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Adora's Story Haven, Clichy (2025)

18/11/2025

For a moment, everything inside me turned to ice.

Chiamaka’s trembling finger stayed pointed at the dark corridor behind the wardrobe, and her words floated in the air like a curse that refused to dissolve.

> “They’re still here.”

My breath caught—sharp, painful, trapped in my chest like broken glass.

“Them?” I whispered. “Who is… them?”

She lowered her hand slowly, her eyes hollow like she was staring into a nightmare she’d never escaped.

“The others,” she murmured. “The ones who came before you. The ones who didn’t wake up.”

A chill rolled through my spine so violently my teeth almost clattered.

My wrists burned against the straps as I twisted, testing the leather again, desperate.

Nothing.
Still locked.
Still trapped in his private prison.

“Chiamaka,” I whispered, “how long have you been here?”

She blinked slowly, like the question confused her.

Then she whispered:

“Time doesn’t live here.”

My heart twisted.

She wasn’t speaking in riddles.
She meant every word.
This house was a place where time was erased—along with hope, identity, sanity.

I swallowed hard.
“How many?” I asked.

She didn’t answer immediately.
Her lips trembled.
Her eyes filled with tears that never fell.

Finally, she whispered:

“I hear four voices sometimes.
Sometimes five.
Sometimes only one.”

My skin prickled.

Voices.
Voices of women who should not be alive.
Voices of women who should not be speaking.

“Are they—are they alive?” I asked, terrified of the answer.

She shook her head slowly. “Not alive… not dead. Not free. Not here.”

My heart squeezed painfully.

“Where do you hear them?” I whispered.

She lifted her finger again—slow, robotic—toward the dark corridor behind the wardrobe.

“In there,” she said. “Always in there. That’s where he takes the ones who stop fighting.”

A sickening wave of fear crashed into me.
My pulse hammered.
My hands trembled violently.

This house wasn’t a safehouse.
It was a graveyard.
A private graveyard where he stored history—a museum of women who loved him, trusted him, married him… and then disappeared.

“Why hasn’t he taken you there?” I asked softly.

She closed her eyes.

“He tried. Many times. But I scream. And I bleed. And I don’t stop breathing. And he hates unfinished things. So he leaves me in this room until I become quiet.”

My gut twisted so hard I thought I would vomit.

“Chiamaka…” I whispered, “I promise you—I’ll get us out of here.”

She looked at me with a sad, almost pitying smile.

“He always tells us that too.”

My chest tightened.

Before I could speak again, the door clicked softly.

Chiamaka flinched.
I froze.

The doorknob turned—
slow, smooth, deliberate—
the way only someone confident in his power would turn it.

I held my breath.

But it wasn’t David who walked in.

It was her.

His mother.

Graceful.
Elegant.
Hair pinned neatly.
Not a drop of rain on her coat.
Not a sign of fear or urgency.

If I hadn’t known the truth, I would have thought she came to host afternoon tea.

She closed the door behind her gently, as if she didn’t want to disturb a sleeping child.

Then she smiled—soft, warm, poisonous.

“Adora,” she said, her voice like velvet dipped in arsenic, “you look tired.”

I said nothing.

She walked closer, heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
She studied the straps on my wrists.
Then my face.

“You shouldn’t struggle,” she murmured. “It only makes the skin bruise. And bruises heal slower than pride.”

My stomach churned.

She reached out and touched my cheek gently, like a mother wiping dust off her daughter’s face.

I recoiled instinctively.

Her smile tightened just a fraction—still soft, but the edge had sharpened.

“You remind me so much of myself at your age,” she said. “Beautiful. Brave. Stupid.”

My pulse roared in my ears.

She turned her head slightly toward Chiamaka.

“And you,” she said with a sigh, “why do you still exist?”

Chiamaka trembled violently.

My throat tightened with rage.

“What kind of mother are you?” I rasped. “What kind of monster stands beside their son and helps him torture women?”

She gave a small, amused chuckle.

“A realistic one,” she replied. “One who understands that in this world, names mean more than morals.”

Then she leaned down, face inches from mine, voice dropping to a whisper only I could hear.

“Your mistake, Adora, was thinking this marriage was about love.”

I glared at her.

