Part 1

The morning I almost died began like any other—too early, too bright, and too quiet for a woman fighting morning sickness.

I arrived at the office ahead of the rush, as I always did. The morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and lit up the thick binders of reports on my mahogany desk. I had barely sat down, already thinking about balance sheets, when the door swung open.

Travante walked in.

He carried a pale blue thermal food container—high-end, heavy, and not one I’d ever seen in our kitchen. What startled me even more than the container was his expression.

He was smiling.

Not his public smile—the CEO smile he wore for cameras and boardrooms. This one was warm, almost intimate, the kind of smile that used to belong to our first year of marriage and then, somehow, disappeared.

He set the container on my desk with a soft thud.

“Good morning, baby.” His voice softened. “Happy third anniversary. I wanted to do something special for you.”

I stared at him, then at the container.

Travante Jenkins—the man whose schedule was a wall of meetings and flights—had cooked breakfast himself.

He twisted the lid open as if he’d been practicing the gesture in the mirror.

“Lately you’ve looked pale,” he said tenderly. “Work has been stressing you out. I got up before dawn and slow-cooked chitterlings for you. Your favorite. Soul food to get your strength back. Eat while they’re hot.”

Steam rose, thick and pungent, filling my office with the unmistakable smell of stewed chitlins and spices.

Six months ago, I might have cried at the effort. That morning, the scent hit me like a warning.

I was three months pregnant—secretly. Morning sickness had been tormenting me for weeks. Strong smells didn’t just nauseate me; they twisted my stomach until my vision swam.

I held my breath, swallowed hard, and forced a smile.

“Thank you, Travante. That’s… thoughtful. But I already had toast at home. I’m still stuffed.”

For a split second, his smile froze.

Then it returned—too smoothly.

“Toast?” He nudged the container toward me. “That’s nothing. Eat a little of this for energy. I cleaned and cooked these myself. Don’t do me like that.”

The words were soft, but the pressure underneath them felt solid.

I met his eyes, searching for sincerity.

Instead, I found expectation—carefully measured, almost rehearsed.

I was scrambling for a refusal that wouldn’t ignite a fight when a knock saved me.

Kicia—our new secretary, hired three months ago—entered carrying a stack of documents. She wore a tight pencil dress that announced ambition in every seam. Her makeup was flawless. Her smile, practiced.

She placed the papers on my desk, then flicked a flirtatious glance at Travante and the steaming container.

“Oh, look at the director being so thoughtful,” she said in a honeyed voice. “Bringing Mrs. Jenkins something to build her strength up this early. You’re so lucky, Zenaia. A husband who’s a perfect ten like this—nobody can compete.”

Travante didn’t even look at her.

He only looked at me, gave a few final instructions, and left.

The moment the door closed, relief should have arrived.

Instead, an idea did.

I smiled and slid the container toward Kicia, keeping my voice light.

“I really did eat already, and I’d hate to waste his effort. Kicia, have you had breakfast? If not—eat it for me. The chitlins Travante makes are delicious, and they’re still hot.”

Her eyes widened. Surprise flashed, then something brighter—delighted.

She glanced down the hallway, as if checking whether he’d object.

He didn’t.

Kicia hugged the container to her chest like a prize.

“Well, if you insist,” she said sweetly. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Jenkins. I’ll eat it all. Won’t leave a drop. Anything the boss cooks is a meal fit for the gods.”

She left my office beaming.

I exhaled and tried to focus on work.

But the numbers blurred. My head felt light. Unease grew in me, heavy as the sky before a summer storm.

I poured lukewarm water and sipped slowly, one hand drifting to my stomach without thinking.

Three years of waiting.

And finally—this life.

I promised myself I’d protect my health. I promised I wouldn’t let fear poison my baby.

An hour later, a sudden thud echoed from the open work area.

Then a scream—sharp enough to cut straight through the floor.

My heart dropped.

I ran.

Kicia was on the carpet beside her desk, twisting as if her body had forgotten how to be still. The thermal container lay overturned; its contents were scattered in a messy arc. The smell of the stew mixed with a sour, sickening stench.

Her face had drained of color. Her hands clutched her abdomen. Her breathing sounded wrong—ragged, panicked. Employees hovered in frantic circles, calling 911, backing away, rushing forward again.

And then I saw the dark stain spreading across the fabric of her dress.

Blood.

My legs went cold.

The stew.

The bowl I’d given her.

A door slammed open.

Travante burst out of the CEO’s office.

For one brief instant, I expected him to rush to his employee—his secretary—anyone in distress.

Instead, he stopped.

His eyes fixed on the stain on the carpet.

His expression shifted—shock, then fear, then something uglier.

Rage.

He looked up and his gaze locked on me.

It wasn’t the gaze of a husband worried his wife had witnessed something horrific.

It was the gaze of someone who had just realized the wrong person had been hit.

He strode toward me and seized my arm hard enough that pain shot up to my shoulder.

“What did you do?” he hissed. “Why? Why her?”

The question hit me like ice.

Why her.

Not what happened.

Not is she okay.

Why her.

I ripped my arm away, forcing calm into my voice.

“What did I do? I gave her the food you brought me. What are you thinking, Travante? Were you expecting it to be me on the floor?”

His face snapped blank as if he’d said too much.

Sirens rose from the street below. Paramedics arrived and moved with practiced speed. Kicia was lifted onto a stretcher and rushed away.

