I left the house at 1:17 in the morning.
Not dramatically. Not like women do in movies with screaming and crying and suitcases crashing down staircases.
I walked out quietly carrying one bag while my husband slept in our bedroom.
The entire drive, my hands shook so badly I could barely hold the steering wheel. Every red light felt dangerous. Every car behind me felt like him following me already.
Adaeze had told me not to go anywhere Emeka knew well, so I drove to an old staff apartment owned by a retired lecturer from my university. A woman Emeka had met only once during our wedding introduction years ago.
When she opened the door and saw my face, she didn’t ask questions.
She simply stepped aside and said, “Come inside.”
The moment the door locked behind me, I called Adaeze back.
She answered immediately.
“You left?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
“Good. Because Ngozi tried to leave too.”
I stopped breathing.
“What do you mean tried?”
Adaeze inhaled shakily. “Three days before Ngozi died, she packed a bag and called her sister. But she never made it there.”
My chest tightened so hard it hurt.
“No,” I whispered. “No, the police said she died from organ failure.”
“They lied,” Adaeze said immediately. “Or they were paid to stop asking questions.”
I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.
Then Adaeze continued.
“Chioma… did Emeka ever insist on preparing special herbal drinks for you?”
My stomach dropped instantly.
Because every single night for the last four months, Emeka had been making me drink a dark herbal mixture he claimed would help with stress and fertility.
“He said it was for my hormones,” I whispered.
Adaeze started crying softly on the phone.
“That’s exactly what he told me too.”
Suddenly every memory replayed differently inside my head.
The pain in my left side.
The constant exhaustion.
The dizziness.
The way Emeka watched me carefully every time I drank it.
“Oh my God…” I whispered.
Then Adaeze said, “There’s something else you need to know.”
“What?”
“The first wife, Ngozi… she had life insurance.”
A cold wave moved through my entire body.
“And after she died,” Adaeze continued carefully, “Emeka used the payout to buy the Magodo house.”
I felt physically sick.
Then she said the sentence that truly terrified me.
“Chioma… three months ago, Emeka increased your own life insurance policy.”
The room started spinning.
Because he had.
He told me it was just “responsible financial planning.”
At exactly that moment, my phone buzzed.
Emeka.
Incoming call.
Over and over again.
Then messages started flooding in.
“Chioma where are you?”
“Why did you leave?”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Answer me NOW.”
Adaeze’s voice became urgent.
“Do not tell him where you are.”
Then another message appeared on my screen.
This one made my blood freeze instantly.
Because it wasn’t from Emeka.
It was from an unknown number.
And attached to it… was a photograph of me leaving the house tonight.
(I know you’re all very curious about the next part, so if you want to read more, please leave a “YES” comment below!)