“It was about heritage,” she breathed. “Your womb. Your obedience. Your silence. Your disappearance.”

Ice shot through my veins.

“You were never meant to outlive his favor.”

Chiamaka whimpered quietly.

His mother stood straight and smoothed her coat, her face a mask of perfect control.

“You made this unpleasant,” she continued. “Public. Messy. Disrespectful.”

She tilted her head.

“But everything can still be cleaned. All legacies require pruning.”

My breath hitched.

“You’re going to kill me,” I whispered.

She smiled—calm, elegant, terrifying.

“No, dear. We don’t kill directly. It stains the family. We simply… prepare a stage. And let the world write the ending for us.”

Her eyes glowed with cold satisfaction.

“You see, by tomorrow… you’ll be unstable. Violent. Unwell. The wife who broke down. Who couldn’t handle her own demons. Who needed help.”

She paused.

“And your sudden death? Tragic, yes. But not surprising.”

Tears burned my eyes, not from fear—
from pure, blazing rage.

“You won’t get away with this,” I whispered.

She smirked.

“We already have.”

She turned toward the wardrobe.
Walked to the edge of it.
Pressed something unseen.

A hidden door opened.

Cold air spilled into the room.
The smell—
stale.
Damp.
Rotting whispers.

And from the darkness beyond, I heard it:

A faint cry.
A soft choke.
A woman’s voice whispering,
“Help… please…”

Chiamaka covered her ears, sobbing.
His mother looked back at me.

“This is where you’ll go,” she said softly.
“To join the others.”

I shook my head violently against the pillow.

“No.”

She smiled.

“Yes.”

But before she could step away—

A loud crash echoed from somewhere deep in the house.

A shout.
Boots pounding.
Glass breaking.

The mother’s expression shifted.
Annoyance.
Then alarm.

She turned to the door sharply.

Outside, voices yelled:

“SEARCH EVERY ROOM!”
“CHECK THE EAST HALL!”
“PROTECT THE SURVIVOR!”

My eyes widened.
Kemi.
Deputy Okafor.
The tactical team.

They had found the house.

The mother cursed sharply under her breath.

She rushed to the wardrobe entrance and hissed:

“Stay here. Don’t speak. Don’t move.”

Then she stepped inside, disappearing into the tunnel, the hidden door sliding shut behind her.

I lay there—strapped, weak, shaking—

as footsteps thundered closer,
as shouts echoed through the hallway,
as the house lit up with chaos—

And suddenly—
my bedroom door BURST open.

A flashlight beam cut through the darkness.

A woman’s voice shouted:

“ADORA!”

I gasped.

Because it was a voice I knew.

Not Okafor.
Not Kemi.
Not a police officer.

It was—

LIZA.

My ex–best friend.

The same woman who betrayed me.
The same woman who helped him.
The same woman who disappeared.

She stood in the doorway—panting, sweating, terrified—
a gun in her shaking hand.

“Adora,” she cried, eyes flooding,
“we don’t have time.
He’s coming.
I came to help you escape.”

My world spun.

I didn’t know if this was salvation—

—or the final trap.

To be Continued.......‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

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17/11/2025

💣💣💣

Darkness wasn’t empty.
It was heavy.
Thick.
Wet, like drowning in warm water.

I floated inside it—unable to move, unable to think—just drifting.
Then a voice began to seep into the void.

Soft.
Familiar.
Sweet like poison.

> “Easy…
Slow breaths.
Don’t fight it.”

My eyelids fluttered.
Pain stabbed my skull.
My throat felt raw.

But I wasn’t dead.
I wasn’t free.
I wasn’t safe.

I was somewhere.

Somewhere he wanted me to wake up in.

I forced my eyes open.
The world blurred.
The ceiling swam in and out of focus.
Warm lights.
Soft music.
A faint smell of roses.

And then—

His silhouette leaned over me.

David.
Looking down at me like I was something he owned and misplaced.

My breath caught.
My body tensed.
I tried to move my arms—
straps.

Straps.

Thick leather straps holding me to a bed.

Panic exploded inside me.

“LET ME GO!” I screamed—
but it came out broken and weak.

He touched my cheek gently, as if comforting a frightened child.

> “Shh…
Your voice will come back.
The drug was strong.”

