He ʙᴇᴀᴛ his wife every Monday Night to please mistress , She felt BETRAYED, she left & got a REVENGE
The glass vase shattered on Adunny’s head. Blood ran down her face as she fell to the floor in Lagos. Her husband, Kunnel, stood above her, his fist still raised.
“You stupid woman! Why don’t you clean the house the way Solar likes?” he roared.
Adunny held her head, bewildered. Who is Solar? She asked, but he kicked her in the stomach. “Don’t ask! Just do what I say!”
This wasn’t the first time. For the past 6 months, every Monday night, he had beaten her. Even though she always cooked, cleaned, and never argued with him. But tonight he mentioned a name.
Adunny was 28, married for 5 years, living on Victoria Island. They were the perfect couple on the outside, but they had no children, and their mother-in-law was always blaming them.
While she was still bleeding, his phone rang. “Hello, love… That’s right, Solar. I’ll be right there. She won’t bother me anymore.” His voice was unusually gentle. Adunny’s heart broke.
Before leaving, he shouted, “Clean up this mess. Monday nights are Solar’s. I have to show you who’s boss.”
The door slammed. Alone in the house, Adunny dragged herself into the bathroom. In the mirror, her face was swollen and purple, still bleeding. But this time, she didn’t feel fear, but anger.
She called her best friend: “Kem, I need you. Kunnel is cheating on me and beats me every Monday night. I have to know who she is.”
“Come to my house right now. We’ll find Solar. And when we find her…” Kemi’s voice was cold.
Late at night, Adunny drove to Lekki. The wound stung, but the anger was even greater.
In the kitchen, Kemi opened her laptop. “Tell me everything you know.”
“He only called Solar on the phone. He said Monday night belonged to her.”
“And the phone password?”
“The wedding day. But he always kept it to himself.”
“No problem, I’ll find another way.”
They searched social media—nothing. Then Kemi had an idea: “Maybe she works at his car dealership.”
A third website showed a photo that left them both speechless:….
…A photo loaded on the staff introduction page: the headline read “Solar Alliance Auto Group – New Branch Launch,” and right at the center stood Kunnel, immaculate in a deep navy suit. Beside him was a woman in her mid‑thirties, eyes sharp, her hand resting on his shoulder as if staking a claim. The caption: “Solape ‘Solar’ Adeyemi – Strategic Investor.”
“She’s not just a mistress…” Adunny whispered. “She’s financing him?”
Kemi zoomed in on Solape’s face. “If she’s the lead investor, then this twisted ‘prove your dominance at home’ ritual could be their sick power game: she wants demonstrations of his ‘loyalty’ by breaking you down.”
Adunny swallowed hard. “He said, ‘Monday nights belong to Solar’… Maybe that’s when they meet—or video call.”
Kemi opened another tab, pulling business filings. “Solar Alliance injected a big capital tranche three months ago. That’s when the violence escalated?”
Adunny nodded. “Before that, he only yelled. After the money, he started hitting.”
Kemi rested a hand on her shoulder. “Two priorities: secure your safety, then we ‘return’ what they’ve done—through facts, not fists.”
“How? He guards his phone.”
“Do you still have any home cameras?”
“There’s the smart doorbell. He removed the living room cam.”
“The doorbell still has a mic. If next Monday he says her name before leaving, we capture it.” Kemi’s mind raced. “And his company email? Any secondary address?”
“There’s an old inbox tied to our shared Netflix—he used to log in from my tablet.”
“Don’t access anything you’re not legally allowed to. If you have authorized access, fine; if not, we wait.”
Adunny stared at her bruises in a small mirror fragment Kemi had on the counter. “I don’t want to just survive anymore.”
“Then the plan:
-
Go home—pack essentials, IDs, copies of property documents, passports—hide them.
Monday: enable the doorbell recording before he calls.
Once we have evidence, you leave safely—no confrontation.
Hand it to a lawyer (I’ll connect you). Only then consider notifying other stakeholders or the press if needed.”
“What about Solar?”
“People like her fear daylight. If verifiable abuse tied to business coercion surfaces, she’ll reevaluate the tie—or face reputational scorch.”
That night back home, Adunny quietly wiped the dried blood from the floor. She hid a go‑bag behind a false wooden panel in the shoe cabinet—a spot Kunnel never noticed. Before sleeping she typed a note on her phone: “Not my fault. Next time is the last time.”
Monday arrived faster than she expected. All day, Kunnel performed counterfeit kindness: a pastry box on the counter; a text, “I’ll be late tonight.” Her pulse climbed—the familiar pre‑storm pattern.
6:57 p.m. The door opened. He muttered about dust on a shelf (spotless, really). “You know what night it is,” his voice dropping into that cold register.
As he moved toward the living room, Adunny discreetly activated the doorbell app from a backup phone in the kitchen drawer. A tiny green LED blinked—recording.
His phone rang. He answered. “Solar… I hear you. Yeah, she’s still obedient. Tonight I’ll… prove it.” A pause. “No, she won’t leave. Told you.”
Adunny’s hands trembled, but she stayed still, silent. He stared at her, waiting for the usual fear. This time her gaze was flat, cool. The absence of terror unsettled him; he snarled a few clipped threats, then went to change shirts, layering on a stronger unfamiliar cologne.
The door slammed. 7:24 p.m. The house fell quiet. Adunny replayed the audio—his voice, Solar’s name, clear. She sent the file; Kemi replied instantly: “Audio is clean. Preserve it exactly. No edits.”
“Next step?” Adunny asked.
“Leave. Tonight. Then we ‘give back’ by bringing light where they thought they were safe.”
Adunny looked around the kitchen where she had tried to barter peace with perfect meals. She killed the lights, grabbed the stashed bag, and shut the door without looking back. Driving toward Kemi’s, she realized this felt less like an ending and more like a prologue—one where she decided what happened on Mondays.