Travante followed—then turned back at the elevator doors and looked at me with eyes that promised trouble.

“You’re coming to the hospital,” he ordered. “This happened because of that stew. Don’t try to dodge your responsibility.”

The elevator closed.

I stood there swallowing tears.

The man I’d trusted for three years suddenly felt like a stranger with a familiar face.

And I couldn’t stop thinking: if nausea hadn’t saved me… the person on that stretcher would have been me.

I went to the hospital—not because I feared his threats, but because I needed to see the truth with my own eyes.

In the waiting room, fluorescent light flattened everything into cold tiles and colder silence. Travante paced like an animal behind a cage, twisting his hands, glancing at me with suspicion and hatred.

A middle-aged doctor finally came out, mask lowered, exhaustion carved into his face.

Travante lunged forward.

“Doctor—how is she? Is it serious?”

I stood and approached slowly, keeping my breathing steady.

The doctor’s gaze lingered on Travante a fraction longer than normal.

“The patient suffered acute poisoning,” he said. “She arrived in time and is out of immediate danger.”

Travante released a breath—too sharp.

The doctor continued, voice firm.

“The hemorrhaging was caused by ingestion of a large amount of misoprostol.”

The term meant little to me at first.

But Travante’s face went gray.

His lips moved without sound.

The doctor did not soften.

“It’s a drug used to induce uterine contractions—sometimes for labor, sometimes to induce abortion. The dose found in her stomach contents indicates intentional poisoning, not accidental food contamination. We have informed the police.”

Before the words finished echoing, two uniformed officers appeared down the corridor.

Travante snapped upright, scrambling for control.

He pointed at me.

“Officers, you need to investigate thoroughly,” he said, his voice trembling with accusation. “This morning, I prepared stew for my wife. She had it in her office for a long time before she gave it to Miss Kicia. I suspect my wife—out of jealousy—put something in it.”

My chest tightened as if a fist had closed around my heart.

So that was his plan.

If I ate it, I’d lose my baby.

If someone else ate it… he’d blame me.

I took a breath and faced the older officer.

“I have no motive,” I said evenly. “Check the hallway cameras. Look for fingerprints on any medicine packaging if you find it. And I want to know why a stew my husband claims he made to ‘take care of me’ contained an abortion drug—and why he seems more focused on blaming me than helping his employee.”

The officer nodded, writing.

Then he turned to the doctor.

“Doctor,” he asked, “what is the patient’s condition—specifically? What consequences did the drug cause?”

The doctor sighed.

“The patient was six weeks pregnant,” he said quietly. “The contractions were extremely violent. We regret to inform you the fetus did not survive.”

The hallway seemed to tilt.

I heard Travante make a sound—half choked, half broken.

His knees buckled and he collapsed into a chair, eyes wide, staring into nothing.

So that was it.

Kicia had been carrying his child.

And the drug meant for me had destroyed his secret.

I didn’t feel satisfaction—only a wave of disgust so strong I thought I might vomit.

The officers separated us for statements.

The older officer invited me to a quieter corner.

“Ma’am,” he said gently, “tell me everything from the moment you received the food container. Be precise. Don’t leave anything out.”

I replayed the morning like a film I wished I could burn.

I told him about Travante’s sudden attention—attention missing from our marriage for months. I told him how the smell triggered my nausea. I explained that I opened the lid, looked, and closed it immediately. I didn’t touch it again. It stayed on my desk, in my sight, untouched, until Kicia entered.

I didn’t move from my chair.

I didn’t open it.

I gave it away because I couldn’t eat it.

Across the hallway, Travante insisted he alone had prepared everything.

“I went to the market myself,” he said loudly. “I cleaned and cooked from dawn. I never let the housekeeper touch my wife’s food. I put it in the thermos and brought it straight to the office. No one else touched it.”

He thought he was building an alibi.

Instead, he was tightening a noose.

Because if the poison was already in the stew…

Then only the cook could have put it there.

When the questioning paused, the older officer spoke in a low voice with his colleague, both of them casting quick glances at Travante.

Travante grew more frantic.

“Investigate thoroughly!” he shouted. “My wife has been jealous lately. She’s not right in the head. Maybe she slipped something in when I left the office.”

Every word hurt.

The man I loved was trying to bury me alive to save himself.

I walked toward him, voice calm in a way that surprised even me.

“Travante,” I asked, “if you think it was me… what would my motive be? To harm your secretary? Or are you afraid they’ll discover the stew wasn’t for her—but for me?”

He flinched.

His eyes darted away.

Time crawled while we waited for lab results.

I sat in silence, one hand resting on my belly as if my palm could become armor.

Finally, a forensic technician arrived with a report.

“On the rim of the thermos and on the spoon,” he said, “we found fingerprints belonging to Mrs. Jenkins and the victim, consistent with your statements. The crucial point is this: the toxic substance was fully dissolved throughout the stew. That indicates it was added during cooking or immediately after, while the stew was still hot and stirred thoroughly—not sprinkled on top after the container was sealed.”

Travante’s face drained to an ashen gray.

He began rambling.

“No—no, it can’t be. Maybe Kicia took the medicine herself. She was pregnant. She wanted… she wanted to end it and took the pill before eating. Investigate her! Don’t accuse an innocent man!”

I stared at him with a cold, almost distant pity.