I je**ed my head away from his hand, but he only smiled—
that calm, controlled smile that used to charm me before I understood what it really meant.

Ownership.
Domination.
Death.

My vision cleared enough for me to see the room properly.

It wasn’t a hospital.
It wasn’t the clinic.
It wasn’t the safe house.

It was a bedroom.

Large.
Luxurious.
White curtains.
Dark mahogany furniture.
A chandelier dimmed low.

A wedding photo on the far wall.
Me.
Him.
Smiling.
Lies captured in perfect lighting.

My stomach twisted violently.

“No… no…” I whispered. “Where am I?”

He sat down beside me on the bed, fingers tracing my wrist where the strap held me down.

“You’re home,” he said simply.

A chill ripped through me.

“Not the apartment we shared,” he continued. “That place was too public. Too compromised.”

He leaned closer.
His whisper brushed my skin.

> “Welcome to the house I don’t show anyone.”

My blood ran cold.

“You’re insane,” I rasped.

He chuckled softly.

“People keep telling me that,” he said. “But they forget something important.”

His eyes darkened.
All warmth evaporated.

> “Insane men don’t build empires.”

He stood up, walked to a cabinet, and poured himself water as if we were having a casual morning conversation.

The straps dug deeper into my wrists as I struggled.

“What do you want from me?” I demanded.

He turned slowly.

“You.”

“Why?” I cried. “Why me? Why women? Why this? Why any of this?”

He sipped the water.
Stared at me with quiet intensity.
Then set the glass down carefully.

“You still don’t get it,” he said. “This isn’t about women.”

He pointed at his chest.

“This is about me. My name. My bloodline. My legacy.”

He walked back to the bed, leaned close, and whispered:

“My father killed to protect the family.
My mother strategizes to protect the family.
And I…
I remove threats to the family.”

My stomach flipped.

“And what am I?” I whispered.

He smiled faintly.

> “A mistake that refuses to stay buried.”

My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.

He brushed my hair away from my face like he was adjusting a doll.

“I didn’t want to kill you,” he said almost tenderly. “Truly. You were different.
Gentle.
Smart.
Beautiful.
You made me feel calm.”

His fingers trailed down to my chin.
I fought the urge to bite him.

“But then,” he continued, “you started asking questions.”

He shrugged lightly.

“And you already know what happens when women start asking questions.”

A tear slid down my cheek.
Not from fear—
from rage.

“You won’t win,” I whispered. “The world has seen you.”

He laughed—
a deep, amused laugh that made my skin crawl.

“Seen me?” he repeated. “Adora… the world sees what I show them.”

He walked to a desk, picked up a tablet, and returned.

“Look.”

He held the tablet in front of my face.

A news broadcast streamed live.

BREAKING NEWS: ADORA KING WANTED FOR FRAUD & DEFAMATION — WARRANT ISSUED

My vision blurred.

No.
No.
NO.

Another headline popped up:

POLICE INVESTIGATE MENTAL INSTABILITY CLAIMS AFTER WIFE’S ONLINE OUTBURST

A third:

HUSBAND SPEAKS OUT: “I JUST WANT MY WIFE BACK SAFE.”

He looked down at me with triumph.

“You made noise,” he said softly. “And I let you. I watched you. I studied you.”

He tilted his head.

“You forgot the world doesn’t believe women like you unless they’re dead.”

He stepped closer.
His voice dropped to a chilling whisper.

> “And I didn’t let you die.”

I felt a scream tearing up my throat—
rage, terror, disbelief—
but the straps held me down.

“You’ll never get away with this,” I gasped.

He smiled and cupped my face gently.

“I already have.”

He stood up.

“I’ll let you rest now. The drug will wear off soon. We have a long night ahead of us.”

He walked to the door.
Opened it.

Before exiting, he looked back one last time.

“Oh… and Adora?”

I glared at him, breath shaking.

He smirked.

> “Your mother won’t find you.”

My blood turned to ice.

He stepped into the hallway.
Closed the door.

The lock clicked.

And I realized one more terrifying truth:

I wasn’t alone in the room.

In the far-left corner—
in a small wooden chair—
someone was sitting silently.

Still.
Watching.
Waiting.

A woman.
Hair long.
Skin pale.

Her eyes reflected the dim chandelier light.

