “So we have to keep this a secret between us, okay?” I whispered.

“Yes, Mom.” He agreed softly.

“That’s my baby. Now let me go and tuck you in.” I say, setting him down gently and fetching his milk.

Once he was finished, I led him back to the boys’ room, tucked him into bed with loving care. As he drifted off to sleep, I lingered for a moment, watching over him and his brothers with a mix of love and determination. I made a stop at Tyris’s room too before heading back to the study.

Stepping into the study, I felt as though the weight of the world lay heavy on my shoulders. Tears welled up in my eyes as fear gripped my heart, uncertainty clouding my thoughts. What was I going to do? How careless was I to allow such pictures to lie around?

I needed to act, to finish everything quickly so I could finally tell Zeke about his children. But I wanted to be strong, to ensure he couldn’t take them away from me after I told him. And the key to that strength lay in reclaiming what was rightfully mine. My gaze fell upon my grandmother’s will on the work table.

Zeke has already been unpredictable enough, I could not allow him to use his influence and take my kids away from me.

As I moved towards the table, another nagging thought surfaced.

Zeke needed to move on from me.

The best way to facilitate that was to show him that I had moved on too, or at least make him believe there was someone else.

Christopher’s name flashed in my mind, but I immediately pushed the idea aside. I had too much on my plate, too many responsibilities with my children still here. I couldn’t possibly entertain the idea of dating someone new.

But then, the realization hit me, I needed Zeke to stay away from me while I sorted everything out. And the only way to achieve that was by pushing him away with another man.

The dilemma gnawed at me, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Fuck!” I muttered under my breath, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of my decisions.

With conflicting thoughts, I turned off the study room light and retreated to my room.