“Then why was it in the stew, Travante?” I cut in. “Are you going to claim she somehow contaminated your thermos from the inside?”

He snapped, turning on me.

“Shut up! You hate me! You want to destroy me—that’s why you staged this circus!”

The lead officer closed his folder.

“Mr. Jenkins,” he said, voice glacial, “your statement contradicts the forensic findings. You need to accompany us to the station to clarify matters. We will also request security recordings from your home and vehicle to verify your preparation process.”

At the word cameras, Travante jolted.

I knew why.

We had a camera in the living room angled toward the kitchen.

His luxury sedan recorded its trips.

Truth had a way of being stubborn in America—especially when it was timestamped.

They took him.

I stood in that cold hallway and watched my marriage collapse into the echo of footsteps.

“Travante,” I said quietly as they led him away, “you once said that stew was full of your love. Now I understand what your love really smells like.”

I left the hospital without going home.

I went straight back to the office.

Outside, the sky over Atlanta had turned the color of metal, rain sliding down the glass like it had something to confess.

Rumors had already started.

People whispered that the jealous boss’s wife had poisoned the secretary.

It cut like knives—but I didn’t have the luxury of breaking.

I had to find the truth.

I slammed my office door shut.

A soft knock came.

Ammani—my assistant, trusted since the earliest days of my career—stepped inside and placed a flash drive on my desk.

“Zenaia,” she whispered, “I did what you asked. I pulled the security footage from the building and parking garage. I found something strange.”

I plugged it in.

Black-and-white images filled my screen.

Ammani pointed to a timestamp.

“Mr. Jenkins’s car entered the garage at 7:15 a.m. But he didn’t come up to your office until 8:15. It normally takes five minutes. Where was he for an hour?”

My blood ran cold.

An hour was enough time to do almost anything.

She advanced the footage to another camera—one that caught the basement emergency stairwell.

A man in a white shirt and mask moved fast, carrying a large black trash bag. He didn’t head toward the floor’s trash bins.

He headed toward the dumpsters behind the building.

“It’s DeAndre,” I said, recognizing the hunched walk and distinctive hair.

DeAndre—Travante’s personal assistant and distant cousin.

Why would he sneak trash out through the emergency stairs at that hour?

What was in that bag?

Medication packaging?

Gloves?

Evidence?

Ammani’s eyes were hard.

“I think there was something important in that bag. The garbage truck already came through, but DeAndre is cheap—and cautious. He doesn’t always throw important things away immediately. He hides them. I’ll have someone keep watch.”

I squeezed her hand.

“Thank you. Be careful. When people are cornered, they get dangerous.”

She left.

I stared out at the rain and felt the first real crack in Travante’s carefully built lies.

That missing hour—and DeAndre’s hidden trip—was the key.

And I intended to use it.

Part 2

Immani returned later with a thin dossier that felt heavier than it looked.

“Zenaia,” she said, voice low with restrained fury, “I asked a contact in building administration to dig. The luxury apartment Kicia lives in isn’t rented in her name.”

She slid the paper toward me.

A name jumped out.

DND Management LLC.

A shell company—cheaply respectable, like a mask.

“The legal representative,” Immani continued, “is DeAndre.”

She pointed at bank statements.

“The rent is $2,500 a month plus HOA fees. Paid on time from DND Management. But the funds feeding that account come from a slush fund Mr. Jenkins filed under ‘representation expenses.’”

I smiled without humor.

Two thousand five hundred dollars a month for her apartment.

Meanwhile, my dress was three years old.

My purse cost fifty bucks.

Travante always told me the company needed us to tighten our belts.

He just never meant his.

Immani flipped to another page—a photo taken discreetly.

Kicia entering a private clinic.

Two weeks ago.

“OB-GYN checkup,” Immani said.

So Kicia knew.

She wasn’t just a pretty secretary.

She was playing a strategy card.

My phone vibrated.

On the screen: My Love.

The contact name I’d never bothered to change.

I inhaled, steadied my voice, and answered.

“Baby,” Travante said, deep and familiar and suddenly nauseating. “Where are you? I just got out of the precinct. I’m exhausted. They asked me a thousand questions.”

I forced a trembling tone.

“I’m at the office. I’m scared, Travante. Everyone’s whispering. Are you okay? Did the police give you trouble?”

He sighed theatrically.

“What are they going to do to me? I have nothing to hide. I’m worried about you. Don’t think crazy things. Don’t let it affect your health. Go to your mother’s house if you need rest. I’ll fix everything.”

Empty words.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I played the part he needed me to play.

“Of course I trust you,” I lied softly. “Get some rest. I’ll come home later.”

When I hung up, I stared at the curtain of rain behind the window.

He thought he was controlling the game.

He wasn’t.

That night, I received a message from the private driver I’d quietly sent out.

Kicia’s mother—Mama Hattie—had arrived at the bus station.

She’d taken the first Greyhound up from a small town in rural Alabama after hearing her daughter had suffered an “accident.”

I told the driver to bring her to a modest, clean hotel near the hospital. Visiting hours were over. She needed rest.

I arrived after 9 p.m.

In the lobby, I recognized Mama Hattie immediately.

Petite, thin, wearing a simple brown dress and worn sneakers. Two large cloth bags sat beside her, stuffed with vegetables—collard greens, sweet potatoes, the humble gifts of a mother who loved with her hands.