And when she finally spoke—
her voice cracked like a ghost remembering it was alive.

“Adora…” she whispered.

I froze.

Because I knew that voice.

It was Chiamaka.

He had taken her too.

He didn’t run.
He collected.

Chiamaka leaned forward slowly, her eyes hollow, her hands trembling.

“He brought us here,” she whispered.
“All of us.”

She pointed toward the wall.

“Behind that door… you will hear them.”

My heart stopped.

Them?

Who?

She leaned closer—
so close her breath hit my cheek.

“You are not the first wife he brought to this house.”

The chandelier flickered.

She raised a shaking finger toward a dark corridor behind the wardrobe.

And whispered:

> “They’re still here.”

To be continued ‼️ ‼️ ‼️ ‼️‼️‼️

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Story by Adora's Story Haven

17/11/2025

Good morning everyone. Wishing you aall day filled with sunshine, smiles, and positivity! 🌞💛 Rise and shine, it's a new day and a new chance to make it amazing.

15/11/2025

💣💣💣💣💣💣

The convoy moved through the night like a ghost train—lights off, engines low, windows tinted. Every bump in the road rattled my bones. Every stretch of darkness felt like a trap waiting to snap shut.

Kemi sat beside me, a pistol strapped under her jacket, eyes never leaving the side mirrors. My mother sat on my other side, quiet, clutching her rosary as if she could squeeze prayers out of it.

Deputy Commissioner Okafor drove the lead car herself. She didn’t trust anyone else.

The clinic was 45 minutes away—far from the city, buried in the outskirts where secrets went to rot.

“Are you sure this witness was reliable?” I whispered.

Kemi didn’t look at me.
“If I wasn’t sure, Adora, you wouldn’t be in this car.”

A chill slid down my spine.

The farther we drove, the more I understood why she said it.

The city lights disappeared.
Then the houses.
Then the road signs.

What was left was darkness so thick it felt like a second skin.

Finally, the clinic emerged—an old, low building hidden behind trees, its walls stained by rain and neglect. One dim bulb flickered above the entrance.

It didn’t look like a hospital.
It looked like a graveyard that had learned to breathe.

Okafor gave the signal.
We stepped out.

The air smelled of wet soil and something else… something chemical.

My heart hammered as I followed the officers into the clinic.
The front desk was empty.
No guard.
No receptionist.
No sound.

Like the place had been expecting us.

Kemi scanned the room, gun raised slightly.

“Stay behind me,” she whispered.

I nodded, gripping my mother’s hand.

We walked down a narrow hallway lined with peeling paint and old posters. The silence was suffocating. A faint humming echoed from somewhere deep inside the building—like an old generator struggling to stay alive.

Then—

A voice.

Soft.
Female.
Singing.

My skin prickled.

“Mama…” I whispered. “Do you hear that?”

She nodded, terrified.

Kemi lifted her hand for silence.

We followed the singing.

Down one hall.
Around a bend.
Past a locked medicine room.

The humming grew louder.

We approached a door with no label.
No number.
Just scratches—deep, desperate—as if someone inside had clawed at it for years.

Kemi pressed her ear to the door.

Her eyes widened.

“She’s in there,” she whispered. “Someone is.”

Okafor signaled two officers to flank the door.
They counted down silently—

3…
2…
1…

BAM!

They kicked the door open.

And what I saw inside made my breath die in my chest.

---

It was a small, dim room lit by a single bulb.

The bed was strapped down.
The windows were boarded.
The air smelled of old medicine and despair.

And in the middle of the bed…

A woman sat cross-legged, humming to herself.

Her hair had grown long and tangled.
Her clothes were hospital scrubs.
Her eyes stared at the wall as if she was watching ghosts dance on it.

I took one step in.

She froze.
The humming stopped.

Slowly, she turned toward us.

Her face…

God.

She looked like she had lived three lifetimes of pain.
Her skin pale from confinement.
Her lips cracked.
Faint scars around her wrists.

But her eyes—
deep, dark, haunted—
were alive.

“Chiamaka Nwosu?” Okafor said softly.

The woman flinched violently, covering her ears.

“No names,” she whispered. “Names make him come.”

My blood curdled.

Kemi approached her slowly.
“We’re not here to hurt you.”

The woman rocked back and forth, shaking her head.

