HE PUSHED HIS WIFE OVER THE BRIDGE BECAUSE OF HER MISTRESS…THEN I SERVED HIM A REVENGED….
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I never imagined I would taste death beneath the cold steel rail of Leki Aoy Link Bridge. One moment, I confronted David about his late nights, the secret phone calls, the laughter behind closed doors. He snarled, shoved me toward the edge. My shoes slipped on wet concrete. I screamed, fingers clawing metal as the dark river roared below. “Think of our son!” I begged. For a heartbeat his furious eyes flickered with doubt; then he stepped back and walked away, leaving me trembling and drenched by rain—and by betrayal.
At home, I locked myself in the bathroom, staring at bruises blossoming on my wrists. Ten years of marriage. A son who needed his mother. And a husband who tried to kill me for a mistress. My father’s inheritance lay untouched in my name: Abioa farmland, treasury bills, the apartment we lived in. David had depended on all of it. Now I would depend on it to save myself. Tomorrow, I promised, I would make sure he had nothing left.
Morning light found him at the breakfast table, crisp shirt, confident smile. “You’re quiet,” he said, unconcerned. I spooned porridge for Tenny and answered evenly, “Thinking about my father’s advice: never put your future in a man’s hands.” His brow twitched—my tiny declaration of war.
I spent the day gathering evidence. In my purse: photos of bruises, screenshots of his threats (“Next time you won’t survive”), the text warning me to delete them. I hid an old phone in the glove compartment, snapped images of my ruined blouse, of the tiny listening bug I found in Tenny’s nursery. Then I drove across town to meet Barrister Okoy, who handled my father’s estate. He slid emergency trustee papers across the desk, sealed my inheritance in a protective trust under his name and mine—barring David from accessing a single naira. We placed caveats on all properties and accounts, froze joint funds, removed him as beneficiary from my life insurance. His smirk vanished when I signed.
That evening, I trailed him to the Grand Azure Hotel. From my car, I watched him slip inside with a tall woman in a red dress and long braids. His hand brushed her thigh beneath the table. Anger burned in me, but tears did not come. Instead, I noted every detail: the date, the time, the license plate of his car. I texted each morsel to my lawyer. He told me that a comprehensive file—photos, videos, medical reports, financial records—would expose David’s crimes: attempted murder, fraud, forgery. When the inspector arrived on our doorstep to serve David with a protective order, he stood there sputtering.
Child custody came next. David filed an emergency motion claiming I was unstable. I arrived at the courthouse clutching evidence: my bruised wrists, the saved text messages, the listening bug bagged by police. My barrister played secret recordings of David plotting, of him bragging to his mistress that “once the land is in my company’s name, she’ll break.” The judge listened, eyes narrowing. By noon I had full custody and a court order barring David from our home and from attending Tenny’s school. For the first time in weeks, I breathed.
Weeks passed with half-measures of peace. I installed hidden cameras in the living room and hallway, set up a voice recorder disguised as a key fob, kept my phone on a secure network. Yet late one night, a brick smashed through Amara’s window, a note tied to it: “Leave the city or we finish what we started.” Tenny woke screaming. I gathered evidence again—shards of glass, blood on a shard, the note—and headed back to Barrister Okoy. His face went grave. “This is criminal intimidation,” he said. “I’ll involve the police—but we also need to freeze every asset he owns. He must have nothing left to threaten you.”
At the bank, Mrs. Bellow placed ironclad holds on any account bearing David’s name: company accounts, personal loans, credit cards. He could not borrow another naira. Outside, customers whispered. Someone had leaked parts of our court case online: David’s voice echoing, “She’s soft. She’ll break.” Social media turned on him: #AdawalScandal trended, news outlets ran his portrait beside headlines calling him a villain.
Then came the video: David, bloodied and beaten in his own office, forced at knifepoint by two men. One held a blade to his throat, the other clutched a bill for millions he owed. “Give us the money or your son disappears,” one snarled. My stomach turned to ice. This was beyond betrayal. They were criminals who would kill to settle their score. I almost dropped my phone—until I remembered I held his fate in my hands.
Midnight found me at the docks, entering an abandoned warehouse with Amara close behind. The same knife-wielding men sat David tied to a chair. They threatened to slit his throat if I did not surrender the forged documents. My father’s papers—proof of his land’s rightful ownership—lay in my clutch. I held them out, but as I neared, I tore them in half. “You kill me, you get nothing,” I said. My voice trembled with fury. “But release my son, and I’ll make sure you’re paid—legally, through my trust.” Confusion flickered on their faces before they barked orders. One guard shoved David to the floor; another untied my screaming son and handed him to me.
Sirens wailed as police cars screeched to a halt. Officers stormed in, weapons drawn. I saw the criminals’ eyes widen as handcuffs clicked around their wrists. David lay on the ground, beaten and abandoned. He spat at me, “This isn’t over.” I met his gaze over Tenny’s head: “It is for you.”
Back home, I scanned every scrap of evidence into a secure drive. Forged signatures, loan applications, secret recordings, criminal charges—all organized with timestamps. Barrister Okoy filed motions that same day to seize David’s remaining assets: company shares, the cars, the office building. Within forty‐eight hours, every asset registered to him was frozen. He could not pay his debts; his mistress vanished, her social media wiped.
In court a month later, the judge read a sentence that resonated like music: twenty‐five years for attempted murder, fraud, conspiracy. David’s face went ashen as his gray suit felt like a costume torn from him. He glared at me and spat, “You’ll regret this.” I did not flinch. I whispered, “I only regret marrying you.”
Outside, reporters swarmed me. “Monica, what’s next?” they yelled. I held Tenny’s hand and said firmly, “I will build a life of peace for my son. To every woman facing betrayal: you are stronger than you know. Take back your life.” Flashbulbs exploded like fireworks; I did not look back.
Weeks later, we moved into a small apartment filled with light. I launched a home‐based consultancy, using part of my inheritance to help women secure their own futures. One evening, as we ate dinner, Tenny looked up. “Mommy, are we safe now?” I smiled through tears. “Yes, baby. We’re safe and we’re free.”
The bridge still stands over that roaring river, a cold reminder of how close I came to losing everything. Sometimes I drive past it, fingers tight on the wheel, but I no longer tremble. I survived betrayal, attempted murder, and financial ruin. I rebuilt from the ashes, forged a stronger self. I am Monica. This is not an end; it is my freedom—and my beginning.
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