The sight reminded me of my own grandmother.

When Mama Hattie saw me, she stood quickly, hands clasped—hands cracked and weathered by work.

I took her hand.

“You’re Kicia’s mother, right? I’m Zenaia Jenkins—Kicia’s boss at the company. I wanted to make sure you have food and a place to rest.”

Her eyes filled.

“You—you my Kisha’s boss,” she said in a thick Southern accent. “Lord bless you, child. I don’t know what foolishness she done to end up like this. At home she a good, hard-working girl.”

Good.

Hard-working.

And living in a luxury apartment in Buckhead.

I poured her water and asked gently about Kicia’s calls.

“Oh, she calls me all the time,” Mama Hattie said proudly. “Says they treat her real good at the company. Says the pay good, and she live in a free company dormitory that’s real nice. Every month she sends me a hundred dollars for my medicine and tells me not to worry.”

A hundred dollars.

While thousands went toward designer bags and secret rent.

I decided Mama Hattie needed the truth—even if it hurt.

I feigned surprise.

“A dormitory? I thought Kicia rented an apartment in Buckhead. That area is expensive. And… I see her with designer things. The other day she carried a purse I heard costs almost $2,000.”

Mama Hattie froze.

“Two thousand?” she whispered. “That can’t be. My girl thrifty. She hates throwing away even a torn shirt.”

I patted her hand.

“Maybe she didn’t want to worry you. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the hospital. You can talk to her. I just worry… in a big city, someone might take advantage of a young, pretty girl.”

Doubt took root in her eyes.

I left the hotel heavy with the knowledge that in this war, even the innocent would bleed.

The next morning, as I pulled out of the garage, someone blocked my path.

I slammed the brakes.

DeAndre stood there, glancing around like a man afraid of shadows.

He tapped my window.

I rolled it down just enough to hear him.

“Mrs. Jenkins,” he whispered, “can I have a minute? I have something important Mr. Jenkins asked me to hand deliver to you.”

I unlocked the door just enough for him to slip into the passenger seat.

Inside the car, he smelled of stale tobacco and sweat.

He pulled a thin file from his jacket and placed it on my lap as if it burned.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s… an old medical record of Miss Kicia,” he stammered. “Inside is a receipt for a medication she bought yesterday at a… shady pharmacy. Mr. Jenkins says you should give it to the police—say you found it in her desk. That way he’ll be free of suspicion and you won’t be implicated.”

I opened the file.

A crumpled receipt.

The drug name: misoprostol.

The date: the previous afternoon.

But the paper looked too clean.

The ink too fresh.

No wrinkles. No wear.

A fake made in a rush.

I lifted my eyes to DeAndre.

“You and Travante think I’m stupid,” I said quietly. “This ink hasn’t even dried. You want me to give this to the police? That’s asking me to help falsify evidence—or to take the fall for knowing about it.”

DeAndre went pale.

“No—ma’am—the boss said… if you just hand it over, everything will be solved. You’re his wife. You have to help him. If something happens to him, the company will sink and you’ll lose everything.”

He tried fear.

He failed.

This company was my parents’ legacy—built on sweat, not schemes.

I threw the file back into his lap.

“Get out of my car. Tell Travante if he wants to stage a play, hire better actors. And you, DeAndre—you’re helping a man who tried to harm his own family. Worry about your own skin.”

DeAndre scrambled out and ran like the devil was behind him.

I watched him disappear between concrete pillars.

Travante was drowning.

And desperation makes sloppy criminals.

Back in my office, I called Immani.

The building felt like a command post—tight voices, whispered gossip, eyes tracking every move.

Immani arrived with her laptop, excitement lighting her face.

“Zenaia,” she said, “I reviewed Travante and DeAndre’s call logs from the last week. There’s an unknown number that shows up constantly—especially the night before the incident. I tracked it.”

She paused for effect.

“It belongs to Sariah.”

“Sariah?”

Immani nodded.

“Travante’s college classmate. She’s a pharmacist now—works as a rep for a major lab. HR says she and Travante had a fling years ago.”

A pharmacist.

An ex.

Late-night calls.

Pieces clicked into place.

“He couldn’t buy the drug himself without risk,” I murmured. “So he used her.”

Immani’s fingers flew over the keyboard.

“And I found proof they met.”

She played footage pulled by a private investigator.

A car stopped in a discreet corner near DeAndre’s office.

DeAndre stepped out, looked around.

A tall woman approached—sunglasses, confidence.

Sariah.

She handed him a small package wrapped in newspaper.

Then they separated quickly.

The time matched the afternoon before Kicia collapsed.

“That package,” I whispered. “That’s the weapon.”

Immani looked at me.

I looked back.

“She’s the weakest link,” I said. “She isn’t a professional criminal. If she realizes Travante will sacrifice her, she’ll choose survival.”

Immani understood instantly.

“You’re going to pressure her.”

I nodded.

“Travante will blame everyone—Kicia, Sariah, anyone. We get ahead of him. I’ll meet Sariah and show her what future he’s preparing for her.”

The net tightened.

And the next move would be mine.

Part 3

The next morning, the sky still hung gray over the city, as if Atlanta itself was holding its breath.

I picked up Mama Hattie from the hotel and drove her to the hospital.

She carried a red plastic basket filled with yard eggs and fresh vegetables.