“He’ll come,” she whispered. “He always comes. He puts flowers by the door when he comes.”

My nails dug into my palms.

“Chiamaka,” Okafor tried again. “Do you know who Michael is?”

The woman froze again.

Her entire body trembled.

Then she whispered,

“Which one?”

My stomach dropped.

“What do you mean… which one?” I asked.

She lifted her eyes to me.

And for the first time, she saw me.

Really saw me.

“His name changes,” she said slowly. “His hair changes. His voice changes. But his smile never does.”

Tears filled my eyes. “He did this to you?”

She nodded, the movement tiny but devastating.

“He told me I was crazy,” she whispered. “Then he made sure I became what he said.”

My mother cried quietly behind me.

I stepped closer.

“Chiamaka…” I said softly. “My name is Adora. I married him too.”

Her eyes widened—fear and recognition swirling together.

“He tried to kill you,” she whispered. “He tries with all of us. Some die fast. Some die slow. I lived… too long.”

I swallowed hard.

“Did he drug you?” I asked.

“Yes.”
“Did he isolate you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you nobody would believe you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he bring you here?”
Her voice cracked.
“…yes.”

Kemi stepped forward.
“Do you remember the day you disappeared?”

Chiamaka nodded slowly.

“He invited me to dinner. Said it was a celebration. Said his mother approved the engagement.”
She shivered.
“That night… everything tasted sweet.”

I felt sick.

“He poisoned you,” I whispered.

“No,” she said. “He made me drink ‘medicine.’ To help my nerves. To calm me. To make me… obedient.”

She touched her temple gently.

“Then they brought me here. Told the clinic I was delusional. Paid them well. Gave them new equipment. New staff. I’ve been here for… I don’t know how long.”

She looked around the room like she was seeing it for the first time.

“Years,” she whispered. “Maybe more.”

Okafor clenched her jaw so tightly a vein pulsed at her temple.

“We need to get her out,” she said.

But the moment the officers stepped forward—

Chiamaka screamed.

A sound so sharp it carved through the walls.

“No! No! He said he would come back tonight! He ALWAYS comes after the rain!”

My heart seized.

Rain.
Tonight.

Kemi grabbed my arm.
“Adora… we need to move. NOW.”

But Chiamaka pointed at me with shaking hands.

“You look like her!” she cried.
“You look like the others! He likes women with gentle eyes. He takes their softness. He—”

She broke down, sobbing so hard her body shook.

My chest cracked wide open.

I moved toward her.

“Chiamaka…” I whispered, “you’re safe now.”

She lifted her head.
Her voice dropped to a chilling whisper.

“No one is safe from him.”

A cold wind swept through the broken window.

The bulb flickered.
Once.
Twice.

Then—

The entire clinic went black.

Screams filled the hallway.
Officers shouting.
Footsteps pounding.

Kemi cursed under her breath. “He cut the power. He’s here.”

My blood froze.

A faint sound echoed through the darkness:

Footsteps.

Slow.
Measured.
Coming down the hallway.

My mother whimpered.

Okafor drew her weapon.

Kemi pulled me behind her.

And from the darkness outside the door came a voice I would know anywhere—

Calm.
Soft.
Chilling.

> “Adora…
You found her.”

I stopped breathing.

> “Good.
Now let’s finish what I started.”

The lights were dead.
The hallway swallowed every sound except one:

Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Deliberate.

Coming closer.

Kemi pushed me behind her, gun raised.
Okafor aimed toward the darkness.
My mother clutched my arm, trembling violently.

And Chiamaka—
the woman who survived the fate meant for me—
began whispering the same sentence over and over:

“He’s here…
He’s here…
He’s here…”

A faint shadow appeared in the doorway.
Tall.
Calm.
Unbothered.

Then a voice drifted into the room—

smooth, warm, terrifying:

> “Adora…
you shouldn’t have come here.”

My heartbeat stopped.
Just stopped.

I couldn’t see his face—
just the outline of his body,
and the small metallic object swinging in his hand…

A syringe.

He took one step forward.
Then another.

“Step away from him!” Okafor shouted.
Her voice shook.
Her gun did not.

He chuckled softly.

> “You still don’t understand, do you?”

Another step.

> “She’s not the one I came for.”

