HE PUSHED HIS PREGNANT WIFE OFF THE SHIP , SHE RETURNED WITH A REVENGE 4 YEARS LATER— THEN HE PANIC
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You Were Supposed to Drown With That Bastard Child—But I Returned, Four Years Later
The words exploded across the marble-floored living room of our Victoria Island penthouse like a grenade. Emma, the man I’d once called husband, stumbled backward, his champagne glass shattering. For four years, I’d been dead to him. For four years, he’d lived in this glass tower with his new wife—my former best friend—celebrating his freedom, his perfect life, built on my grave. But the dead don’t stay buried when they have unfinished business.
August 15th, 2020. I remember the night as if it were branded into my soul. The yacht party off Lagos, the warm breeze carrying salt and expensive perfume. Emma’s hand on the small of my back, the same hand that had cradled my growing belly. I was six months pregnant, and I thought we were happy. I thought the surprise yacht trip was his way of celebrating the baby news. I was such a fool.
“Come look at the sunset, Adunni,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. I leaned over the railing, one hand on my stomach, the other shielding my eyes from the orange glow. That’s when I felt it: both his hands on my back, hard and violent. The last thing I heard before I hit the water was his voice, cold and empty. “I’m sorry, but you were never part of the plan.”
The Atlantic swallowed me whole. The impact knocked the air from my lungs, and the weight of my body, heavy with pregnancy, pulled me down. By every law of nature, I should’ve drowned with my unborn child. But fate had other plans. A fishing boat, a crew of kind strangers, a small hospital in Bedigree—a miracle doctor saved both me and my daughter. Three months of recovery, piecing together the truth: Emma had tried to murder me.
When I was strong enough, I hired a private investigator. What he uncovered shattered my naive heart. Emma hadn’t acted alone. His mistress—Zanab, my former best friend—had been pregnant too. They’d planned my death together, so they could marry and raise their child without the inconvenience of me. My funeral, their wedding, their son’s birth, all played out in my penthouse, sleeping in my bed, spending my family’s money.
My father had left everything to me: a real estate empire, investments, offshore accounts. When I died, it all transferred to Emma as my sole heir. He hadn’t just killed me for love—he’d killed me for fifty million dollars. But he didn’t know I was smarter than he gave me credit for. Before I died, I’d been suspicious. I’d hired a forensic accountant, created a secret backup of every document, every dirty secret. That evidence sat in a safety deposit box in Abuja, waiting for the day I was strong enough to use it.
Now, standing in the living room that used to be mine, watching Emma’s face drain of color, I felt a savage satisfaction bloom in my chest. His new wife, my former best friend, stood frozen by the dining table, her eyes wide with terror. “How? How is this possible?” Emma stammered. “You’re dead. We buried you.”
“Oh, it’s very real,” I said, my voice steady. My daughter’s hand was tucked safely in mine. She was three now, with his eyes and my determination. “Say hello to your daughter, Emma. The one you tried to kill.” Cayamaka stared at the man who was supposed to be her father. “Mama, is that him? Is that the bad man?” Zanab collapsed into a chair, sobbing. Emma’s face twisted between rage and fear. “What do you want?” he hissed. “Money? Name your price and disappear.”
I laughed, echoing off the high ceilings. “Money? I have something much more valuable. I have the truth. And I have evidence.” I pulled out my phone, showing him a sworn affidavit from the boat captain he’d paid off. “He’s terminally ill now, and his conscience got the better of him. He’s willing to testify.”
The silence was deafening. “I’ve already filed a police report,” I continued, “and contacted every major newspaper in Lagos. Your arrest warrant will be issued within the hour. The entire city will know what you did by morning.”
“You can’t do this,” Emma pleaded. “Please, Adunni, we can work this out. I’ll give you everything back. The house, the money, all of it. Just don’t do this.”
I looked at him, really looked at him, and felt nothing but contempt. This was the man I’d loved, trusted with my life. He was pathetic.
The police arrived exactly forty-seven minutes after I left. I watched from my car parked across the street, Cayamaka asleep in her car seat. Two police vehicles pulled up, blue and red lights painting the tower in colors of justice. My phone buzzed—a text from my lawyer: “Warrant executed. They’re bringing him in now.”