“My Kalesia love eggs from our chickens,” she told me. “Says city ones smell fishy.”

A mother’s love is a simple kind of wealth.

Inside the hospital room, Mama Hattie hesitated at the sharp scent of disinfectant.

Kicia lay in the bed, pale and gaunt.

When she saw her mother, her lips moved.

“Mama.”

Mama Hattie rushed to her, grabbed her hand, tears spilling.

“My child… how you end up like this?”

Kicia turned her face away.

Mama Hattie’s eyes drifted to the bedside table.

The designer bag.

The latest smartphone.

And her own basket of eggs on the floor.

The contrast was unbearable.

She pointed at the purse, finger trembling.

“Mrs. Zenaia told me that purse cost two thousand dollars,” she said, voice cracking. “Where you get money like that? You barely send me a little something. How you waste money like this?”

Kicia looked terrified.

“It ain’t real, Mama,” she insisted. “It’s a knockoff. Twenty dollars at the flea market. Don’t listen to people.”

I watched in silence.

Then I stepped closer and whispered into Kicia’s ear—low enough that her mother couldn’t hear.

“You think Travante is coming to see you? He’s busy trying to convince the police you bought that drug. Whether the bag is real or fake, you and he know the truth. Stop lying to your mother.”

Kicia went still.

Fear flooded her eyes.

Mama Hattie, thinking the tremble was pain, began rubbing her daughter’s hands and murmuring comfort.

I felt no satisfaction.

Only sorrow.

Before sitting, I deliberately placed the file DeAndre had handed me on the bedside table, slightly open—just enough for the corner of the fake receipt to show.

I knew curiosity.

I knew panic.

When Mama Hattie turned to pour water, Kicia’s gaze snapped to the dossier.

She grabbed it quickly, scanned it.

Her shoulders shook.

Her face went wax-white.

She recognized the setup.

Travante was forging a path to sacrifice her.

The door opened.

A doctor entered with a nurse.

He reviewed the chart and looked at Kicia with a kind of exhausted compassion.

“The family needs to prepare,” he said gravely. “Because of the overdose, the contractions and hemorrhaging severely damaged the uterus. We have done everything possible… but her chances of carrying a child in the future are extremely low.”

Mama Hattie collapsed with a sound that didn’t feel human.

“Lord Jesus… no,” she sobbed. “She so young.”

Kicia stared at the ceiling without tears.

Pain had gone beyond tears.

I helped Mama Hattie back into her chair, my heart tight.

Then I leaned toward Kicia again, voice cold.

“You see the price now. You traded dignity for luxury, and he traded you for protection. Do you still want to protect him?”

Kicia turned her head.

In her eyes, hatred flared—raw and sharp.

I left the hospital with my soul suspended between justice and grief.

My meeting with Sariah was set for a discreet coffee shop tucked into an alley—elegant, quiet, and, most importantly, covered in visible security cameras.

In America, cameras don’t care about status.

They record what they see.

I chose a corner table and stirred my orange juice as if it could calm my nerves.

Sariah arrived right on time.

She wore a wine-colored silk dress, designer bag, sunglasses covering half her face. Confidence walked in with her.

She spotted me and smirked.

“Hello, Zenaia,” she said sweetly. “I didn’t expect the model wife to summon her husband’s ex. Need advice on how to keep a man? Though it’s curious—how do you keep him so bored he has to run to me?”

Her provocation slid off me like rain off glass.

I smiled, calm.

“Sariah, I didn’t call you to fight over a man. A man like Travante—I’d gift him to you if you want him. I’m here to save you from becoming a criminal.”

She laughed.

“Save me? From what? I have money. A career. Freedom. Worry about yourself.”

I didn’t argue.

I pulled out my phone and slid a still image across the table.

A grainy security capture—DeAndre, and Sariah handing him a small package wrapped in newspaper.

Her smile vanished.

She grabbed the phone with trembling hands.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered.

I held her gaze.

“Look closely. The afternoon before the incident—you met him. That package. What was inside? Vitamins… or misoprostol?”

Her breath hitched.

“I was just giving documents,” she tried, weakly.

“Documents wrapped in newspaper, delivered secretly?” I asked. “You’re a pharmacist. You know regulations. When the police trace the origin, do you think you walk away clean?”

Sariah sank back.

The arrogance drained.

A terrified woman appeared.

I leaned back, voice lower.

“Do you think Travante will protect you? He ordered DeAndre to forge evidence to blame Kicia. If the police close in, he’ll say you tricked him. He’ll paint you as jealous, reckless, unstable—anything to save himself.”

Sariah’s eyes widened.

She knew him too well.

I pressed.

“You have a future. Do you want to trade it for a conviction? How much did he promise you—fifty thousand? A hundred? Do you think that buys your freedom when you have a criminal record?”

Her façade shattered.

She covered her face and began to sob.

“I don’t want to go to jail,” she cried. “I thought it was just… a normal abortion pill. He told me you were pregnant by another man. He said he needed to end it to divorce you. I just wanted to help him—and make money.”

My stomach turned.

A child’s life reduced to a bargaining chip.

I leaned forward.

“Now is not the time to cry. You have one way out. Give me proof—messages, calls, anything showing he ordered it. Cooperate, and you may get leniency. Or go down with him. Choose.”

Sariah’s jaw trembled.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood, fighting with herself.