Every muscle in my body froze.
He wasn’t looking at me.

He was looking past me.

At Chiamaka.

The forgotten fiancée.

The unfinished chapter.

Kemi moved.
But too late.

He lifted something in his other hand—
a small remote with a blinking red light.

He pressed the button.

BOOM!

The building shook violently.
Lights burst.
Dust rained from the ceiling.

The officers fell.
My mother screamed.

And before I could even blink—

HE GRABBED ME.
A hand around my waist.
A sharp sting in my neck.
Darkness flooding in.

My vision blurred.

The last thing I heard was his breath against my ear:

> “If you want the truth…
you’ll have to wake up in my house.”

Then everything went black.🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

To be continued ‼️ ‼️ ‼️ ‼️‼️‼️

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15/11/2025

Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time. -
Thomas A. Edison

15/11/2025

“The most dangerous woman in the country.”

Kemi’s words echoed in my head as the convoy tore through the dark, empty highway, engines growling like caged beasts.

Rain hammered the windshield. Red and white lights flashed ahead of us, making the world feel like a crime scene frozen in motion.

I stared at the headline glowing on the officer’s phone:

> “THE WIDOW HUNTER: ELITE FAMILY ACCUSED OF SERIAL WIFE KILLINGS — EVIDENCE EMERGES.”

My husband’s face—no, my predator’s face—was everywhere now.
News blogs. Social media. Broadcast banners.

They had finally seen him.
Not as the charming businessman.
Not as the grieving widower.
But as a monster.

And he knew exactly who had pulled off the mask.

Me.

I wasn’t just running from him anymore.
I had declared war on his name.

Beside me, my mother clung to my hand like it was the last thing keeping her alive. Across from us, Kemi sat with a bandage on her forehead, eyes swollen but still sharp, watching the officer’s screen like a general tracking a battlefield.

“Public sentiment is shifting fast,” the officer said, scrolling. “Some people are defending him. Saying it’s fake news. Others are calling him a serial killer.”

“Good,” Kemi said through gritted teeth. “Let them argue. Noise keeps him from controlling the narrative.”

My mother’s voice trembled. “Will they arrest him now?”

“Maybe,” Kemi said. “But don’t count on it. His family has survived worse scandals. They’ll spin this as a smear campaign. They’ll pay people. Threaten others. Make witnesses vanish.”

She looked at me.

“The difference this time,” she said, “is you’re still alive to talk.”

The officer’s radio crackled.

“Unit 4, respond. Suspect’s legal team is already filing injunctions. There’s pressure to quiet this down. High-level calls.”

He cursed under his breath. “They’re already moving. They want the story buried.”

Kemi laughed bitterly. “Oh, let them try. Once the internet smells blood, you can’t stop the feeding frenzy.”

I swallowed, staring out the window as city lights approached.

“What happens now?” I whispered.

She turned to me slowly.

“Now, Adora,” she said, “we hit deeper. We don’t just attack the man—we attack the bloodline.”

They took us to a secure compound on the outskirts of the city. It didn’t look like a police station. It didn’t look like a safe house, either.

It looked… forgotten.
Old concrete walls. Faded paint. No signboard.

Perfect.

We were led into a room with metal chairs, a bolted door, and a large wall-mounted TV showing a live news broadcast.

The headline had already evolved:

> “RUMORS OR REAL? ELITE HEIR LINKED TO DEAD WIVES — INVESTIGATION DEMANDED.”

My heart twisted.

“Adora,” a new voice said.

I turned.

A woman walked in—sharp suit, short hair, no-nonsense eyes. She carried a folder stuffed with printed pages and a tablet.

“I’m Deputy Commissioner Nkiru Okafor,” she said. “I don’t normally show up for anything, but your case is… different.”

I stared at her, stunned.
A high-ranking officer.
Not on their side.
But in this room.

“Different how?” I asked.

She looked me dead in the eye.

“Because for once, the monster didn’t finish his work on time.”

The words made my blood run cold.

Kemi gave a small nod of respect. “You took a risk coming here,” she told the commissioner.

“I take bigger risks when I look away,” Okafor replied. “Now let’s talk about the man you married.”

She dropped the folder on the table. Papers spilled out—articles, reports, old photos, scanned forms.