Twenty minutes later, Emma Okonquo, billionaire real estate developer, philanthropist, family man, walked out of his building in handcuffs. His face was a mask of rage and humiliation as reporters surged forward. Zanab followed, also in handcuffs, her face streaked with mascara and tears. I started the car and drove away before anyone could spot me.
The apartment I’d rented in Lekki was small, but it was ours. Every piece of furniture, every photo, every toy belonged to the life Cayamaka and I had built together. After recovering, I’d started over from nothing, working three jobs, saving every naira, rebuilding myself piece by piece. But I’d also been planning, gathering evidence, building my case until it was ironclad.
That night, as I tucked Cayamaka into bed, she asked, “Is the bad man going to hurt us?” My heart clenched. “No, sweetheart,” I said. “The police are going to make sure of it. Promise.” She smiled, satisfied, and closed her eyes.
At the police station, my lawyer, Kunnel, was waiting. “They’re processing him now. Zanab is in a separate cell. Emma hired Femi Beckare.” My breath caught—Femi was notorious, ruthless. “Can he beat us?” I asked. “Not with what we have,” Kunnel said. “The boat captain’s testimony, the financial records, the messages planning your death—this case is airtight.”
We worked through the details: the press conference, the trial, the witness list. Exhaustion pulled at my bones, but I couldn’t sleep yet. I drove to the cemetery, knelt in front of my own grave, and placed a single white rose. “I’m back,” I whispered. “And I’m going to make them pay.”
The next morning, Emma’s mother, Goi, appeared at my door. “I know what he did,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll testify against him. He’s my son, but what he did is unforgivable.” I felt tears burn behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. “Thank you,” I managed. “You were always stronger than he deserved,” she said.
The press conference at the Civic Center was packed. I told my story—how Emma pushed me into the ocean, how he married Zanab and inherited my father’s estate, how I survived and rebuilt my life. The evidence was overwhelming. Social media exploded. Emma’s business partners distanced themselves, banks froze his accounts, and his mother’s televised confession destroyed him.
But the threats began. Anonymous texts warned me to stop digging. One message told me to check my daughter’s birth certificate. I discovered a medical code—mandatory paternity test performed at birth, with a discrepancy. Dr. Musa, the miracle doctor, confirmed it: Emma was not Cayamaka’s biological father.
A memory surfaced—six months before the yacht party, at a charity gala, I’d felt sick after a glass of wine. Emma took me upstairs to rest. I remembered nothing until the next morning. Had I been drugged and assaulted? Was that why Emma tried to kill me—because he knew the baby wasn’t his?
I hired a private investigator, Kem, who uncovered hotel records linking Emma’s business partner, Okafor, to the suite I’d been taken to. Security staff remembered seeing me carried in, unconscious, and out hours later. Okafor made payments to a genetic clinic for paternity testing. It was a conspiracy, a business strategy to control Emma.
Another anonymous message summoned me to the National Museum. There, a woman named Amaka, former executive assistant at Okafor Enterprises, handed me a flash drive—guest lists, financial transactions, communications. She’d seen me unconscious in the suite with three powerful men, heard them laughing about leverage and control.
Back at Kem’s office, we reviewed the files: Senator Musa, Chief Williams, Dr. Nou, and Okafor—all implicated. We filed expanded charges. The news broke, and Lagos erupted in scandal. The trial began. Emma was convicted of attempted murder, fraud, and conspiracy. Zanab received fifteen years. The conspirators fell one by one.
After the trial, I drove to Abuja to collect Cayamaka. She ran into my arms. “Mama, are the bad men gone now?” she asked. “Yes, baby. They’re gone.” Good. Now we can be happy.
Six months later, we moved to a small house in Abudon. I started a foundation for assault survivors. Cayamaka thrived. She asked about her father, and I told her age-appropriate truths—that family is defined by love, not biology. One evening, as I tucked her into bed, she smiled, “Now we can be happy.”
And for the first time in four years, I believed it might actually be true.
THE END
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