Then survival won.

She opened her designer bag and pulled out a small silver flash drive.

She pushed it toward me like it was hot.

“Everything is here,” she said hoarsely. “Recordings of his calls. Messages. The deposit transfer. Even his promises… that he would leave you and come back to me. Take it. Please. Don’t let me go to jail.”

I closed my fingers around the drive.

It was small.

But it carried enough weight to crush a man who’d built his life on lies.

“Keep quiet,” I warned her. “Don’t warn him. If you do, you lose your last chance.”

I left the shop and drove to a friend’s detective office—somewhere private enough to face the truth without breaking.

In the dim room, I inserted the flash drive.

A folder opened—audio files, screenshots, meticulously labeled by date.

She’d been preparing in case he betrayed her.

I clicked the most recent recording.

Travante’s voice filled the room—cold, controlled, unfamiliar in its cruelty.

He asked for something “strong,” something that could be hidden, something that would make a pregnancy end without suspicion.

He spoke about assets.

About control.

About removing an “obstacle.”

I covered my mouth to keep from making a sound.

Tears burned down my cheeks.

So the stew had been for me.

For my baby.

I listened to another recording—his voice panicked and threatening, ordering Sariah to stay quiet and blame Kicia.

If he went down, he promised, she wouldn’t live peacefully either.

The man I’d married wasn’t just unfaithful.

He was dangerous.

I copied everything to multiple devices.

One went to a secret email.

One went to my lawyer.

I kept the original in my purse.

I put my hand on my belly and whispered:

“Sweetheart… forgive me for choosing your father badly. But I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

My grief hardened into something colder.

Tomorrow, I would make the guilty pay.

Part 4

At the company the next day, tension hung in the air like static. Employees moved carefully, whispering about scandal and blood and money.

In my office, my laptop displayed footage from a hidden security camera Ammani had installed in accounting.

DeAndre was inside, pacing, shirt soaked through with sweat.

He was trying to access the system to erase money transfers.

But he didn’t know we’d locked down the accounts the night before.

Every attempt to delete data triggered an alert.

On screen, red letters flashed: ACCESS DENIED.

DeAndre slammed his fist on the desk and made a call.

I slipped on headphones and activated a hidden microphone I’d placed under Travante’s desk months ago—back when suspicion first crept into my bones.

DeAndre’s voice came through, shaking.

“Travante, I can’t delete it. Someone blocked my admin access. If the police check the books, I’m finished.”

Travante’s voice roared, raw with fury.

“Useless. Find a way to blame Kicia. Forge evidence. Create fake emails—make people think she was unstable. Make it look like she did it to herself. Understand?”

DeAndre protested weakly.

“She just lost her baby. That would be… cruel.”

Travante laughed—a sound that made my skin crawl.

“Cruelty or jail. Choose.”

The line went dead.

DeAndre collapsed in his chair, head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Even at the edge, Travante showed no remorse.

He just kept trying to stomp on others to save himself.

That rumor—about Kicia being “unstable”—spread fast. It reached Mama Hattie.

And Mama Hattie, the humble woman from rural Alabama, became something else entirely.

She stormed into the lobby at lunch hour, when the building was packed.

Her clothes were worn, her sneakers old, but her rage was a blade.

“Where that wretched director at?” she shouted, voice cracking with grief. “Come out here! You deceived my daughter, ruined her life, and now you accuse her! God sees everything!”

Security tried to approach, but no one dared manhandle an elderly woman in full view of phones and cameras.

People gathered, recording.

Travante had no choice.

He stepped out of his private elevator, face tight with irritation, trying to wear calm like armor.

“Ma’am,” he said in a low, controlling voice, “let’s talk in my office. Don’t make a scene.”

Mama Hattie pointed at him.

“I ain’t going nowhere. Say it here so everybody can hear. You say my daughter wanted to end herself? My child love life. She was sending me money to fix up the house. Why would she want to die?”

Travante’s face twitched.

He signaled DeAndre.

DeAndre hurried over with a bulging envelope.

Travante shoved it into Mama Hattie’s hand.

“Here’s five thousand dollars,” he whispered. “For your expenses. Take her back home. Don’t make this harder for me. I’m a victim too.”

From the mezzanine above, I watched.

Five thousand dollars.

As if it could buy dignity.

Mama Hattie opened the envelope.

She looked at the bills.

Then she laughed—bitter, sharp.

And threw the money in his face.

Bills fluttered through the air like dead leaves.

“I’m poor,” she screamed, “but I ain’t selling my daughter’s blood! Your money dirty. I’ll report you to the end—even if I gotta sell my house.”

The lobby went silent.

Travante stood frozen, humiliation flushing his skin.

People stared.

Some looked away in disgust.

In that moment, I knew he was losing what he valued most.

Control.

That evening I went home.

The house felt like a tomb—big, quiet, cold.

Travante sat on the sofa with whiskey, staring into space.

When I entered, he didn’t look up.

“You’re back,” he said hoarsely. “Quite a show today.”

I turned on the light.

His face looked thinner than I remembered.

I set my purse down.

“I’m not satisfied,” I said calmly. “I’m sad. Why did you give her money? That looks like guilt.”

He laughed and finished his whiskey.

“In this world, what isn’t fixed with money is fixed with more money.”

He went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of warm milk.

He placed it in front of me, voice suddenly gentle.