“This family has been untouchable for decades,” she said. “Whispers. Vanished wives. Altered autopsies. Quiet settlements. But nothing stuck.”

She tapped the folder.

“Until you.”

My throat tightened. “Why?”

She held up a page with my photo printed on it.

“Because you survived long enough for two things to happen:
One—someone like Clara gathered the pieces.
Two—you refused to shut up.”

She turned on her tablet and slid it toward me.

On the screen was an old black-and-white photo: a small boy standing between a stern-looking man and a woman with dead eyes.

I recognized one person instantly.

His mother.

But the boy…
he looked thinner. Softer. Not yet sharpened into what he would become.

“That’s him?” I whispered.

“Yes,” Okafor said. “Michael at age eight.”

He was holding something.

A small bird.
Dead.

My skin prickled.

“His father,” she continued, “was suspected of multiple murders. Girlfriends. Staff. Rivals. Every time, the case vanished. Witnesses changed stories. Files burned. Officers transferred.”

“And his mother helped him,” I whispered, remembering Father Emmanuel’s words.

“Yes,” Okafor said. “She controlled the money. The bribes. The testimonies.”

Kemi leaned forward.

“What about Michael himself?” she asked. “When did he start?”

Okafor’s jaw clenched.

“When he was fourteen,” she said. “A housemaid went missing. Last seen alone with him. She’d threatened to report something his father did. No body was ever found.”

My stomach flipped.

“What did his mother do?” I asked.

“Nothing,” the commissioner replied. “She took him on a ‘vacation’ for three months. When they came back, he was calm. Collected. Better. And soon after… his first official girlfriend died in a drowning incident.”

Rage and nausea twisted inside me.

“So they made him,” I whispered. “They crafted him. Polished him. Turned him into a clean killer.”

Okafor nodded.

“He learned early that the world can be bought. That if your family is rich enough, the law is just decoration.” She looked at me. “Until now.”

“Why now?” I asked quietly.

She met my gaze.

“Because this time,” she said, “we’re not just investigating suspicious deaths—we’re looking at a living witness with documented attempts on her life, and a trail that crosses borders.”

Kemi cut in.

“And because this time, the internet is watching.”

The TV on the wall changed to a live talk show.

Four guests shouting.
A phone panel at the bottom.
Callers dialing in to give opinions.

“…I don’t believe it. He’s a philanthropist…”
“…Those documents look real…”
“…What about the other wives? Why didn’t anyone talk before?”
“…Money buys silence, my friend. Don’t be naive…”

The world was arguing about my life while I was sitting in a concrete room trying not to fall apart.

Deputy Commissioner Okafor turned the volume down.

“Here’s the problem,” she said. “As of now, we still don’t have enough to arrest him and make it stick. He’ll claim all this is forged. Smear campaign. Bitter ex-wife. Jealous enemies. You know the script.”

“He’ll blame me,” I said. “Call me crazy. Unstable. Poison me again through my past.”

“Yes,” she said plainly. “Which is why we need something he can’t wash away.”

“What?” I asked.

Kemi’s eyes flicked to the folder.

“A body,” she said quietly.

The room went silent.

My mother gasped. “Body…?”

“A missing one,” Kemi clarified. “One of the old ones. One he thought he buried for good. Or someone who was supposed to be dead… and isn’t.”

Deputy Okafor slid another file in front of me.

“There’s a name that keeps resurfacing in whispers,” she said. “Your husband’s first arranged fiancée. Before any of the wives. She disappeared before the wedding ever happened.”

My chest tightened.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

Okafor exhaled.

“Her name was Chiamaka Nwosu,” she said. “Rich family. Powerful connections. She started asking too many questions after spending time with him. Then one day, she just… vanished.”

“Vanished,” I repeated. “As in… dead?”

“We don’t know,” Okafor said. “Her death wasn’t recorded. Her body was never found. Her family stopped talking. They moved abroad suddenly. Paid off or threatened—it’s unclear.”

Kemi nodded. “If we find her… or her body… his mother’s empire starts to crumble. Hard.”

A strange chill ran through me.

“What if she’s alive?” I whispered.

They both looked at me.

“What if she’s like Miriam?” I continued. “Hiding. Waiting. Scared.”