“Drink. It’ll be good for you. Imported. Very good for… women.”

The word he almost said hovered between us.

Pregnant.

Was he testing me?

Or trying again?

I stared at the steaming milk as if it were a threat.

I lifted it, met his eyes.

“Travante… remember the stew? You said it was for me, and Kicia nearly died. This milk—are you sure it’s only milk?”

His face shifted.

The smile slid off.

“What are you saying?” he snapped, stepping back. “You suspect me? I’m your husband.”

I stood, walked to a potted plant in the corner, and slowly poured the milk into the soil.

“I don’t suspect you,” I said coolly. “I just don’t want it to ‘agree with me’ the way that stew agreed with Kicia. Let’s see if the plant is still alive tomorrow.”

The glass hit the table with a dry sound.

Travante stared at me.

In his eyes, the last trace of performance vanished.

Only fear remained.

He knew.

He knew I knew.

The next morning, I dressed carefully.

It wasn’t just a shareholders’ meeting.

It was a funeral.

The funeral of my three-year marriage.

And the farewell to the traitors who thought they could bury me.

In the boardroom, the directors and shareholders sat in tense rows.

Travante presided at the head of the table, suit hanging looser than it used to, dark circles under his eyes.

DeAndre stood beside him, sweating through his collar.

The main agenda item was an eco-resort project—Travante’s “golden opportunity.”

I knew what it really was.

A cover to siphon funds to shell companies before divorce could freeze assets.

DeAndre presented numbers with a trembling voice.

Shareholders murmured.

When the time came to vote, Travante stood, trying to sound steady.

“Gentlemen, this is a unique opportunity. Trust the vision of this board.”

As he raised his hand, I stood.

The scrape of my chair turned every head.

“One moment, Mr. CEO,” I said, voice calm and cold. “Before we talk about spending company money, we should talk about the moral integrity and legal capacity of the person managing it.”

Travante slammed the table.

“Zenaia, this is a strategic meeting, not a schoolyard.”

I didn’t flinch.

“An affair is personal,” I said. “But using company money to maintain a mistress, creating shell companies to launder funds, and purchasing restricted substances to harm others—that’s legal. That concerns the survival of this company.”

The room erupted.

Travante’s face went pale.

I signaled Ammani.

She connected my laptop to the projector.

The screen lit up behind Travante.

Bank statements—transfers to Kicia’s accounts, to DND Management.

Screenshots—messages between Travante and DeAndre.

Figures highlighted in red.

Whispers turned to anger.

“This is preliminary proof of embezzlement,” I said. “And the most terrible part is still to come.”

I played the audio.

Travante’s voice—unmistakable—filled the room. Cold. Calculating. Speaking about ending a pregnancy to protect assets.

A stunned silence fell.

Some women covered their mouths.

Travante lunged for the cable.

“Turn it off!” he screamed. “It’s fake!”

Security—prepared—blocked him.

DeAndre didn’t move.

He slid under the table, shaking.

I stepped closer to Travante.

“You say it’s fake,” I said. “What about the toxicology? What about Sariah’s cooperation? No one trapped you, Travante. Your greed dug your grave.”

I faced the shareholders.

“I have evidence and witnesses. Copies have been sent to law enforcement. I propose the immediate removal of Mr. Jenkins as CEO to protect this company and allow a full investigation.”

A timid applause started.

Then grew.

Travante slid down the wall, defeated.

At that exact moment, the boardroom doors opened.

Two officers entered with my lawyer.

And behind them—Sariah, sunglasses hiding her eyes.

Travante stared at her, disbelieving.

“Sariah… what are you doing here?”

An officer stepped forward.

“Travante Jenkins, you are under arrest for alleged assault and unlawful pharmaceutical trafficking.”

Another officer moved toward DeAndre.

DeAndre broke instantly.

“It was Travante,” he cried. “He made me do everything—forge papers, hide evidence. I was following orders. I’ll confess—just don’t leave me alone with him.”

Travante’s eyes went wild.

“You traitor—” he hissed.

Handcuffs clicked.

Cold metal closed around the hands that once signed million-dollar deals.

As he passed me, he stopped.

“Zenaia,” he begged, voice shaking, “since when were you planning this? Why are you so cruel? We were husband and wife.”

I felt nothing but emptiness.

I leaned in and whispered.

“Since the morning you brought me that container. Compared to what you tried to do, sending you to prison is mercy. Goodbye, ex-husband.”

He walked out hunched and alone.

In the interrogation room, evidence crushed him.

Sariah and DeAndre’s statements.

Toxicology.

Recordings.

He admitted ordering the drug—claiming it was about “assets.”

He insisted Kicia’s pregnancy was an accident.

“I didn’t know she was pregnant,” he sobbed. “She said she was on the pill. If I’d known, I would’ve forced her to abort earlier.”

Even the detective frowned.

Science, however, was unmoved.

A report slid across the table.

Paternity confirmed.

Ninety-nine point nine nine percent.

“It was your biological son,” the detective said. “And it was a boy.”

Travante stared at the paper as if it could burn him.

Then he made a sound—raw, animal, empty.

He wasn’t grieving a child.

He was grieving control.

Behind the one-way mirror, I watched and felt only chill.

Kicia was discharged a week later. She had survived, but her future was permanently altered.

Because her luxury apartment was sealed by investigators, Mama Hattie took her to a narrow rental on the outskirts.

Before they returned to Alabama, I visited.

Mold clung to the air.

Kicia sat in a corner, hair messy, eyes hollow.

Mama Hattie packed clothes into a cloth bag.

When she saw me, she wiped tears.

“We leaving,” she said. “We don’t want to bother you. My daughter know she did wrong.”

I placed a thick envelope on the table.

Mama Hattie tried to refuse.

“This money… it weighs too much.”

“It’s not charity,” I told her. “It’s her last paycheck and help for the trip and medicine. Take care of her. Encourage her to start over. She’s already paid a terrible price.”

Mama Hattie broke again.

“How I gonna look the neighbors in the face?”

Kicia sobbed silently.

I looked at Kicia, voice steady.

“Let this be a lesson. Never build your happiness on someone else’s pain. And don’t believe beauty buys a safe future. Live with dignity—for your mother.”

A taxi waited.

Mama Hattie helped Kicia out.

Kicia looked at Atlanta one last time—at the city that had promised her everything and then took it.

After Travante’s arrest, the company lurched toward chaos. Partners questioned us. Employees panicked. The stock dipped hard.

As majority shareholder and the person holding key evidence, the board elected me interim CEO.

My first act was to remove Travante and DeAndre’s loyal network.

I cleaned house.

Then I held a press conference, apologized publicly, and committed to transparency.

The market began to breathe again.

I looked at the recovering charts and whispered to my baby:

“We did it. Your grandfather’s legacy is safe.”

But calm never lasts.

That afternoon, my mother-in-law—Mrs. Beatatrice—stormed into my office wrapped in silk and jewelry, fury boiling off her.

“Viper,” she spat. “Evil woman. You put my son in jail to keep everything. My son is a good man. He’s incapable of harming anyone. You set a trap.”

I asked my secretary to leave and close the door.

Then I faced Beatatrice with a calm that came from exhaustion.

“You say he’s a good man,” I said. “Good enough to purchase something meant to end a pregnancy.”

She faltered, then snapped back.

“He didn’t know the other one was pregnant. It was a mistake. Men are like that. As his wife, you should’ve been understanding. You have no heart.”

I picked up my tablet and played the recordings.

Travante’s voice filled the office again—cold and transactional.

Beatatrice’s face collapsed.

She sank onto the sofa, trembling.

When it ended, she stared at my belly.

The truth hit her like a freight train.

She covered her mouth and wept—shame and grief twisting together.

She left without meeting my eyes.

A week later, my lawyer summoned me to finalize the divorce.

In the jail visiting room, a thick glass separated me from Travante.

When they brought him in, I barely recognized him.

Weeks had carved him down—shaved head, sunken face, beard unkempt, fear sitting where confidence once lived.

He leaned to the intercom, voice shaking.

“Zenaia… you came. I knew you still love me. Drop the charges. I made a mistake. Think about our child. A boy needs his father.”

I slid the divorce papers and a pen through the slot.

“Sign,” I said. “Love ended the day you tried to destroy what I carried. And my child doesn’t need a father who tried to erase his own family.”

Travante’s hands shook.

“Please,” he begged. “I don’t want to lose everything. I’ll start over. Don’t be so cruel.”

I didn’t raise my voice.

“Stop acting,” I said. “You’re not crying for me. You’re crying for the life you lost. Sign—because if you don’t, I will use the embezzlement evidence, and your sentence will be longer.”

The performance died instantly.

He signed.

Crooked, shaky.

Like his life.

I stood.

“Rehabilitate yourself,” I told him. “If you ever learn decency, let it be in a place you can’t buy your way out of.”

I walked away while he shouted behind the glass.

The trial moved quickly.

Evidence is stubborn.

Sariah cooperated and received a suspended sentence, but she lost her pharmacist license and her job. Her apology message came late and heavy.

I deleted it.

Regret doesn’t resurrect what’s been broken.

My mother-in-law tried to slander me. She sent lawyers demanding half my assets.

I reminded them of the prenup—and of the financial crimes.

They backed off.

Six months later, on a night of hard rain, I went into labor.

Pain tore through me, and I remembered the hospital hallway where terror had once lived.

That day had been about loss.

This day was about life.

After a difficult labor, a cry filled the room.

“Congratulations,” the midwife said, smiling. “It’s a girl.”

They placed her against my chest.

Warm.

Real.

Safe.

I named her Serenity—a simple name carrying every prayer I’d ever whispered.

If that morning hadn’t been for nausea…

This sacred moment would never have existed.

Fate can be cruel.

And sometimes, it can be merciful.

Travante was sentenced to twelve years.

I didn’t go to court.

I watched the news at home with Serenity in my arms.

He looked broken on screen.

I felt nothing.

Not joy.

Not pity.

Only relief.

Two years later, the company flourished under my leadership.

One afternoon, Serenity—now a whirlwind toddler—ran into my arms in my twentieth-floor office.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Kendrick, a kind and respectful business partner who knew my story.

Hi, Zenaia. Do you and Serenity feel like an excursion this weekend? I know a beautiful spot in the country.

I looked at my daughter, laughing, alive.

Happiness isn’t a destination.

It’s a journey.

I replied:

Thanks, Kendrick. We’d love to.

I hugged Serenity and looked out at the blue, cloudless sky.

After the storm, the sun always comes out.