“Then she becomes the second nail in his coffin,” Okafor said. “And together, you become a hammer.”

The officer’s radio crackled again.

“Command, be advised—media vans have arrived outside the estate. Protesters gathering online. Crowd forming at the front gate. Over.”

I looked up at the TV.

New coverage.
Live footage.
Camera zooming in on a massive iron gate guarded by security men.

A reporter spoke into the mic:

“We are here at the Adedayo family estate where protesters are gathering, demanding answers from the powerful family at the center of the Widow Hunter allegations…”

I saw it.

Through the bars.

His house.
Big.
Cold.
Untouched.

On the balcony, staring down at the chaos, stood two silhouettes.

One tall.
One slightly shorter.

He.

His mother.

Watching the world finally doubt them.

Kemi pointed at the screen.

“Look closely,” she said. “They’re not hiding. They’re calculating.”

Deputy Commissioner Okafor’s phone buzzed. She checked it, eyes narrowing.

“He’s already filed criminal charges,” she said. “Against you.”

My lungs froze.

“What?” I croaked.

“Defamation. Cyber harassment. Attempted extortion. Mental instability. Theft of confidential documents.” She shook her head. “He’s playing victim.”

My mother grabbed my hand. “Can he do that?”

“Of course he can,” Kemi said. “People like him always weaponize law first. That’s their favorite game.”

Okafor looked at me.

“I can’t stop the paperwork from existing,” she said. “But I can slow it. Stall it. Meanwhile… you have a choice.”

My voice trembled. “Another choice?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “You can disappear into protection until this blows over… or you can help us find the missing woman.”

“That’s dangerous,” my mother whispered. “She has suffered enough. Let her rest. Let her breathe.”

I stared at the table. At the photos. At the flashing screen. At his cold face framed in luxury.

“If I hide,” I said slowly, “he keeps killing.”

Silence.

“If I run,” I added, “he’ll find me eventually. Or he’ll find someone I love.”

My mother’s grip on my hand tightened painfully.

“Adora, please…”

“I’m tired of running,” I said quietly. “I want to finish this.”

Deputy Okafor studied me for a long moment.

Then she slid a document toward me.

“We have one lead on the fiancée,” she said. “A witness who claims to have seen her years after she ‘vanished.’ At a clinic. Off the books. Secretive. Outskirts of the city.”

“What kind of clinic?” I asked, though I already feared the answer.

Okafor sighed. “A psychiatric one.”

My blood ran cold.

“He did to her what he tried to do to you,” Kemi said. “Paint her as crazy. Hide her. Silence her.”

I swallowed hard.

“Is she still there?” I whispered.

“We don’t know,” Okafor replied. “The clinic denies she was ever admitted. The records were wiped. But the witness insists she saw her there… drugged… talking about a man named Michael who would never let her go.”

My throat burned.

“Take me there,” I said.

My mother gasped. “Adora—”

I turned to her.

“Mama, if that woman is alive, she’s living the life he planned for me,” I said. “If she’s dead, she deserves justice. Either way… I can’t leave her in the dark.”

Kemi nodded slowly. “Then we move tonight.”

Deputy Okafor stood.

“I’ll arrange a small team,” she said. “Unmarked vehicles. No uniforms. We do this quietly. If his family finds out we’re sniffing around that clinic, they’ll erase it off the map.”

I stared at his face one more time on the TV.

Calm.
Composed.
Untouched.

For now.

“I want him to know,” I whispered, “that the women he buried are coming back for him.”

Kemi smiled faintly. “Say that again on camera later.”

As the deputy commissioner left to make calls, my phone buzzed again.

Same number.

Same chill.

> “You’re making a mess, Adora.
But I admire the effort.”

Another message followed immediately.

> “You’re chasing ghosts.
She doesn’t even remember her own name.”

My heart stuttered.

He knew where I was headed.

He knew about her.

He knew everything.

I typed with shaking fingers.

> “You taught me well, remember?
I never stop once I start.”

Three dots appeared.
He was typing.

> “Good.
Then keep going.
You’re walking exactly where I want you.”

I looked up slowly.

And for the first time, a terrifying thought crashed into me:

What if I wasn’t hunting him?

What if he was leading me deeper into his maze?

To be continued ‼️ ‼️ ‼️‼️‼️‼️

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